by Peter Grant
“You two never stop thinking! What are you going to come up with next?”
“I don’t know, but it’ll be interesting to find out.”
“I’ll say!” She sobered. “My recommendation, that you be kept in the loop for everything we learn about the Albanians, has been approved. I’ve been officially relieved of my former responsibilities, and appointed as our Fleet’s liaison officer to Hawkwood Corporation. Do you think you can stand to have me around that much?”
He beamed with pleasure. “Just try me! As a matter of fact, I have several exciting liaison positions in mind.”
She blushed. “Oh, you! I’ll brief you on recent developments when we’re in private. Also, you’re going to get a visit soon from the boss or the second-in-command of our corvette squadron, and maybe a couple of its commanding officers too. They want to learn more about Amanita’s performance in combat at Mycenae.”
“They’ll be welcome. Will they come to Constanta, or Mycenae?”
“Where will Amanita be? They want to talk to Commander Darroch, of course, since he commanded her during the fight.”
“He’ll be in Mycenae, helping the two new corvettes work up, as well as the depot ship. Along with Orca, they’ll patrol the system until the next two corvettes are ready. Vulcan will shuttle back and forth to look after any maintenance requirements, and the monthly resupply freighter will exchange part of their crews on every visit, bringing them back to Constanta for rest and recreation. Once we have more ships out there, we’ll start cycling corvettes through Constanta for crew rest and routine maintenance.”
“All right.” Her face turned pensive. “I wonder what the Albanians are up to?”
“I’m willing to bet it won’t be anything to make us happy. I expect more shenanigans at Constanta, and I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to find out what happened to their ships. Our people have all been warned not to talk, but sooner or later something’s bound to leak. What did your experts find out about that destroyer hulk?”
“She was one of seven sold as scrap by Anshun, about a decade ago. Anshun swears the scrap dealer cut through their spines, in front of witnesses from its Fleet, before they were taken away on a ferry. Our experts looked closely at the hulk. They say they can see where she was welded together again, with reinforcing material added. It looks like the Albanians diverted them from the scrapheap, and modernized them. The hulk was equipped with electronic systems that were two or three generations old, sourced from several planets. She carried ninety main battery missiles, eighteen in each of five pods, and the same number of defensive weapons. The missiles were bought from several sources, and the pods modified so they could fit into the cells. She was a real mish-mash.”
“She may have been, but if we hadn’t had Amanita there, she and her sister ship would have run right over us. I wonder how many more destroyers they renovated?”
“Anshun told us that a couple of the destroyers were beyond repair. They’d been in service for over fifty years, and then rotted in their Reserve Fleet for thirty years or more. Our experts think the Albanians might have gotten four or five working, but no more than that.”
“Well, they’ll be looking for something better now, that’s for sure.”
“Yes. I’m glad you’ve got something better coming, in the medium term, to deal with that.”
“So am I. I just hope we can get the frigates into service in time to deal with whatever the Albanians throw at us next.”
“You’ve done pretty well so far.”
“And with your help, we’ll go on doing well. I think you and I will make a great team, in more ways than one.”
“I’d drink to that, but…” She glanced mournfully into her cup. “It’s empty.”
“We can fix that. The champagne’s over there.”
“Is there still some left?”
“There’d better be. If there isn’t, I’ll send Frank to smuggle another bottle past security, on pain of immediate demotion if he fails!”
Laughing, they turned to join the others.
Excerpt from “An Airless Storm”
Here’s the opening of Book 2 of the “Cochrane’s Company” trilogy. “An Airless Storm” will be published in June 2018.
The prisoner was trembling as the jailers unlocked his cell door, cuffed his hands behind his back, and led him out into the corridor. The escort commander, a stone-faced major, inspected him from head to foot, and grimaced in distaste. The fear-stench added a sour, bitter overtone to the already rank odor of the man’s grimy clothes and unwashed body. Then again, why bother letting inmates here wash? he thought to himself. None of those in this corridor will stink much longer.
He led the prisoner and his guards down the passage to a heavy double door. It opened onto an enclosed courtyard, its green grass contrasting with the dark, dank stone of the crenellated walls around it. Several observers looked down in silence from atop them, dressed warmly against the damp chill. They watched as the major signed a form, accepting custody of the prisoner. The guards went back inside, and the doors closed behind them.
The waiting escort snapped to attention at the command of their sergeant. He marched them behind the officer as he escorted the stumbling, shivering prisoner down the graveled path, then turned ninety degrees towards the rear wall. He led the prisoner towards a thick head-high wooden stake planted firmly in the ground, two meters before the wall. Behind it, a thick pile of sandbags had been erected against the stone. A few pockmarks in the wall at its edges showed where it had sometimes failed to provide an adequate backstop against poor marksmanship.
