First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (38 page)

Commodore Becklin, you have a go. Good hunting. Admiral Peter Braun, Commander, Strike Force.

Becklin grinned through set teeth. “About fucking time.”

Stepping onto the flagship’s bridge, he headed immediately to the communications station. “Lieutenant, signal to all ships. Form up and prepare for battle.”

The comm officer grinned. “Aye-aye, Sir.”

His flag captain joined him as he took his seat. He, too, sported a relieved smile.

“Well, Hans, we’re finally going to see how good these Talgarno ships are in actual combat.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.”

“Yes, I don’t think—”

“Commodore, flash feed from Noranda’s Promise.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“Sir, message reads:
Single warship detected. Bretish Moresby-class destroyer. She is hailing us. Awaiting instructions.
”

Becklin’s first instinct said, kill them. Then he paused. The Brets were a professional outfit. If
he
was the destroyer’s skipper, he would be sitting on top of an ingression point, ready to escape if things turned tricky. If the small Bretish warship escaped to warn others of his attack force…

“Comm, put me through to Captain Gungerston, on Noranda’s Promise.”

CHAPTER 61

Date: 24th March 322 ASC.

Position: Open space, five light years inside the Cimmerian exclusion zone.

Status:  Bretish destroyer Ascot. Action stations.

“Any reply to our hails, Comm?” Captain Imelda Thorpe asked.

“Negative, Captain. All I get is static.”  

“Helm, report.” 

“Buffers are fully charged, Captain. We can ingress to hyper within ten seconds of your command.”

“Very well.”

“Tactical. What do you make of her?”

“Not a lot at this range, Captain. Although…”

“Spit it out, woman,” Thorpe snapped.

“Aye-aye, Ma’am. The readings, though fuzzy, are quite similar to the Talgarno warships we previously encountered. Could be the same configuration, I can’t tell at this range.” 

Her first officer leaned across from his adjacent station. “What do you think, Skipper? More Talgarnos?”

Her mouth tightened as she shook her head.
With all of the ships patrolling the approaches to Cimmeria, what are the chances of my ship stumbling across
another
group of Talgarnos?

“Comm, have we received a reply from Commodore Dilley?”

“Nothing so far, Captain.”

She turned to her first officer. “Something smells, Jonathan.”

“Your gut playing up again.”

“Something like that. I just don’t—”

“Captain, comm from the bogey coming in. Transferring to your panel.”

Thorpe stabbed a finger at her console.

“To Bretish warship: I hope my signal is being received, this time. Please respond.”

“Signal received. This is Captain Imelda Thorpe, Bretish warship Ascot. Please identify yourself.”

“Captain Thorpe, thank the maker. I am Captain Lockier of the Noranda’s Promise, Twelfth Fleet, His Name’s Talgarno Navy. We seek asylum.”

Thorpe’s first officer pursed his lips.

“Really, Captain? Talgarno has been in isolation from the rest of Tunguska for thirty years. Why the change now?”

“Captain Thorpe, Talgarno has fallen to the heathen forces of the Godless Pruessen Empire. We were ordered to surrender.” A pause. “We chose not to. Captain, we have our families aboard, together with several thousand Talgarno citizens who refuse to live under Pruessen oppression. Can you provide us with sanctuary, or must we turn toward Athens?”

Thorpe muted her mike. “Jonathan, does any of this sound familiar?”

“I’ll check the comm logs to make certain.”

“Do so quickly. Captain Lockier,” Thorpe began cautiously, “you understand that any vessel entering League space from the north must undergo a mandatory quarantine period.”

“I expected as much, Captain. We will manage somehow. We are Talgarnos. We always manage. How long is the quarantine these days?”

“Forty-five days, I’m afraid.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. At least we’re not slaves, like the rest of our people. That’s something … I suppose.”

Jonathan placed his finger to his lips. Thorpe muted her comm.

“He sounds like he’s reading a prepared script. He’s saying exactly the same words as the previous Talgarnos. Word for word.”

Thorpe nodded and activated her comm. “Captain, I will send a number of probes to your location. This is not an attack, we simply need to confirm that you are who you say you are.”

