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

by Rob Buckman

  “Great disguise.”

  “Answer the question you little prick!”

  “Well, sir, seeing the state of your quarter and your uniforms, I’d say you’d better sign me on as your batman or yeoman as they say in the Navy.” Someone knocked on the door just then.

  “Come.”

  “Skipper, the XO wishes to tell you that we are doing better than...” It was Conner. He stopped when he saw Jenks, and Mike sighed.

  “Conner, this is Ex-Corporal Jenks Silverman. Who is now, apparently, my yeoman.”

  “Oh.” He said carefully. Can’t say that I disagree, you do need someone to spruce you up a bit, sir.”

  “See, I told you.” Jenks laughed.

  “Have you two met before?”

  “No, why?” Both said at once. All he could do was grin and bear it, and shaking his head, he sat down and dug into his dinner.

  “You better sign him on and swear him in, Chief.” He grumbled. “Guess I’m stuck with him now, or at least until we get back to Earth.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Conner cocked an eye at Jenks, who just smiled back. CPO’s didn’t scare him one bit. Mike did get a good nights sleeps, as it took almost ten hours before Pete Standish called down.

  “The space tug just brought in the supply barge string, Skipped, but Jesus! There’s a lot of it.”

  “Well, we are picking up enough for a Cruiser.”

  “Skipper!” The communication tech called, “The Supply Officer is checking on H.M.S. Sunderland again.”

  “Oh boy, Conner, order all hands to assist in unloading the supplies as they arrive, just in case.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” That started a general stampede down to the flight deck as the first pallet came down the ramp.

  One after the other the tug maneuvered the barges into position for unloading before pulling the empty one back out, and the mount of supplies and equipment coming aboard staggered even Mike. Taffy was as good as his words as everything from apples to xenon gas coming aboard. They even took on two small launches, one was the Captain’s ‘Gig’, or launch, the other a general purpose scout boat. Mike doubted he’d be hearing any more grumbling about the lack of supplies from now on. During the bustle, a prissy looking Supply Office came on line and asked to speak to the Captain.

  “This is the Captain. How are you, Leftenant?”

  “A bit surprised by the re-supply order, H.M.S. Sunderland must have seen a lot of action recently.”

  “Yes, she did, but it's classified, hush, hush and all that, can’t talk about.”

  “I understand, sir.” The young officer said, giving Mike a wink. “By the look of the amount of supplies you are taking on, you are on your way again.”

  “Yes, no peace for the wicked, and all that.”

  “I understand, bit of a dirty job, what, but I expect you light Cruiser chappies are use to that, getting all the dirty jobs I mean.” He tried to look passed Mike, and he kicked himself for not putting the video on close up.

  “Yes, we do get our share of them, sort of the fleet ‘gopher’, running here and there with packages and stuff like that. Rather like glorified errand boys really.”

  “Well, it's better than sitting in a supply office all day.”

  “I can imagine, boring?” He asked, sounding as if he cared.

  “To say the least.”

  “You need to put in for a transfer to a combat unit.”

  “Tried that, no luck, they say I’m doing such a good job here.” The Leftenant sighed, looking enviously around. “I say, you do seem to have a large number of female crew aboard.”

  “Yes, it’s Admiral Rawlings idea to put the females in one ship and keep them out the way, if you know what I mean.” He gave the man a broad wink.

  “Yes, true, I hear there’s a move afoot to get them out of warship all together and assign them to shore duty only.”

  “Yes, I heard that as well, this is just a compromise for the moment.”

  “Can’t say I approve of females on combat ships, they should be at home tending the children and all that.”

  “Yes, there is something in what you say, Leftenant. Thanks for all your assistance.

  He chuckled and winked, and Mike had to smile, wishing he could strangle the silly twit. It was no wonder they’d kept him in supply, were he couldn’t do any harm. In all it took three hours to unload all the supplies, and by the time the last barge pulled out, they had boxes and crates packed into every conceivable empty space. In some places, they floored the passageways and walked on top of them. Even the Bridge didn’t escape the tidal wave.

  “Feast or famine, a Skipper.” Pete muttered under his breath as he walked passed. “God only knows where we are going to put all this stuff.”

  “Oh, I think we can find a place for everything, once we get it unpacked.” Sighting pressing business elsewhere, he electronically signed for the supplies, deliberately scribbling his names so it was unreadable. Twig gave him a salute and cut the connected at last, and Mike sat back with a sigh.

  “Let's get the hell out of here, Number One.”

  “Where to, Skipper?” Pete Standish asked.

  “First stop, Jupiter, and the re-fueling station. We need to fill our hydrogen, air and water tanks.”

  “Aye-aye, sir - helm, set course for fueling station on Titan - Nav, check the weather report.”

  “Aye, sir - no large sunspot activity reported and no solar or magnetic storms expected for the next eighteen hours.”

  “Anything from NEAT or Inter-system?” He asked off-handily.