The sergeant halted the escort, formed them into a single line and dressed the rank, while a corporal went forward to assist the officer. The two of them briskly, impersonally turned the man to face the line of soldiers. The corporal went down on one knee and tied his feet together, then tethered them to the base of the stake. The officer waited until the prisoner’s feet had been secured, then took from his inside jacket pocket a formal decree. He unfolded it and read it aloud.
“For the crime of selling advanced military weapons to unknown enemies of the state, in dereliction of his duty and responsibilities, and to the grave detriment of the security of Keda, Lieutenant-Commander Wira bin Osman is hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. The sentence is to be carried out within one week from this date.”
He folded the document and returned it to his pocket. “Do you have any last words, prisoner?”
“I – you can’t do this! I have the right to appeal the sentence of a military court-martial to the Supreme Court of Keda! My – my lawyer is –”
“Your lawyer has already filed your appeal, prisoner. By edict of the President of the Supreme Court, it has been rejected without a hearing. The sentence of your court-martial stands.”
“B-but… I…” Tears came to the prisoner’s eyes, and his knees wobbled, as if he were about to fall.
“Control yourself, damn you!” Revulsion curled the major’s lip. “Your execution will be televised. At least try to die like a man, even if you could not live like one!”
“I…” The condemned man seemed to find a last reserve of courage. He drew himself up. “Major, I… I am being murdered to cover up the crimes of my superior officers. They sold those weapons, not I.” His voice was hopeless. “Who will bring them to justice?”
The officer did not answer. He nodded to his corporal, who produced a length of black cloth and briskly, impersonally, tied it over the prisoner’s eyes; then he pulled a small white card from his pocket, and pinned it to the convict’s shirt over his heart. Snapping to attention, the two soldiers turned their backs on the doomed man and marched back to the firing squad. The major took up his position at one side, while the corporal retrieved his rifle and joined the line.
The sergeant bellowed, “Ready!” The eight-man squad snapped to attention.
“Load!” There was a rattle of metal on metal as beads were chambered.
“Aim
!” The firing party took a half-step back with their right legs and lined their weapons at the prisoner. The trembling man against the post tried to stand straighter, as if that would somehow control his shivering. It did not.
“Fire!”
The shots crashed out as one. The electromagnetic mechanism of the rifles in the soldiers’ hands accelerated their projectiles to hypersonic velocity as they left the muzzles. The impact of the rounds raised puffs of dust from the card and the prisoner’s grimy white shirt beneath it, before both were stained with red as blood gushed out. The man slammed back against the post, crying out once, short and sharp; then he toppled slowly, stiffly, to his left. The card came loose as he fell, fluttering downward through the air. He bounced once on the grass, rolled halfway onto his back, and lay still.
The major marched briskly forward from his position at the side of the firing squad, unbuckling the flap of his holster and drawing his pulser. He stood over the prone figure, aimed down at the black band around its eyes, and fired once – then skipped back with an exclamation of disgust as a few drops of blood splattered on his gleaming, immaculately polished boots. The sergeant bellowed a command that sent the corporal scurrying forward, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe the footwear clean.
The firing squad formed up in two ranks, and the sergeant marched them down the path towards the portal. The major returned his pulser to its holster, then followed his men, walking briskly. Others, menials, would clean up the mess. He had more important duties to attend to.
Of course you died to protect your superiors, he thought disdainfully as he closed the door behind him and turned down the corridor towards his office. What else did you expect? You didn’t seriously think they were going to take the blame, did you? In your shoes, I’d have been sorrier for my wife and children than I was for myself. Their punishment is only just beginning!
About The Author
Peter Grant was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. Between military service, the IT industry and humanitarian involvement, he traveled throughout sub-Saharan Africa before being ordained as a pastor. He later immigrated to the USA, where he worked as a pastor and prison chaplain until an injury forced his retirement. He is now a full-time writer, and married to a pilot from Alaska. They currently live in Texas.
See all of Peter’s books at his Amazon.com author page, or visit him at his blog, Bayou Renaissance Man. There, you can also sign up for his mailing list, to receive a monthly newsletter and be kept informed of upcoming books.
Books by Peter Grant
MILITARY SCIENCE FICTION:
The Maxwell Saga:
Take the Star Road
Ride the Rising Tide
Adapt and Overcome
Stand Against the Storm
Stoke the Flames Higher
Search and Destroy (coming soon)
Cochrane’s Company:
The Stones of Silence
An Airless Storm (coming in June 2018)
The Pride of the Damned (coming in July 2018)
The Laredo War:
War to the Knife
Forge a New Blade
Knife to the Hilt (coming soon)
FANTASY:
King’s Champion
WESTERN:
* * *
The Ames Archives
Brings The Lightning
Rocky Mountain Retribution
Gold on the Hoof (coming soon)
MEMOIR:
Walls, Wire, Bars and Souls
