by James Edward
“I’ll talk to ‘Grandpa.’ He has a few very capable people, and they can also be used for security in a pinch,” Lyn said as she looked off into the distance. “I’ll get the show on the road. File everything into that secure vault under the table before you leave. It will be protected there in case of a mishap.”
She winked at Ray and sauntered out the door. Ray spent a few more hours trying to build a framework for the company and then decided to call it a night. It was just before two in the morning when he finally went to sleep.
CHAPTER 2
Going Fishing
BRUCE DUELY SAT ON THE gunwale of his charter fishing boat, the Ocean Foam, and sipped his beer. He took in his surrounding as he was tied up to the wharf—the smells of the saltwater, the cries of the gulls, and the gentle slosh of the waves as they slapped against the pilings. The sun was hot, and a fishy, old seaweed smell floated through the air. His charter boat was and old and warn, with the paint peeling, and the chrome was showing signs of chipping, but it was his. He himself was a little old and worn, the sun bleaching his clothes while it darkened his skin, but he thought to himself that at least he was still a captain. Two years ago, he was the captain of a fleet starship but was discharged after an incident. The old offer, “Take the honorable discharge or take a court martial and probable imprisonment,” was not much of a choice really. So off he had gone, and with his pension and discharge pay, he bought the Foam and settled into retirement by bringing rich people out to catch the big game fish off the coast, or to provide a getaway for them and their girlfriends, away from photographers and wives.
There were times when the sun had gone down and out on the ocean the stars came out in all their brightness that he missed the bridge of a warship pushing through space. The steady hum of the hyper engines. The quiet swish of the doors and the beeps and chirps on the consuls as the crew went through their paces. But now that was replaced by the throb of diesel engines and the loud talk and laughter of crew and paying guests. I suppose I’m content, he mused while emptying a bottle and opening another. At least I don’t have to follow some ridiculous doctrine that some asshole admiral put forth. I just have to smile at the customers and make sure that there are fish on the line.
Bruce sat for a while, looking out toward the breakwater. He wondered when the next customer was going to appear. There was an appointment for a charter, so right now he was fueled and baited; it was just waiting and sailing left. There were going to be four of them, two men and two women. The odd thing was they didn’t seem to be that interested in the fishing but just getting out on the salt chuck. When he had asked for a particular preference for game fish, the answer had been, “Oh anything that will put up a fight.”
Down the pier he heard the clank of the chain-link gate slamming closed and the clomping of someone walking on the wooden boardwalk toward his slip. He swung around and watched a man and a woman walking toward him. Both had the bearing of erect posture and authority. There was a casual surefootedness and confidence in their stride. They were wearing casual clothes, but even these looked new and unworn. He figured they were used to a uniform and weren’t used to casual or at least didn’t have their casual clothes with them. They talked in low voices as they made their way to the side of his boat. Fleet, he thought, or at least they were Fleet or military considering their stride and posture. This made him wary; his last meeting with Fleet and the ground forces was unpleasant, and he was considering telling them that the charter was cancelled but then he needed the money and a charter was a charter. He could get a bad reputation if he cancelled at short notice.
The man and the woman made their way to the back of the boat and approached Bruce. The man was approximately two meters tall, of about forty-five years of age. He had a strong jaw, brown, piercing eyes, and tanned skin and was well muscled. He carried himself with an ease that denoted speed, confidence, and power. She was about 1.6 meters tall and not hard to look at. She was in casual clothing that didn’t try to highlight her body, but what was there looked good to Bruce.
“Can I help you?” Bruce asked.
“Are you the captain of the Ocean Foam?” came the reply. “We have a charter with the boat in an hour and wanted to be here early.”
“Yep.” Bruce stood and shook hands with each of them. “Captain Bruce Duely. I answer to Cap or Bruce. You may as well come aboard and have a beer.”
“Thanks,” the man replied as he helped the woman aboard. “I’m Mark Dufferin, and this is Gemma Standly. We’re looking forward to some good fishing later.”
