by Nate Johnson
Blackthorn
By
Nate Johnson
Copyright 2017 Nathan Johnson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Purple Herb Publishing
[email protected]
Dedicated to
The Twenty-Three men who lost their lives aboard the
USCGC Blackthorn 1/23/81
Other books by Nate Johnson
Intrepid
Worth Saving
Nolan Reed
A Demon’s Nightmare
First (Short Story)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Author Notes
Intrepid
Blackthorn
Chapter One
Even in the middle of nowhere and with all the time in the galaxy, things still went wrong.
Petty Officer Logan Miller finished running the diagnostics on the space beacon. One last check before deployment. His stomach clenched a little. As the ship’s Electronics Tech, it was his responsibility to make sure the damn thing worked.
The beacon would stand sentinel at this end of the wormhole. Guiding starships to the right jumping off spot. It also maintained a communication link with its sister on the other side. Both were critical functions for the smooth operation of shipping and galactic commerce.
“It’s good to go, Chief,” he said as he stepped back.
Chief Bowen nodded, then smiled.
“Last one boys,” the Chief said with a gruff voice. “Let’s get her switched out, then it’s off for four days of liberty in Montlake.”
“Yessss,” Jonesy yelled as he pumped his fist back and forth. “There’s a waitress named Paula who’s been waiting for me for two months.”
Peterson laughed, “If you think Paula’s been sitting around waiting for your butt, you are in for a surprise. That girl’s got more than enough guys sniffing around. The last thing she’s doing is waiting for some short spacer with bad hair and no money.”
The rest of the deck crew laughed. Logan’s heart went out to Jonesy. He’d never learned when to keep his mouth shut.
Logan’s mind drifted to a barmaid named Laura. Long legs and a smile that could melt cold steal. He congratulated himself on keeping her a secret. The last thing he needed was the guys giving him a ration of crap.
Besides, he doubted she was still single. Girls like her didn’t stay on the market for long. But it was going to be the first thing he checked out when they landed on Montlake.
“Okay, that’s enough. Time to focus,” Chief Bowen said, pulling everyone’s attention back to reality. “Button up and let’s get this done.”
All six men on the hangar deck closed their face plates and confirmed ready status. The Chief checked his board and then radioed the bridge.
“Request permission to depressurize.”
“Permission granted,” a deep voice answered from the bridge. It sounded like Lieutenant Stevens. Logan imagined the captain hovering over the junior officer’s shoulder, double checking every step.
A sudden hiss and the expansion of his suit let Logan know the hangar deck air was being sucked into the storage tanks.
The light above the hangar door turned bright red. Peterson hit the switch and the large batwing doors of the hangar bay opened.
Logan was always moved by this moment.
Stars. Millions and billions of stars. So close you felt as if you could reach out and touch them. A cold blackness filled with stars. It was enough to make a man think deep thoughts about the meaning of life and the wondrousness of the universe.
As far from the mean streets of Corona as a guy could get.
“Hey Jonesy,” Evans said. “If you’ve got the duty the first night, mind giving me Paula’s number? I promise to tell her nice things about you.”
The guys chuckled but didn’t take their eyes off the opening doors. They might joke around, but each of them knew that they were but inches away from immediate death. One false step and a man could get crushed, or end up lost in a black sea of nothingness. Or worse, get one of his buddies hurt.
“Are we close enough?” Chief Bowen asked.
“Yes,” Peterson said as he started deploying the capture arm. “That new Lieutenant did a good job bringing us in this close.”
Logan studied the twelve-foot beacon hanging in space. The painted words ‘Imperial Navy’ had faded slightly and he could see several dents from micro meteors. Two years in space took its toll on man-made objects.
“Okay, go ahead and latch on,” Chief said to Peterson.
Logan stepped back out of their way. It was like watching a choreographed ballet. Each man knew his job and did it without being told what to do.
Peterson maneuvered the arm until it attached to the beacons collar.
Evans, Jonesy, and Tolliver, the last of the deck crew, stood ready with guide polls.
“Damn it, Jonesy,” the Chief yelled. “Get your foot out of that line.”
Logan watched his friend glance at his feet then hop out of a coiled line that could have wrapped around his leg and pulled him into oblivion.
The boy would never learn.
Peterson slowly brought the beacon towards the ship.
Logan’s heart began to race. This was always the dangerous part. A huge mechanical block of metal was going to shift from weightlessness to a two-ton brick. All in an instant.
It was the team’s job to guide her in without things going wrong. The incorrect orientation, faulty equipment, a misstep, or a dozen other possibilities and either the beacon could get damaged, the ship itself could take a pounding, or someone could get seriously dead.
