He Who Dares: Book One (The Gray Chronicals 1)

by Rob Buckman

  “William’s, you’ll be First Officer.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Heartmore and William’s moved to take up the respective positions as the instructor looked shrewdly at the others.

  “Gray, you’ll be Third Officer on tactical, and Fletcher, you’ll be fourth on Operations.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” They both answered, and moved to their respective simulator panel. Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, they hadn’t picked him to sit in the Captain’s chair, and yet it pricked his pride a little. Competitive by nature, it rankled that he wouldn’t even try to sit in the command chair, but his back brain reminded him of what happened the last time he’d been in command.

  The instructor then named off the others, assigned them to positions about the facility. Most looked glum at not being chosen for the Captain’s chair. Some were designated as standby watch and it became clear why a moment later.

  “This will be a relatively long simulation, people, and you will have the exciting job of convoy escort duty en-route to place called ‘Farnam’s Freehold’.” The moment he said the name, Mike tapped in the name on his keyboard.

  “You can expect anything, or nothing but a lot of boredom, depending solely on your choices.” That sounded ominous.

  “Heartmore, as Captain, you will obey the orders of the Convoy Commander at all times and not go gallivanting all over the bloody galaxy looking for targets of opportunity, is that clear?!” The instructor’s tone was frosty.

  “Yes, sir.” Heartmore answered in a snotty tone, as if insulted by an instructor who’d think he would do something anything of the sort.

  After that, the instructors departed, at least in body. Everyone knew he and the other instructors would be watching them like hawks through the monitoring system. The hatch clanged shut, signaling the start of the simulation as the main view screen and ship's systems came alive.

  “Good god!” Someone muttered out loud and all eyes turned to the main screen.

  When he said convoy duty, he wasn’t kidding. The view screen and their instruments showed a convoy of at least 500 cargo ships of every shape, size and description imaginable strung out over fifty miles like some giant snake as it spiraled down into the system gravity well from the Warp Point. I seemed to undulate across the star-studded background with the lead ship lost in the distance. Here and there, other escort ship showed up in blue, indicating their duty station, while up front a heavy Cruiser led the pack. Mike immediately saw the flaw in the plan and shook his head slightly. All the escort ships were in static positions with no flankers or long-range scout ships off to the sides. On face value, it looked good, with warships positioned at strategic locations along the outside of the convoy. In real time it was a receipt for disaster. He would have opted for a global formation with the escort ships forming an outer shell. Any raiders could initiate a multi-pronged attack at several points at once, either real or fake, to pull the picket ships out of position. They could quickly disable a ship’s engine and be gone before anyone could react. This would effectively cut the ship out of convoy, and knowing they couldn’t protect one lame duck and risk the others, the rewards far outweighed the risk.

  “Gray! Tactical report?” There was a deliberate insult buried in the request, as Heartmore should have used his simulator rank of Lieutenant.

  “Other than the convoy ships, I have a clear scope, sir.”

  “That’s Captain to you, Gray.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “Well? Report then!” Heartmore snapped.

  Mike gritted his teeth for a moment, and then answered. “Captain, within our designated duty station, I have a clear scope.” Mike took a deep breath, pushing his sudden anger back into the recesses of his mind. The instructor was right. This was going to be a long simulation. Heartmore of course took the opportunity to lord it over his fellow cadets, and went from position to position impressed his authority on everyone to make sure they all knew who was in charge. It was needless and heavy-handed, but not outside Navy regulations, depending on which way you read it. The book said that an officer should impress his authority upon a command, as quickly as possible, thereby establishing order, yet didn’t say how.

  Slowly the hours ticked by, and the initial rush of enthusiasm wore off as they settled down. Mike occasional looked at the main view screen, seeing distant suns against the blackness of deep space. Here and there, starlight reflected from some bright point or other on one of the ships, heightening the effect. It was a beautiful picture, worthy of immortalizing in some painting, yet the reality was far more deadly. In a real attack, they would lose half the cargo ships, or more, and he could not believe the Royal Navy would actually use this scenario in real life. This was some archive footage from a peacetime run, and if there ever was a real attack, he hoped they had learned their lesson. It didn’t take long for the boredom to creep in, and more than one person started yawning, infecting others. Watch boredom was something Mike was familiar with having spent equally boring times hauling cargo containers to some waiting outbound merchantman, or taking empty ones back to the inter-modal station for reloading. He constantly altered the angle of sweep and where possible 'pinged' the other side of the convoy, ever searching for the possibility of an attack. He found they did have a blind spot where two ships blocked part of the sensor pattern. Ever suspicious, he wished Heartmore would charge the attitude of the ship so he would get the occasional look there.

  “Captain, might I suggest we change position slightly or launch a scout drone?”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that, Gray?” Heartmore almost sounded outraged.”

  “I have a dead spot on my scope, and a possible avenue of attack.” Heartmore eyed the main screen and the repeater screens by his command chair before answering.

