He Who Dares: Book Two (The Gray Chronicals 2)

by Rob Buckman

  “I know, Marines haven’t been used as gunners for centuries. You know why we have Marines on board, Conner.”

  “To repel boarders and take care of ground actions, sir?”

  “Partly, but their original function was to protect the officers in case of a mutiny.”

  “Really? What happened if they went over to the mutineers?”

  “Never happened Conner, not in the history of the Royal Marine.”

  “So you are going to change history?”

  “Why not, I doubt in the modern age that the crew is going to mutiny. I know from personal experience, one of the biggest problems they have is fighting boredom, standing endless watches on the Bridge and other places.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  Five hours later Pete Standish called down to his cabin to announce the ship was ready to lift, looking pleased they’d done it in under the six hours Mike asked for. Mike entered the Bridge and sat, his eye flicking from station to station. Environmental on his right, then engineering, navigation, and over to weapons, communication and tactical on his left, each station was active and manned, or womanned to be exact and ready. Pete Standish sat in his seat just below his, behind the helm control.

  “All stationed reporting that they are manned and ready, Skipper.”

  “Signal for engines.”

  “Aye, sir. Engines on line.” Mike breathed easier hearing that.

  “Where to, Skipper?”

  “Back to Devonport for the moment.”

  “We have darkness as you requested, Skipper, and no moon tonight.”

  “Great.”

  “We added an additional bonus to your request, Skipper. We ordered up a blinding snowstorm and a force 8 gale. Will that do, sir?”

  “Very nice, Number One, how do you do it?”

  “Charm, sir.” That brought a chuckle from around the Bridge. For the past eight hours, he’d been like a bear with a sore head.

  “Good, let get out of here.” Mike tapped up his outside screen, and for a moment thought, he had a glitch in the system. The screen was solid white. Then it dawned on him that Pete was telling the truth. There was a force eight gale and a snowstorm in progress. He switched the screen into digital mode and the snow vanished.

  “All divisions reporting ready. All outer hatches sealed and crosschecked. All indicators in the green, Captain.” Pete reported.

  “Very good Number One. Lift ship - Com, ask for clearance to proceed up the estuary to Devonport.”

  “Aye, sir. Lifting ship - helm, lift the ship.” The strident alarm bell sounded, warning all hands, they were lifting, and the electronic telegraph sounded as Conner Blake signaled for engines.

  “We have clearance, Skipper - sending course to the helm.”

  “Very good, Com - Helm, take us out.”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper, taking her out.”

  She lifted smoothly, then swung round and headed up out of the scrap yard into the military traffic lane. Mike sat, relaxed at last, listening to the back and forth chatter as each station went about its normal duty. Communications contacted traffic control with the ships false I.D. code and obtained a course to the Yard, immediately replaying the information to the XO and the helm. Janice Fletcher worked the tactical station, relaying she had a clear screen.

  “Anywhere in particular you’d like to sit her down, Skipper?”

  “No, just take her slow, I’m expecting a call.” That reminded him and he tapped his comm unit.

  “Sergeant Rice here.”

  “Tommy, I need someone to go and pick up some items for me.”

  “What do you need, Sir?”

  “A scout car should do it.”

  “Can do, Skipper. I’ll have the duty pilot get her in the air right now.”

  “Sounds good. I should be getting a call soon, and I’ll relay instruction to the scout car.”

  “I’ll send it out now.”

  “Thanks. Tell the pilot to head slowly towards the main gate at Devonport.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The trip was uneventful, and an hour later they approached Devonport. Just then, Mike porta-comp pinged with an incoming message. Flipping up the cover, he saw Jenks looking back at him, half frozen from the look on his face.

  “Hello Jenks, where are you?”

  “Outside the flipping main gate, Sarg. Had a dickens of a time getting here.”

  “I’ll bet in this storm. Stay there, I have a scout car on its way to you right now, and thanks again, Jenks.”

  “Copy that, Sarg.” With that, he cut the connection.

  “What next Skipper?” Pete Standish asked.

  “Hold on a sec,” he keyed the internal comm system, “Sergeant, Rice?”

  “Rice here, sir.”

  “Who’s driving the scout?”

  “Corporal Andrews, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Mike switched frequencies. “Corporal Andrews, do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Skipper.”

  “Head for the main gate, you should find a snowman standing there with a trunk and a few other items. I need you to pick them up for me.”

  “I copy that, Skipper.”

  “The men is a short cockney fellow, and try not to let him talk you into selling him the scout car, we might need it.”

  “Copy that, Skipper, on my way.” He laughed.

  “If we’ve departed by the time you get back, you know how to find us.” He added.