When they were both settled in the deck chairs, they accepted their beers and sat looking out past the breakwater. They were well aware that Bruce was sizing them up, and Bruce was that they were doing the same.
“If we are lucky,” Bruce said while they sipped on their beers, “the red fins will be running. They usually grow to 150 to 300 kilos, so a long fight if we hook one.”
“Looking forward to the challenge. I have never hooked a red fin. I hope that I can handle a 300 kg fighting fish,” Mark said.
“With my gear, you will do very well,” Bruce reassured him. He turned with a wink to Gemma and stated, “General rule is that the guests spell each other off if the fish is too big. Will you be able to handle a 300 kg fish, ma’am?”
Gemma smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth, and she looked even more fetching. “I will handle what needs to be handled, Cap.”
Bruce laughed and reached into the cooler for another beer. He made the offer to the two guests, who declined, and popped the top off. Savoring the taste, he looked at them as they were relaxing. He noticed that they occasionally looked around, especially back the way they came. These two were definitely serious players in some sort of game.
“Any idea when the other two guests will be arriving? I would like to catch the tide to clear the rip at the breakwater. Makes for easier boating,” Bruce stated.
“They should be here anytime now. The last I talked to them, they were only twenty minutes out,” Mark said. In reality, they were sitting in the parking lot watching for any odd activity that would mark that Mark and Gemma were being tailed.
“Okay. I’ll get the boat ready, and we can leave as soon as they arrive,” Bruce said. “The beer is in the cooler; just help yourself. Out here with the sun you have to keep hydrated.” He then rose and climbed up into the flying bridge to check his charts for current and tide movements. He would have to contact the marine authority to file a fishing plan before they embarked.
After he had gone into the bridge, Mark raised a quizzical eyebrow toward Gemma. “What do you think?”
“He looks capable.” She shrugged. “He is after all ex Fleet and a captain of a heavy at the time. Must piss him off that he’s running a charter and not a deep-space heavy. We’ll have to see what his mind-set is like now. It’s been almost two and a half years since he was on a space bridge.”
“Yep, we’ll see soon. Here come Sean and Lyn now,” Mark said as he pointed with his chin in the direction of the chain-link gate.
In the distance, a man and a woman appeared at the gate. They were also of military bearing. He was a little shorter than Mark but with a powerful chest and appeared to be in tip-top condition. His skin color was that of drifting sand, which identified him as a Gobi 5 native. He looked around, taking in everything as he walked slowly with confidence toward the Ocean Foam. Sean noticed the relaxed way that the others were sitting. He looked back to seeing if anyone was following him. They took in the man washing his boat two slips over and the muttered curses emanating from the boat that had its engine hatch open. They were doing engine repairs, judging from the grunts and clanging going on. All seemed as it should, but Sean was in the business of being careful. Lyn Dawson was lithe and seemed to glide down the dock. She was a tall, willowy brunette that appeared in better shape than she put on. Both she and Sean approached the edge of the boat.
>
“Permission to come aboard, sir?”
Bruce had watched the couple as they entered the gate. He had noticed the care in which they took in their surroundings. He was beginning to believe that this was some sort of covert operation. Too much was out of place for a normal fishing charter. He opened a drawer and palmed a small but—at a close range—effective blaster. Sliding it into his pants and pulling a shirt over it, he called down.
“By all means, sir. It’s your charter.” His asking for permission all but confirmed to Bruce that he was Star Fleet of some sort. “If one of you will get the bowline and one the stern line, we can cast off and get steaming.”
Sean went to the bow and untied the mooring line, while Gemma undid the stern line and tossed into the boat. They both scrambled aboard as Bruce started the motor and swung the bow to clear the slip.
They were twenty minutes past the breakwater when Mark went up to the bridge and sat in one of the chairs on the flying bridge. The other three had disappeared into the cabin. Mark inquired as to the heading and timing before they would have to get busy preparing the lines. After Bruce told him that it would take at least another twenty minutes to get to the fishing grounds, a silence fell on the bridge.