  “You might suggest it, Gray, but that is on the other side of the convoy and under the watchful eye of the warships on that side.” Heartmore sounded almost happy as he brushed Mike’s suggestion aside.

  “Yes, sir.” So much for that idea, Mike thought, hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn’t of course. Heartmore just had to add something to the insult.

  “I suggest that you concern yourself more to this side of the convoy and let the other ships worry about their side.” Heartmore snapped. It was a verbal reprimand, and wouldn’t go unnoticed by the instructors. Mike fumed and said nothing.

  There was no point. Heartmore was the designated Captain and therefore had sole authority. Janice did give him a lopsided smile as compensation and nodded in agreement with him. It was only prudent to change the ship's position, and add the element of unpredictability to any raiders who might be tracking them. Using his porta-comp, Mike kept a record of each sweep, updating it every fifteen minutes with a new one. This way he had a comparison, instead of getting blurry eyed and sleepy watching the endless trace lines move around the screens. He could quickly study the two and look for anything out of place. Once or twice he saw a slight difference, nothing major, just the occasional blip, faint, but noticeable when you compared the two. The real time image showed nothing unusual, other than bits of general system debris, such as fragments of meteors or comets. The one oddity was the scattered echo from a long asteroid belt that extended parallel their route as they dropped down the gravity well to Farnham’s Freehold, nothing unusual, but still. You could hide a fleet in there, dangerous as it might be, and he would never see them buried in all the other return echoes. The trick with the computer picture and comparing it with the real time return was one his grandfather had shown him, and at the time, he had thought it a bit redundant. The main search scope should pick up anything dangerous, shouldn’t it? Time and a few nasty surprises in space had taught him the wisdom of using it. After coming back on watch, it was still there, and in the end, it prompted him to speak up.

  “Captain, I still think we should change ship's position, or launch a scout probe at least, sir.”

  “And why should I do that, Gray?” Heartmore
asked in a long-suffering voice.

  “I have several suspicious echoes, sir, and I’d like to confirm them.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Nothing concrete, sir, just odd returns.”

  “What do the sensors say?”

  “Nothing, sir. The return echoes could be anything, enemy ships, debris, meteors, or comet fragments, sir.”

  “When you have something concrete I’ll consider changing position.” He sneered. “Until then, concentrate on what you are doing!”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” Mike couldn’t quite keep the snarl out of his voice, but thankfully, Heartmore said nothing. Had he looked over his shoulder, he would have seen the nasty grin on Heartmore’s face. Janice did, and shot him a scowl. Heartmore just shrugged and looked away in a gesture of dismissal.

  The relatively fixed positions of the echoes puzzled Mike, almost like ghost images and that nagged at his mind. On a hunch he tapped into the navigational radar and checked their position, getting a nasty look from the designated navigator for his trouble. As the convoy dropped deeper into the gravity well in its spiraling course to a planet designated Redland planet, it moved closer to the systems asteroid belt. At one point it swept around in a long curve to pass under them as they headed across the plane of the eclipse towards Farnham’s Freehold. That wouldn’t be for several hours, but it did present an ideal point of attack. His mind went back to the ghost images, but it wasn’t until they seemed closer that he really took notice. He checked the scope against his comm vid, running in a fast forward loop. They were definitely closer now. They could still be ghost returns, as the asteroid field was closer, but he didn’t think so, but what else could it be? They were far too small to be ships, so what else could they be? Somewhere, someone had mentioned this before, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he had it, a visiting Free Trader Captain told his grandfather about something like this at dinner one night, ‘Bloodhound’ missiles. Bloodhounds were an abortion of a missile, all drive systems and X-ray laser warhead. They couldn’t be launched in the conventional sense as most were cobbled together from different system and simply lashed to the side of a raider ship. Once within a designated range, a crew member would suit up and go outside and unlashed them and give them a hard push away from the ship. Once set on course the damn things could shadow a ship for days, even weeks on minimal gravanic drive waiting for the right moment to strike. Most had two or even three additional drive systems strapped or piggybacked onto the main body. These were short-range hyper velocity drive and designed to burn out within five to ten minutes. That was all they needed. If the remote pilot crept them into striking distance without the ship’s sensor detection them they were home free. There was no way anyone, including the auto defense system that could get in operation before they hit. Wrapped as they were in a radar reflective blanket, their return signature was so small they could go almost unnoticed against the general background clutter. That meant there was a ship, or ships out there that had them under control, waiting for the right opportunity to attack. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that would be when the convoy passed ‘over’ the asteroid belt.

  “Sir, I believe we are being shadowed by at least five bloodhound missiles, and there will be an attack shortly.”

  “Gray, I’m getting tired of this! On what do you base this wild assumption?”

  “Those ghost echoes are in the same relative position, sir, but closer.” Mike answered, looking over his shoulder. The slight sneer on Heartmore’s girlish face told him he was wasting his time. To Heartmore this was just a simulation, and an opportunity to lord it over everyone, nothing more.