  “I think I can manage that, besides that, Phillips owes me fifty credits and I know where to find him.” He answered as he signed off.

  “What now, Skipper?”

  “First of all, let’s get our civilian guests out of here.”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

  “Any idea where we can drop them?”

  “How about that the commercial port. We can get in there without too much trouble, or questions.”

  “Good idea, make it so.”

  To be on the safe side, they put down in a small park close to the mag-rail station so the yard dogs would not have so far to walk in this weather. Mike took the time to shake hands with each of the remaining yard dogs. They shook, but all refused to take the present of credits he offered. They did accept the case of Whisky Sergeant Rice produced from somewhere and the travel vouchers. After more handshakes and a wave, they departed. Each patted the Union Jack painted on the hull beside the ramp as they departed, each wishing them good luck and God’s speed. Mike appreciated the gesture, knowing it came from their hearts. They had built a fine ship and they were proud of her.

  “Seal the ship, Pete and let get out of here.” He said in a husky voice, brushing a vagrant flake of snow that had somehow found its way into the boat bay, landed on his cheek, and melted.

  “Aye-aye, Skipper.” Pete used the ship’s intercom and hit the ‘all stations’ button. “Attention all hands, take your departure station for getting underway, close and crosscheck all outer hatches, XO out.”

  “Operations sing out when you have a green board. The Captain and I will be back on the Bridge shortly.”

  “Aye, sir.” After returning to the Bridge or CIC, as Mike liked to think of it, he walked over and handed Sally Goldman a data crystal.

  “You’ll need to plug that in Sally.”

  “Sir?”

  “Trust me.” Sally pushed the crystal into its slot and looked at the data cascading across her screen, then nodded, a smile replacing the look of concern on her face.

  “Aye, aye, Skipper, uploading the data now.” Pate Standish gave him a questioning look, but Mike just smiled and shook his head.

  “Better you didn’t know, XO, just in case.” Pete wondered in the case of what. “When you are ready, helm, take her up and out.” Mike resumed his seat and sat back. Now came the difficult part.

  “Aye-aye, Skipper, up and out it is.” Conner replied, laughter in his voice.

  “I have clearance from traffic for HMS Sunderland to precede on course, Skipper.” The comm tech
announced she hadn’t waited for orders this time, and Mike liked that.

  “I have green across the board, Skipper. All outer hatched closed and sealed.”

  “Good, lay in the course for Dark Side and let’s boost.”

  Traffic control took them out of the harbor and down Plymouth Sound passed Cremyll, and Stonehouse. Off to their Port, somewhere in the darkness and swirling snow was ‘The Hoe’; where legion had it, Sir Frances Drake played bowls as the Spanish Armada sailed up the Channel to invade England. The truth of it was not so much bravado, but common sense. The tide and wind were against him, and he couldn’t have got out of the harbor right then even if he’d wanted to, much less engage the Spanish Fleet. So, he played bowls while they sailed passed and waited for the wind and tide to change in his favor, then sailed out and engaged the fleet. After that, the rest is history, as they say. Mike though about that as the inched their way down the estuary and out in the channel. They picked up a little speed here, but the digital warning beacons reminded him and all other traffic to stay in the outbound lane and try not to jump their turn. It was frustrating as he half expected to see a Naval Police Cruiser come barreling up to them. They lumped passed the Eddystone Light, then the Lizard until at last, they cleared the outer marker and they breathed a sigh of relief. The local traffic control at last gave them clearance to proceed into orbit.

  “Take us up, helmsman.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  Conner lifted the ship as he increased their over water speed, quickly passing the two hundred miles an hour mark, their five hundred Ag footprint rooster tails chasing them across the stormy Atlantic Ocean. For a moment, it ripped through the endless rows of giant combers thundering their way to the Cornish coast, then settled. Those powerful waves would smash themselves against the rocks of Cornwall as they’d done for thousands of years, and be heard five miles inland. The ship lifted, higher and higher, each of the station giving him a verbal view of their status. So far, nothing was amiss and they climbed through the cloud layer into clear sky. Orbital Center came on next, querying their IFF and Ident codes. Whatever they saw satisfied them, and they gave the helm an insertion window. After two revolutions, passing from night to day and back again, they lifted into space. Once there and nothing amiss, everyone breathed a silent sigh of relief. They done it, they’d build the ship and got her into space at last. After the elation passed, they settled down to the six hour flight to the moon, and by late evening by the ship’s clock when Conner set her down on the Gravatronics dock on Dark Side, and signaled for engines on standby.

  “I’ve got everyone in the loading bay in hard suits until we can verify that the cold plasma screen is working correctly, Skipper.”