  “Already checked, sir. Nothing to report from either of them, sir.” Space debris and wandering asteroids were always a concern for any ship plying the space ways between Earth and the top of the gravity well. Anything large was tagged with a warning beacon, but there was always the chance something might come wandering out of deep space unexpectedly. That's why the Navy kept a round the clock watch on all ‘Near Earth Asteroid Tracking’ out to the Kuiper belt while Inter-system kept watch for anything between the top of the well and near Earth.

  “Thank you Nav - helm, take us out.”

  “Pete, anything in ‘Notice to Mariner’s?”

  “No, sir, nothing for us to worry about. NEAT is reporting three asteroids, but the Navy clearance team is marking them for removal to the solar furnace for processing.

  “Very good, let’s take her out.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Once outside near Earth space, they could pick their course to Jupiter and the re-fueling station much like the ship Captain of old did once they’d left port. It also gave Adam a chance to open the engines up and see what she could do.

  “You have the con Mr. Standish.” Mike stood up and yawned, stretching his arms overhead.

  “Aye-aye, Skipper, I have the con.”

  “Take a break as soon as you can, Pete, we both need to be fresh for tomorrow.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  The normal Earth-Jupiter run was about three days, and they did it in just under two and a half, but as Mike cautioned, they didn’t open the engines up all the way. They were in luck when they reached Titan, and didn’t have to wait in line to re-fuel. The arms of the giant ‘Chicksan’ loading nozzles reached out the moment they docked with the orbiting platform. The gas and water transfer hoses automatically aligned themselves and attach to loading ports in the hull like some mechanical octopus. For the first few hours, the engineering crew watched the filling operation like hawks, waiting to see if anything leaked. Filling the space between the outer hull and the secondary bulkhead took the longest, but a water leak there wasn’t as critical as a hydrogen leak. Gradually the space between the hulls filled and slowly turned to ice as the hot water cooled. This was part of their hull armor as well as their water supply and final radiation shield, as in space, ice is just as effective against micrometeorites and missiles as armor plate. It also acted as a radiation barrier and coolant, as heat buildup was a matter of great co
ncern in a sealed system. The monitors inside the secondary hull showed no leaks as they topped off each section, and Mike nodded to himself. The yard crew was as good as their word. They’d done an excellent job on her. Adam reported from Engineering that all their air, oxygen, and other gas tanks were full, and that the environmental system was now fully operational. That was good news to everyone, as even on the short trip out the ship had started to heat up. Now they had full coolant tanks the circulating system could utilize the ‘black-body’ radiators around the stern to dump away the waste heat.

  “Where to, Skipper?”

  “Trans-Sol orbit and the fleet, I have to report to Admiral Rawlings.”

  “Aye-aye, sir, setting course for the flagship.” As per his order, he was reporting in when the ship was operational, but he knew the ship was far from ready for action.

  He hoped he'd get a chance for a shakedown cruise and space trials before they assigned him to something. With the whole crew working frantically, they finally cleared the passageway outside his cabin so he didn’t bang his head or bark his shins as he stepped out. It would take time to sort out all the boxes and crates, and he wondered ideally if he’d every get this vessel looking like a naval warship. Maybe she’d go on looking like a flying flophouse the whole of her career. While in transit to make orbit and come up to the fleet he wrote out his report, or two of them, one official one, and the other unofficial, for the Admiral’s eye only. He felt it only fair to apprise Admiral Rawlings of what had happened, and what actions he’d taken to get her into space. At least that way he’d be forewarned should anyone question him.

  “Comm!” He said, touching his ear.

  “Comm aye, Skipper.”

  “My cabin in five.”

  “On my way, Skipper.” Mike rubbed his tired eye, wishing he could go to bed right now, but his still have two, maybe three hours of paperwork to do yet. A knock at his door interrupted his thought.

  “Come.” It was his communication tech.

  “Reporting as ordered, sir.” He came to attention and saluted.

  “Drop the salute from now on.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I need you to send this message packet to the CIC Earth Fleet by tight beam transmission the moment you are able.”

  “We should be in range for a whisker laser to reach them in about four hours, Skipper.”

  “Good, full encryption and Admirals eye only.”

  “Want me to booby trap it, sir?” It wasn’t a funny or idle question. Mike thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. Too many people seemed to know more about what was going on than he did.

  “Yes. Tag it to self destruct if anyone except the Admiral tried to open in.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to suggest a worm as well with a transmit back to us. That way we’d know who tried to open it, sir.”

  “Good idea. Do it. Dismissed.” After he left, Mike started on the paperwork, helped along by a few cups of coffee provided by Jenks at regular intervals.

  After two hours he gave up and went to bed barley able to keep his eyes open. Unbeknown to him, Jenks came in, pulled the blanket up, and switched the light off.

  “He asleep?” Conner asked, meeting Jenks as he exited the cabin.

  “That he is, Chief, sleeping like a baby.

  “Thank all the saints for that, the lads been on his feet for three days straight.” Jenks nodded.

  “Seen him do that a few times, I can tell you.”

  “Where do you know him from?”

  “The first VC,” he stopped and scratched his chin, “or maybe the second.”

  “That would depend on what order he got them in.” Conner chuckled. “Want to tell me about it over a drop?”

  “Well, would you believe it, a CPO I’m actually going to like.” Jenks chuckled.