  “And so is the asteroid belt, which is all you are picking up.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

  “And I suppose you want me to change positions so you can verify it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s how you might do it in the Kellman border patrol…” he’d deliberately refrained from calling it a Navy. “… Where ship’s Captain wily, nilly goes gallivanting around the universe on the whim of a junior officer, but not here, Mister.” If it wasn’t for the background noise, you could have heard a pin drop.

  “When, and if, you should even sit in this seat, which I doubt, you can make that choice. My orders are to maintain this position and unless I receive orders from the convoy commander to change them, we stay where we are, is that clear!”

  “Yes, sir.” Mike fumed. Any Captain worth his salt would check out his suspicions, even if they proved groundless. In his mind, Mike calculated the distance between the echoes and the ship, and the time it would take for the point defense gunners or the auto defense system to come to battle stations and react. It wasn’t enough. Before they could bring point defense to bear the Bloodhound would be on them.

  “Shit!” Mike muttered. He doubted any of the other ships had seen it, as whoever controlled them had taken his time.

  They had moved slowly closer, a few feet every hour, and unless he could think of something they would take a hit before Heartmore could react. For a moment, he was tempted to launch a scout probe and send it to take a close look at the asteroid field, but that meant overriding Heartmore authority. He dare not do that. In the end he sat there and fumed. As third officer he could do nothing except inform his ‘Captain’, which he’d done. This exercise meant nothing to Heartmore. With his patronage, win or lose, his commission in the Navy was assured. When it happened, Mike just sat and watched in fascination. The attack happening just as he had predicted. First the bloodhound missiles final drive systems lit off, jumping from snail go-slow to mach 22 in a heartbeat. The moment the ‘bloodhound went active, he spotted it.

  “Captain! Three missiles on intercept course. Impact in 15 second!”

  “What! That’s impossible!” Heartmore spluttered in a squeaky voice, breaking off his conversation with his second officer.

  “10 second!” Mike intoned. Happy he was right.

  “Shields to max! Weapons, order point defense to action station and open fire!” Heartmore ordered belatedly. “XO - sound action stations!”

  “Aye-aye, sir – sound action stations.” The XO hit the alarm, but way too late. Had Heartmore been half the Captain he thought he was, they should be at condition 'yellow'. With the crew at standby battle condition, they might have had a chance of stopping the incoming missiles.

  “Point defense coming on line.” The weapons officer replied in an almost hysterical sounding voice.

  “Five seconds Captain – four – three – two – one!” Mike held his breath, waiting for Heartmore to order evasive maneuvers. He didn’t, he just sat there, a shocked look on his face.

  As the belatedly battle station alarm sounded as the first missile detonated close to the bridge, the most obvious target, and before the main hatchway closed. Even partially close it saved some of them as the simulator stereo system broadcast an ear shattering explosion. Several consuls blew up with a flash and a loud bang as smoke canister popped, filling the bridge with eye-burning black and white smoke. The shield generator didn’t have time to fully charge before the rest of the ‘bloodhound’ missiles impacted, lighting up the damage control board like a Christmas tree.

  “Three unidentified ships on an intercept course, Captain, they are going for a freighter 300 miles ahead!” Mike relayed, coughing as he waved the smoke away from his screen. Much to his surprise, there was no answer, and he shot a quick look over his shoulder.

  Through tear-filled eyes, he saw Heartmore slumped over in the Captain’s chair, the XO on the floor beside him. For a split second he forgot this was a simulation, thinking Heartmore was dead and felt a surge of guilty pleasure. Bedlam ensured around him as people shouted orders and demanded answers. Mike just sat there with a feeling of guilty satisfaction and a smug smile. Janice shook him out of his trance.

  “MIKE! You’re third Officer, take over the Con!” She shouted, reaching over and punching him in the shoulder.r />
  “Me!” He asked, surprised.

  “Yes, you, dummy, move it!” Reaching the Captain’s chair, he checked for life signs, only to discover it wasn’t Heartmore, just a dummy.

  There wasn’t much difference from his point of view and he smiled at the thought as he dragged the dummy out of the Captain’s chair. The Training staff must have replaced Heartmore and the XO the moment the missile hit. With the exploding panels and the smoke, no one had noticed the switch. But, that’s how it should be in combat. One moment you had a Captain and First Officer the next they were dead. You didn’t get advanced warning or a written notice. Shit just happened. It also brought into question their selection of the bridge officers. They'd deliberately set it up so he'd end up in the Captain's chair, whether he wanted it or not.

  “Helm - Evasion pattern Sierra!

  “Aye, sir!” The helmsman answered nervously.

  “Captain! We have a hull breach on deck four!” The Operation officer yelled.

  “First off people, STOP YELLING LIKE FRIGGING IDIOTS!” Mike bellowed. That brought silence to the bridge. “Good. Now then. Operations send damage control teams to deck four and seal the breach – and vent the bridge and clear this smoke out.”