  “Good. Have Petty Officer Wilson cross check and reported once they’ve checked and opened the loading bay doors.” Pete Standish nodded and relayed the order. Again, it was one of the systems that couldn’t be checked out in air.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Mike felt as if he should be getting into his hard suit and help them load, just like working on the Prometheus, but it wasn’t his job now. In a way he missed it, or was it that he missed Gramps still? He felt it, deep in his heart and it still hurt, but now overlaid with the learned experiences, and seeing his Grandfather’s sacrifice with different eyes now. The operation status board flashed to red as the chief evacuated air for the munitions lockers. Once they had reported in and received clearance, the giant gantry cranes moved towards the ship. They stopped and locked over the forward hull, next to the loading bays.

  “Open external hatches and commence loading.” Pete called.

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Adam answered, and keyed the blast doors open.

  In the viewer, they watched as the conveyer belts started up and cases of laser crystals for the main and secondary armament began coming aboard. The upper robot arms lowered missiles into the external racks, while fore and aft they loading the twenty-foot long Mark 42 torpedoes. Down in the torpedo rooms, rating in their hard suits used giant mechanical exoskeletons lifted the torpedo and gently placed them in the racks on each side of the long room. In all, it took three hours to load all of the munitions they could handle, and Pete was thankful when the delicate operation was completed.

  “That’s it, Lieutenant. You have the latest and greatest as they say.” The Loadmaster radioed, a smile spreading across his face. Whoever orchestrated this knew their business. Pete smiled in return and nodded his thanks before clearing the circuit.

  “Secure all ammunition lockers and torpedoes and prepare to lift the ship.” It only took twelve minutes for all departments to report that all munitions were secure and all hatches sealed and check.

  “Ready to lift, Skipper.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Pete.”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

  “Seal the ship and crosscheck all hatches for space conditions.” He barked.

  “Where to, Skipper?”

  “Not far, Conner had the coordinates to the naval dock where we should go virtually unnoticed, if my information is correct.”

  “Let’s hope so, Skipper.”

  “Sally, get onto the Duty Officer at the Royal Clarence Victualling yards, and tell him we are ready to take on supplies.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Now comes the fun part.” Was Pete’s contribution.

  “Have a reply, sir, he’s checking on our status.”

  “Fingers cross everyone.” The wait seemed longer than it actually was. Then Sally touched her earpiece, nodding and giving thumbs up.

  “Thank you, we will stand by to receive.

  “Thank God for that!” Someone muttered, bringing a laugh from the rest.

  “You can say that again.”

  “So, now we wait, sir.”

  “I’m going to get something to eat and change. You have the con, Number One.” Wiggling his shoulders to get the kinks out, Mike headed for the hatch as Pete slide into his chair. He entered his cabin, and immediately heard someone whistling.

  “What the hell?” He muttered, eyeing his Katana in its rack.

  “Thought you be here soon, Sarg... I mean, Captain. I have your evening meal ready.” The cheerful face of Jenks grinned back at him as he walked into his small dining room.

  “Jenks! What the hell are you doing here?” He demanded.

  “You don’t think I was going to let some sticky fingered Marines get his hand on your things without me checking did you?”

  “Jenks! We are in space! I can’t take you back!”

  “And this is a problem?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow at Mike.

  “Yes, you aren’t in the service anymore.”

  “So, sign me back on.”

  “Jenks!”

  “Yes, Captain?” He asked, setting out a dish covered plate and a bottle of beer. He couldn’t turn the ship around, nor could he send a shuttlecraft.

  “Jenks, I can’t take you back, and at the moment none of the shuttlecraft has the fuel to take you back.”

  “How on Earth did you manage to get Corporal Andrews to bring you aboard?”

  “I lied.”

  “Huh?”

  “I told him you wanted me to bring your stuff aboard personally.” He grinned, “beside which, I was a Marine, and you do own me for the rent and such.”

  “And you didn’t want me to get away without paying you.”

  “Right, Sarg... Skipper. By the way, congratulation on the VC, what’s the other one for?”

  “The first one should be yours and Taffy’s by rights.”

  “How do you figure that?” He asked, looking suspicious.

  “You did most of the bleeding.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, you aren't going to pin that on me. You did all the work, so it’s yours. Besides, what good would it do me and Taffy?” He had to smile. Give him a beer, food, a woman and he was happy, a medal? That was something else. “And the second VC?”

  “For services rendered to the Cr
own.”

  “I’ll just bet it was.”

  “So what the hell am I going to do with you?”

  “That’s a bloody silly question, Sarg, I mean Skipper. That’s going to take some getting used to I can tell you, and how come the name change?”

  “I’m hiding out from my bookie at the time, that’s what.”