Without realizing it, Logan held his breath as the three junior spacers used their long poles to guide the beacon over the threshold.
The mass of the beacon reached critical levels and dropped to the deck. The vacuum of space sucked away any sound. But the vibration of the hit could be felt through the souls of his boots. Radiating up his legs.
“Good,” Chief Bowen said. “Get her into position and tied down with the others and let’s get the new one out there. We don’t want to keep Miss Paula waiting, now do we?”
“I always knew you were a good man, Chief,” Jonesy said as he started cranking down on the gripes.
Deploying the replacement beacon proceeded without incident. Even Jonesy managed to keep himself from getting tangled up in the lines.
Once the new beacon was in place, the bridge took a moment to confirm its accurate positioning.
“Fire her up, Miller,” Chief Bowen said.
Logan used his remote controls to bring the new beacon online. He knew perfectly well that each of his friends were waiting for him. This was the
important part. If it didn’t work, they wouldn’t be going anywhere until he got it fixed.
Logan ran the beacon through its paces then established a link with the other beacon on the other side of the wormhole. The communications app burped for a second, the screen going blank. He swore and seriously considered throwing the controller across the hangar bay.
Pounding the controller on his leg, he gritted his teeth and waited. At last, the screen returned to normal as a stream of numbers filed past.
Finally, the app blinked ‘Link Established,' and he was able to relax.
“It’s good,” he said and watched as everyone’s shoulders slumped in relief.
“Bridge, link established. Request permission to close hangar doors,” Chief Bowen said into his radio.
“Confirmed, go ahead and close her up,” the captain said.
After the doors had closed, air was pumped back into the bay. As the lights turned green, Chief Bowen pushed up his faceplate, reaching a hand into his helmet to scratch at his sweaty head
“Thirty-four beacon’s deployed in the last two months, and every one of them worked. Good job Miller.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Miller responded as he silently thanked the gods that he was wearing a space helmet so the guys couldn’t see him blushing.
“Now hear this,” the captain’s voice came over the ship’s 1MC.
Never a good thing, Logan thought as his heart jumped into his throat.
“Make preparations for a high-speed run, we have a report of a vessel in distress. Report when spaces are secure.”
“Damn,” Peterson said as he shook his head. “There goes Montlake,”
“Nooo!” Jonesy cried.
“Don’t worry Jonesy,” Evans said as he pounded him on the back. “You can’t lose something you never had.”
The young spacer looked as if someone had denied him liberty for the second time.
The 1MC crackled once again in preparation for another announcement. Each man looked up at the speaker on the bulkhead above the main door while they waited for more information.
“Now. Petty Officer Miller to the bridge.”
Logan frowned as he glanced at Chief Bowen. What was that all about?
The Chief shrugged his shoulders and nodded to the door.
Grabbing his tools, Petty Officer Miller hurried to the bridge. One of the many things the Imperial Navy had pounded into him at an early age. Do not keep the skipper waiting.
As he made his way forward, he noticed crewmen scrambling to make sure everything was put away or tied down. Theoretically, it shouldn’t have mattered. The gravity shell should have adjusted to their momentum and course corrections. But theoretically, the Navy should have equipment that worked.
Logan laughed. If things performed like they were supposed to, then they wouldn’t need people like him.
Stepping onto the crowded bridge, he asked, “You wanted me, skipper?”
Lieutenant Commander Robert White glanced up from his screen to study the young tech. His scowl sent a cold chill down Logan’s back.
“The comms gear is out again. We received the distress call, but the damn thing won’t transmit our reply.”
Logan relaxed. It wasn’t super serious, just regular serious.
“I installed the last spare module two weeks ago Sir. The thing’s older than dirt and just as useless.”
“I know, I know,” the captain said. “Just do the best that you can.”
Logan nodded. Great, they expected miracles. The ship didn’t have enough spares, and what they did have was falling apart.
“Aye, aye Sir,” he said as he made his way to the equipment closet, taking off his suit as he went.
At six-four, Logan was the largest guy on the ship. Not that big a deal except that it meant his head was constantly bumping into overhead pipes and made getting behind the equipment rack extremely problematic.
Twisting and turning, he squeezed his way behind the communication suite. Yep, like he thought. The last module was tits up.
“Sorry, captain,” he said as he wormed his way out. “All I can give you is manual. The AI is toast. And as you know, the replicator has been out for a month.”
The captain scowled for a long moment then shook his head. “One day, the Navy is going to give us equipment worth a damn.”
Logan felt a slight release of concern. The skipper wasn’t mad at him. He’d laid the blame on the true culprit. The bean counters at Imperial Naval Headquarters.
“Set it up, Miller. Then contact the vessel in distress. The Voltaire. Tell them we’re about seven hours out.”