Mark cleared his throat and turned to Bruce. “Maybe we should go through the routine for this type of fishing. You have probably sized us up as beginners and not very knowledgeable in fighting big game fish, but let’s just say that it was on all our bucket lists to give it a try and enjoy some sun and fresh air.”
“The fishing is easy. I will bait the hooks using fish that are in a tank in the transom. You, as a group, will decide on your rotation in the chairs, usually a half an hour at a time as the sun gets hot. When we get a fish on, the people that are free will wind in the rods and help strap the hot rod to the one in the chair. I will be up here shouting instructions and controlling the run of the fish from here. It’s simple really,” Bruce said
“Sounds simple, almost as precise as a bridge on a star ship when a proximity alarm goes off,” Mark said as he studied Bruce.
“Think I will take your advice and go hydrate up!” Mark said as he slapped the arm of the chair. Rising, he gave Bruce a nod and slid down the ladder to the deck and disappeared inside the cabin. Mark watched him go and mused, Yeah, these guys are fishing, but I don’t know if it’s for fish.
“How we doing in here?” Mark asked as he slid the door closed and looked at the three others.
“It’s all been swept with no bugs or any other device,” Lyn said. “It’s all clear, and we’ll be able to contact the ship if needed.”
“Well, we’ll keep to the program. I have a feeling that he knows we’re not real fishermen.”
About thirty minutes later, Bruce got some beeps from his fish finder. He studied the screen and announced that these were the fish they were looking for. He ran down the stairs, pulled the top off the tank at the stern, and started baiting the hooks. He instructed the two men to start pulling the lines out so that the water drag would pull the lines and bait further out. He wasn’t surprised when Mark took the chair.
For about forty minutes, nothing happened, and Sean was in the seat when the reel stated to chirp and then howl as a red fin took the bait and ran with it. Bruce shouted down to the “crew” to reel in the spare rods and clip the harness to the chair and Sean. He pushed the throttle open to set the hook and then backed off as he swung the boat to line up with the running fish. Sean was straining to hold the rod steady and get control of the reel.
For the next forty-five minutes, they fought that fish. Sean played out, and Mark jumped into the chair to take over. Lyn laughed and said, “It’s always the men that claim the prize.” Bruce stated that some of the fisherwomen would run rings around some men in that chair. Mark offered to give up the chair, but Lyn just wiggled a beer bottle at him and sat back to watch the fight. The fight continued for fifteen more minutes. It was soon obvious that the fish was tiring, and they brought it alongside. Bruce threw the harpoon into the head of the fish, and soon they had it hauled on board.
Bruce pulled the tape from the drawer and handed an end to Gemma while motioning her to go to the tail of the fish. Setting the tape to the front, Bruce whistled.
“That’s 2.4 meters, which if my calculations are correct makes it about 210 kg.” Bruce smiled up at them. “Pretty impressive fish and a good fight.”
Sean and Mark were sitting in the chairs while the girls stood between them, giving high fives to each other. Both Mark and Sean admitted that the workout was better than the ones that they were doing in the gym, and tomorrow there would be sore muscles in areas that they didn’t know about until then.
Lyn offered to get the beers while Bruce set to work gutting the fish. The men sat and marveled at the efficiency that Bruce showed as he dressed the red fin with a practiced ease. Lyn came out with the beers and passed them around to the men and Gemma, putting the last one on the deck beside Bruce. They sat around toasting the fishermen, fish, and boat, laughing and taking pictures of each beside the fish in various poses.
“When we get to the dock, we will get pictures of you all standing next to the fish when it’s hanging so that everyone can see the size of it,” Bruce said. “It’s all part of the package when you catch one. You also get choice cuts to take home, and the rest of the fish is processed at the dock facility. If you want, we can skin it and will get it mounted for a trophy wall. By rule, the best part of the fish is reserved for you all, the next part is sold to the restaurants, and the rest is canned and given to the needy. What’s left is ground and turned into fish meal for the organic farmers inshore.”