  “You’re in the Navy now my son, not the flipping Marines.” Conner laughed as they headed to his quarters and a drink. He dearly loved to hear the story behind his Captain. A reply to Mike’s comm message was waiting for him when he entered the Bridge the next morning, yawning and sucking down hot coffee.

  “Signal for the flagship, Skipper.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “It's just a set of coordinates, sir.” For a moment, they traded puzzled look, then the XO shrugged. “Looks like we are required to park there and for you to go to the flagship by shuttle.” Pete gave him a puzzled look.

  “You’ve got me by the handle, XO.”

  “Give them to the navigator, sparks.” The comm tech passed them over and Janice quickly ran them though her systems.

  “Umm.”

  “What umm, Jan?”

  “These coordinates put us several hundred thousand miles from where the fleet is stationed, Skipper,” she paused, “I’d say just outside of sensor range at a guess.” Again, they traded raised eyebrows.

  “Make it so, helm.”

  “Aye-aye, XO,” Sally Goldman answered, “setting course for new coordinates.” Two hours later, she announced they were coming up on the position.

  “Half speed, helm.” Pete Standish ordered.

  “Aye, sir, half speed.”

  “Bring her to a dead stop once we reach the waypoint, helm.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “XO to Captain.” Pete called down to Mike’s cabin.

  “Captain-aye.”

  “We’ll be on station in less than twenty minutes, Skipper.”

  “Copy that. Have my launch standing by just in case.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Mike stood up, grabbed his cap, and started towards the door.

  “Oye! Where do you think you are going?” Jenks asked, cocking an eyebrow at him seeing Mike heading towards the door.

  “Over to the Flagship. Why?” He shot Jenks a hard look. Military protocol was not one of Jenks strong points.

  “Not bloody likely, not dressed like that, you ain’t!” He glared at Mike. “Stone-a-crows, Skipper, you can’t go seeing an Admiral dressed like a dockyard lay about, now can you?”

  “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” He asked indignantly.

  “Looks like you just stepped out of a pawn shop is all.”

  “And I suppose you want me to dress up like a bloody dog’s dinner!” He snapped back.

  “You are the Captain, and if you want to go running around meeting Admirals and what not in your underwear, that’s up to you.” He sniffed as he pulled Mike’s number one uniform out of the wall locker. Mike growled and started unfastening his flight jacket, fuming, not sure if he should be mad at Jenks or himself for not realizing he should change. Once down to his underwear, he reached for the pants.

  “No you don’t! Not before you’ve showered.” Jenks snatched the pants away and folded them over his arm, brushing off imaginary lint. They glared at each other for a moment, trying to stare each other down. At last Mike gave up, and with a growled stormed off to the shower, muttering under his breath.

  “On station and waiting your orders, Captain.” Pete Standish stood up and put his cap on, saluting.

  “Carry on, Number One, and no need for that.” He did return the salute.

  “I disagree, Skipper, not when you are wearing those.” His eyes travelled down to the two little colored ribbons over Mike right breast pocket.

  “Forgot about those.”

  “I don’t think anyone on the flagship will.” He chuckled.

  “I’m going to kill that little twit, the first chance I get.”

  “Which little twit would that be, Skipper?”

  “My new yeoman, that’s who.”

  “Seems to me he’d done a right bang up job, sir.” Pete kept a straight face as he said it, gauging his Captain mood correctly. “Your launch is standing by, sir.”

  “Let’s get on with it. You have the con, Mr. Standish.”

  “Aye, sir. I have the con.” Pete saluted again, and reluctantly, Mike returned it, half tempted to go back to his quarter and change.

  �
�Take care of her, Pete, and see if you can at least clear some of the more critical passageways out, I keep hitting my head on the damn pipes.” He rubbed the top of his head, hearing Pete Standish chuckle.

  “Aye-aye, I’ll see what I can do, Skipper.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE: SEALED ORDERS

  Looking out of the forward screen on the launch as it approached the fleet, he saw it in all its glory. Five Nelson Class Battleships, six fleet Carriers, four heavy Cruisers and a whole array of less ships, from light Cruisers to Destroyers down to dozens of one and two man fighters. It was impressive to say the least, almost breathtaking, but now he looked at it with a different eyes than when he’d first seen it when he arrived on the crew transfer shuttle. Much of the luster was gone, and instead of looking at it with eye of a recently minted Midshipman-cum-Ensign, he saw it differently. The fleet looked tired, like some old maid trying to pass herself off as someone younger. Even so, it was a grand illusion, and to some lesser worlds it might look like the Royal Navy of old. This wasn’t the first time in its history this had happened, but in the past, political and financial woes were the cause. This time Mike knew where to lay the blame, not that it helped, as he was powerless to do anything about it. Back at the beginning of the twenty-first century, it was said that the National Health Service had sunk the proud Royal Navel, something no enemy had ever been able to accomplish. But that was then, but the new generation of politician were no better, squandering vast amount of money of social services and give away programs just to get votes, all at the expense of the military. The cry from Whitehall was the Great Brittan no longer needed a Navy, air force, or army and that the days of man fighting man were a thing of the past.