“Yes, Sir,” Logan said as he sat down in front of the comms gear and started manually configuring the equipment. Once he was done and had sent the message, he returned back to the captain.
“The message has been sent. We should hear something back in about two minutes Sir.”
The captain nodded then called over Lieutenant Stevens.
“Have you seen this John?” he asked the junior officer. “The Voltaire is a small passenger carrier out of Taurus. Crew of five. Space for six passengers. Small but fancy.”
“What are they doing out here Sir?” the lieutenant asked as his brow knitted in confusion.
“Don’t know,” the captain replied. “Hopefully, if Miller knows what he’s doing, we’ll find out in a few minutes.”
Logan swallowed hard and went back to double-check the message had been sent.
At the two-minute mark, each crewman on the bridge stopped what they were doing and looked at the communication equipment.
Logan held his breath. But nothing. Pure silence. That deep space silence that made a person aware of just how small they were compared to the galaxy as a whole.
“I checked, Sir,” Logan said. “I ran a test with the beacon we deployed. The comms are working Sir. At least in manual mode. They should have responded.”
The captain nodded. “Okay, keep trying every ten minutes. Not much we can do anyway until we get there. And have the beacon send off a message to Fleet HQ that we’ve diverted to a vessel in distress. We’ll send a SITREP once we know what’s going on.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Logan said as he tried to understand why the vessel wasn’t responding. They were still receiving the automated distress call. His insides tightened up. For some reason, he didn’t have a good feeling about this.
For the next six-plus hours, Logan faithfully sent out a response, but still no answer. He continued like that for all the way there and still---nada.
The only thing he heard was his growling stomach.
After leaving to grab a sandwich from the galley, he hovered over the comms equipment, shaking his head at the crap they gave him to work with.
Shrugging his shoulders, he began tearing apart the AI module, determined to get it to work.
As he soldered another relay, he thought of the giant Imperial cruiser he had seen when they were last in Taurus. Surrounded by a half a dozen destroyers. He bet those guys never ran out of spare parts. Hell, they probably had a dozen replicators on standby just waiting to make new parts.
He shook his head. Those ships of the line never went anywhere without an escort. If something went wrong, there were a ton of people to fix the problem. Not like a lowly beacon tender. The Navy sent them out here all alone, with crap for equipment and expected them to make it work.
It was enough to make a guy wonder if the Navy even cared.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Steven said as he pointed to his screen. “I’ve got two vessels. One drifting. The other departing the area at a high rate of speed. It appears from his vector that he was co-located with the drifting vessel.”
“Pirates?” the captain asked.
The lieutenant shrugged his shoulder. “We haven’t received any reports of any activity in the area. There isn’t exactly a lot of traffic around here.”
The captain shook his head and began to scowl again. Logan knew that look. The captain was pissed. He wouldn’
t want to be that departing vessel if the captain ever got a hold of them.
“Sir,” Petty Officer Miller interrupted. “The drifting vessel appears to be the Voltaire. I triangulated its distress call.”
The captain nodded to Lieutenant Stevens.
“Okay John, bring us in close to the Voltaire. We’ll have to check her out.”
“But Sir,” the lieutenant said. “The other vessel will get away if we stop. It looks like it will reach the next wormhole long before we could ever catch up. That particular portal doesn’t go anywhere except to a group of other useless dead ends. But we’d never find the ship in that cluster.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t have a choice. The distressed vessel is top priority.”
“Yes, Sir,” the young officer said as he started making adjustments on his screen.
For the next fifteen minutes, the captain maneuvered the ship next to an imaginary spot in black space.
“All stop,” he said at last. “Hit her with the lights.”
The two massive search lights mounted above the bridge bathed the area in a bright glow.
Where before there had been nothing but black emptiness, now a small space ship drifted aimlessly.
Logan stared at the picture on his screen, just as every other crewmember was doing.
The vessel didn’t look that big, maybe eighty feet long at the most. He could see some burn marks on the aft end. Something had hit it with a plasma burst. Probably forcing it to stop.
“I don’t see any venting, Sir,” Lieutenant Stevens said. “She should still be sound. Do you think any of the pirates are still aboard?”
The captain grimaced. “Only one way to find out. Select three men. Draw weapons from the armory, and go check it out.
The lieutenant’s face turned chalky white for a second as he thought about his orders, but he recovered quickly.
“Yes, Sir,” he said as he came to attention.
Logan had to fight a smile. The man was acting like he was charging the guns of Tripoli.
Lieutenant Stevens paused, obviously considering the situation. “Miller, Peterson,” he said, “grab Washington from engineering and meet me at the armory.”