“Of course, Captain. I would do the same if I were in your situation.”

“Thank you, Captain. Please stand by.”

As with any good first officer, Jonathan had read her mind. “Tubes one through six loaded with our highest yield pulsar warheads. Programmed to mimic drones until ten seconds from acquisition.”

Thorpe nodded. “Helm, prepare to ingress, with haste. Comm, as soon as we enter hyper, send an all-points distress signal to this location. Message reads: Enemy vessel detected. Send reinforcements, a-sap.”

“Weapons officer, confirm package.”

“Aye, Captain. Six fifty-megatonne pulsar warheads loaded. Evasive pattern omicron until ten seconds from acquisition.”

“Very well. Fire, one through six.”

“Torpedoes away.”

“Unless we get really lucky,” Jonathan said, “we’ll only scratch her. But I think they might get mad.” 

“Helm, bring us about, slowly. Prepare to ingress.”

“Aye, Ma’am. Coming about, dead slow.”

“Guns, time to impact with enemy vessel?”

“Forty seconds, mark.”

“Torpedoes. Captain, I have six torpedoes, on track. Impact in fifteen seconds.”

“How the hell. Helm, get us out of here. Fully emergency.”

“Guns, prepare stern weapons.”

“E-boat?” Jonathan suggested.

“Probably.”

Her helm officer pushed the destroyer toward the hyper perforation at high speed. Too high.

“All crew, brace for rapid transition,” Jonathan called over the open comm. “Brace, brace, brace.”

Ascot
bucked as she passed through the perforation between normal space and hyper. The sudden increase in acceleration pinned everyone to their chairs. 

No time to wait for the adjustment lag to cut in.

“All ahead flank,” she shouted over the din. “Perforation closed?”

“Five seconds, Captain,” her T-O said.

Come on, come on. 

“Perforation closed.”

Ascot
’s inertial compensators finally adjusted to the sudden acceleration. As the stress gradually diminished, Thorpe breathed normally again. 

“Comm, have you sent the broadcast?”

“Yes, Captain, and I’m continuing to do so.”

“Very well.”

“That was exciting,” Jonathan said.

The tension eased from her shoulders. “Helm, come about and begin braking.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

“Jonathan, I think—”

“Incoming,” the T-O cried. “Two torpedoes followed us through before the perforation closed.”

“Damn. Guns, can you get a lock-on?”

“In this soup, not a chance.”

“Lay down a pattern. Fire blind. I want those bloody things killed.”

“I’ll try.”

Bow-on to the assault, twelve anti-torpedo pulsars stuck out into the blinding glare of hyperspace. On her readouts, Thorpe could see nothing but dazzling gold.

“They’re closing. Impact … I can’t tell. Perhaps ten—”

Ascot
shook as one of the deadly torpedoes exploded.

“A hit,” her weapons officer cried. “The other one’s off my readouts.”

Thorpe nodded to her first officer.

“All crew brace for contact. Brace, brace, brace.”

At least we sent out the call to arms. A nice epitaph. They sent out a warning. God, please don’t let it be a pulsar head.

“Got it,” the W-O yelled. “Fifty meters off the bow. Firing.”

The massive nuclear explosion hit
Ascot
like a huge, angry hand. People died as shrapnel tore through her shields, her armor and her crew.

HMS
Ascot
tumbled through hyperspace, bleeding a trail of misty air and scattered debris.

CHAPTER 62

Date: 24
^th
March 322 ASC.

Position: King Charles Battle Platform. Cimmerian system. 

Status:  Investigations underway.

“Nathan, this might go more quickly if we took the lift to deck one.”

“Hmm.”

“Well then?”

“Emile, what if Poly wants that. It would be easy to trap us in a lift if it chose.”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen the number of gun ports we’ve passed in the last ten minutes? If Poly wanted us dead, they’d have to sift through two small mounds of ashes to identify our DNA.”

He made a valid point. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to kill us. Maybe she wants to trap us.” Nathan was thinking aloud. “She could have killed the Bret crew, but she gassed them instead.

Did I just call it “she”?

“You’re assuming that Poly did what you say. It could have been outside of her control.”