They agreed that they would take the choice cuts to a restaurant to have cooked, and the rest was given to Bruce to deal with. As to picture taking, they all declined.
“Okay, fair enough,” Bruce said as he sat back eying them. “So perhaps we can get to the real business on hand. You are all military, you really have no interest in fishing, you are constantly on alert, and you have searched this boat from stem to stern. I have a feeling that I am either bait or the prize, but either way I am in some covert operation. And by the looks being passed back and forth, I would conclude that I just hit the mark.”
“Well no one said that you were easy.” Mark smiled.
“This is for my peace of mind at the moment.” Bruce pulled the blaster from under his shirt and pointed it at four guests. “So let’s just stay relaxed and talk like we are having fun.”
“Oh, we are relaxed, Mr. Duely, or should I say Fleet Captain Duely of the heavy cruiser Cesare.” Mark leaned back and sipped his beer. The other three look equally relaxed as well. “If we wanted to, Captain, we would have disarmed you a long time ago, and even now before you could move your hand, Lyn would have you disarmed. But for the time being, we will let you have that security of the gun.”
Bruce looked speculatively at Lyn. She appeared relaxed, but years of experience in reading crews showed him that she was ready to spring at the slightest movement on his part.
“Fair Dinkum then, if you know my past, then you also know that I do not hesitate, especially if my life is at risk. The ocean is vast, and bodies disappear out here often. As for Lyn, she should do the respectful thing and step back and this time relax. As you say, Mark, you could have disarmed me any time, so I will take it on good faith that dumping me overboard is not the motive here.” Bruce motioned with his gun for Lyn to move. “Let’s all get comfortable. Soon I will have to get underway to beat the tides.”
“Okay, I am Mark Dufferin, former captain of the frigate Chelsie. This is Sean Wheatley, former major of AGW Special Tactical Force, as was Lyn Dawson and Gemma Standly, former XO of the cruiser Onyx. Each of us has been removed from rank and position in a carefully orchestrated move to weaken Star Fleet,” Mark said while he glanced at each of them. “And we are not alone. You were also knocked out of Fleet al
ong with various others. There are common threads in all of this, a certain admiral, mothballing Fleet ships, the removal of competent officers—and I stress competent. Promotions above rank and some really heavy-handed political maneuvering in the assembly.”
“Yeah, I saw some of that before I was sidelined,” Bruce agreed. “You know why I retired, I suppose?”
Mark hesitated a moment with a faraway look and then refocused. “You were asked to retire due to an incident in the Ursus system involving a freighter. You were accused of firing on the freighter with no warning. Something to do with a faulty targeting system, your story, deliberate piracy according to the freighter captain. Subsequent investigation proved that the firing system was tampered with, but by that time, the damage was done and the admiralty wash their hands of it. A certain admiral called ‘Forget It’ or Fuggoret lobbied for a dishonorable discharge, but another senior admiral turned it into an honorable.”
“Right on all accounts, except the tampering was done by a trusted senior officer on the Cesare who happened to be my XO at the time and was subsequently promoted to my position as captain. Forget It actually laughed at me while I was getting my paperwork signed, said that Fleet had no place for fools like me that couldn’t conform to the new era. I had no idea what that meant, but it took all my effort to control myself not to punch his lights out. I suppose that is why he has that monster of an aide standing next to him.” Bruce grunted. “So is it the same story with all of you as well?”
“Not all; three of us were also drummed out by Forget It. All for the same type of incidents. Mark for entering restricted space, faulty nav equipment, also found to be preprogrammed sabotaged. Gemma for refusing to issue orders to fire on a passenger ship. Me for a failed op that was a setup, where I lost men,” Sean said. “Lyn is a different story.”
“I’m a spook.” she smiled.