“All right, Emile, why hasn’t she killed us?”

“I have insufficient input with which to form a working hypothesis.”

Nathan stopped and stared at him. “Was that a joke?
You
made a funny? Why, Emile, there’s hope for you yet.”

The young Franc lieutenant actually blushed.

I’m a bad influence on him.
 

Throwing caution aside, Nathan stepped to the nearest drop shaft. “You’ve used these before?”

“Not since basic training.”

Reaching through the environmental force field, he grasped the hand holds and hauled himself into the gravity-free shaft. With Emile following, he floated to the first pressure hatch. If Poly had a mind to, she could snap the hatch closed while he was halfway through. He passed his hand quickly across the opening. No response. Nathan backed up and pushed forward. He slipped swiftly through the hatch opening.

“Emile, do as I did. Fast.”

The Franc pushed off, passed the hatch, reached for the handhold and missed it. He plowed into Nathan’s body with enough force to make him grunt.
Still, better than a half a computer expert.
Showing the same caution, they made their way to deck one and exited the drop shaft.   

“Do you think you can get us past the lockouts and onto the command deck?”

“I’ll try.”

If, if, if.

His mind was awash with so many problems, possible solutions and likely terrors, yet Nathan had a feeling there was something he had forgotten.

When he stepped onto the final corridor leading to the C and C, his back flared. Nathan got a quick glimpse of the red line on the deck while pushing Emile back around the corner. As he did, pulsar fire raked the corridor.

Emile stared at him, eyes wide. “What the fuck was that?”

Nathan shook his head.
Stupid, stupid
.

“That, Emile, is the Mark Fifty-two tactical response unit.”

“Nice of you to let me know.”

“Hmm.” Nathan wracked his brain.
What’s the override code. Think, Telford, think.

Emile grabbed his shoulder as he edged toward the corridor. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me. I know … stuff.”

Emile gawked at him.

Nathan peeked around the corridor’s corner and nearly lost his nose to a volley of fire.
All right, Poly’s not waiting for us to step over the red line before shooting. Good to know.

Nathan cleared his throat, preparing to emulate Admiral Grace’s deep, pompous voice.

“Poly,” he called, “stand down. Authorization code, oregano, case blue.”

In the following silence, Emile shrugged. Nathan pulled a canister from his pack and threw it into the corridor. Before it hit the deck, fire from the TRU shredded it. 

Nathan rubbed his bump. On the opposite wall, a sensor nodule stared at him with an unblinking green eye.

“Poly,” Nathan called, “respond.”

“Poly,” the machine answered.

“Give me access to the C and C.”

Emile shook his head.

“You are not authorized for entry to the Command and Control Center.”

“Poly, scan and identify both myself and my companion.”

“Ensign Nathan Telford, Monitor Corps, Athenian Naval Service. Designation, fighter pilot. Lieutenant junior grade Emile Moreau, Francorum Navy. Designation, computer science officer.”

“Scan this station and report on condition of personnel.”

“All personnel are incapacitated.”

“Which makes me the ranking combat League officer aboard this station. Confirm.”

“Confirmed.”

“Under my authority as the senior League combat officer aboard this station, not incapacitated, I order you to immediately give me access to the C and C.”

“Your order must be supplemented with a valid authorization code.”

Nathan grimaced.

“Poly, stand down TRU.”

“My functions have changed since my last reprogramming. I have no control over the TRU.”

Nathan groaned.

“Nice try, for an amateur.”

“If you can do better, be my guest.”

“Poly’s not a date, she’s the ultimate in machine logic. Hmm. But someone must have altered her prime programming. That may offer an opening, at some point.”

“Good, Emile, keep thinking like that.”

“So what now?”

“Plan B, I guess.”

“And what, may I ask, is Plan B?”

Nathan pulled the device from his pack and tore off the safety strip covering the highly adhesive backing.

“What’s that?”

Nathan smirked. “You’re not the only one to smuggle a bomb aboard.”

“You can destroy that thing from here?”

“No, I’ll have to get much closer.”

“Closer? You couldn’t take two paces into that corridor without being turned into bifteck hache.”

“Huh?”

“Minced meat,” Emile translated.