Uncommon Purpose (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 1)

by P J Strebor

  He glanced around the table. Meta counted the floor squares. Ozzie read from his comp pad with eyes long since turned red. Moe snoozed, her head resting on the table.

  “Anyone up for a Q & A session?” Nathan asked.

  “God no,” Meta groaned. “Not another one?”

  Moe awoke with a start. “Is it time yet?” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “No. Nathan wants to do another Q&A,” Ozzie said.

  “Good idea,” Moe said. “A Q&A will sharpen us up before we report aboard. Who’s going first?”

  Stony silence met Moe’s suggestion until Meta smirked.

  “All right teacher's pet, I've got one for you,” Meta said to Nathan. “Who is Aletheia's Friend?”

  Nathan and Moe pointed at Ozzie. He leaned back, placed his hands behind his head and grinned.

  “Hook me up to the AVU and find out,” Ozzie said.

  “Yeah, you Thracians are such religious zealots you can probably beat the unbeatable lie detector,” Meta said.

  “Yeah right,” Moe said, “and Salamisians never lie.”

  “Hey,” Meta said, “I don't come from a garden world like Kastoria. We Salamisians have a history of fighting for our very survival on a daily basis. So yes, we might tell the odd fib.”

  “The odd fib?” Ozzie shook his head. “You almost got expelled for violations of the honor code.”

  “That was never proved,” Meta said.

  “And all of those insubordination charges were misunderstandings?” Ozzie asked.

  “I don't like taking orders from idiots,” she said with finality. “A condition we all share.” Her index finger jabbed at Nathan. “Especially you.”

  “I have no idea what you're talking about, Meta,” Nathan said. He had a moment of reflection. People really do change. Meta was the most prominent example of change he had ever seen. The wild woman of Salamis had matured in the last three and a half years. They all had. It had taken years of merciless teasing but Ozzie, a native of the Athenian core world of Thrace, had finally been convinced to use contractions. Even Moe had shed the last of her tomboy behavior. Damn they’re good people.

  Nathan checked the time and perked up. Not long now.

  ***

  First Lieutenant Jakovich slid down the ladder onto tier two before striding to where Sergeant Redpath guarded the monitor’s port side, deck two gangway. Redpath reminded her of the proverbial immovable object. Well within the height limit for attack boats, his broad shoulders and superbly robust physique exemplified the image expected for Marine Special Forces. Now that’s how a Spartan should look. As Jakovich approached him, Redpath gestured with his eyes to a point over her right shoulder. Jakovich resisted the urge to glance back, waiting until she turned to stand next to Redpath.

  Four middies approached the boat in an orderly if not precise formation. They had eyes only for Truculent.

  “God damned grommits,” Redpath growled under his breath.

  The sergeant did not dislike middies, exactly, but he showed little respect for anyone who had not proved themselves in combat.

  “No eating the youngsters on their first day, Rusty,” she warned playfully.

  Redpath snorted. “Aye-aye, LT.”

  Jakovich could scarcely believe how young they looked. She knew they were senior middies but the ridiculous youthfulness of the lead middy made her wonder. Something in the young man’s gait singled him out from the rest. A combat veteran would walk that way but not a middy.

  When the middy drew closer she saw the truth in his eyes. Yes, it makes sense now. Those soft gray eyes had seen death at close quarters. His gaze locked onto her as he snapped to attention.

  “Midshipmen Hayden, Kaspowitz, Okuma and Telford reporting for assignment to the Monitor Truculent, ma’am.”

  In no way did his voice match the fresh faced youth who stood before her.

  “At ease, ladies and gentlemen.” Jakovich took the comp pad from him, slipping it into the mainframe port. As the verification process took place young Telford made the mistake of eyeballing Sergeant Redpath. Technically a midshipman outranked anyone below the rank warrant officer. Jakovich knew Redpath did not care for such distinctions. Confirming Telford’s orders she returned his pad, which now contained his roster and berth allocation.

  A vigorous tapping on Telford’s shoulder diverted his attention. The black haired girl behind him pointed to the entrance to the portside torpedo bay.

  Jakovich followed the middies stares. Displaying her usual swagger, Commodore Donatella Waugh marched into the forward bay. The middies stared after her. After all, a living legend did not cross their paths every day. The youngest captain in Monitor Corps history, Waugh had rewritten the rules for combat sorties on the Frontier. Her tactics were required reading at the academy.

  “Ma'am, that was Commodore Waugh wasn't it?”

  Jakovich eyed the middy’s nametag. “Yes, Miss Okuma, it certainly was.”

  The middies grinned like idiots.

  “The commodore believes staff officers should not spend all of their time behind a desk. As such she leads by example, taking her boat out on regular patrols like every other skipper.”

  “The commodore is commanding Truculent, ma’am?” Okuma asked.

  Jakovich nodded. “Thumb please,” she said.

  Telford placed his thumb on the DNA verifier. It beeped once and presented a single green light.

  Telford snapped to attention. “Permission to go aboard, ma’am.”

  “Permission granted. Carry on.”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am.”

  He took three precise paces to her right then marched along the gangway as if he had done it a hundred times before. I'll have to keep my eye on that one.

  ***

  Passing through the outer hatch Nathan ducked to avoid hitting the low overhead. The boat's sleek profile enhanced her stealth capability and high speed through normal space. The crew paid the price for her impressive credentials.

  At a slight crouch he made his way through the corridors, falling into the rhythm of crab-walking through the open pressure hatchways. As the officer’s quarters came into view he stopped, leaned against the bulkhead and took a deep breath.

  After a moment to calm his nerves he examined his comp pad. Confirming his berth he turned left onto the longitudinal corridor stopping when he reached the hatch marked 2/29. He tapped the call button and waited.

  When the hatch slid aside and he stepped sideways over the lip into the room. A spare room, smaller than a middy's quarters at the academy. Two permanent tiered racks stood against one wall with two lockers in the far corner. Against the opposite wall were two fold-down racks locked into position against the bulkhead. Opposite the lockers, squeezed into the space between the computer station and the wall, was his footlocker. Nothing better illustrated the cramped conditions aboard a monitor like fold-down racks in a room measuring three-square meters. The Corps preferred to think of the quarters as snug.

  An officer stood at the far locker and glanced at him.

  “You must be Telford.” He couldn't have been more than two or three years Nathan’s senior.

  “Aye, sir.” Nathan forgot himself and snapped to attention.

  The ensign winced when Nathan's head struck the overhead. “You can cut that out for a start. Middies are reputed to have few enough brain cells without battering what little you have.”

  Nathan rubbed his head and smiled awkwardly to cover his embarrassment.

  Doubled over, the ensign offered his hand. Nathan kept his grip firm but unchallenging.

  “Ensign Leonard Saunders,” he said. He motioned Nathan to the room's single chair. The ensign sat on the lower bunk. “For the next ninety days I will be your running mate. Outside this hatch it’s ensign, Mister Saunders, or yes sir. Inside the hatch and in private, Leo. We aren’t as spit and polish as our senior colleagues in the Athenian Naval Service but we work in far
closer proximity to one another than in any other warship type. So try to get the stick out of your backside and relax. Understood?”

  “Aye-aye …” Nathan caught himself in time. “I've got it, Leo. I'm Nathan.”

  “Very well, Nathan. You've been on a monitor before?”

  “Third year cruise on the monitor Audacious. Hot racking with the ratings.”

  “Ah, I remember it well. Makes our little digs here seem quite luxurious don't you think?” His accent sounded Republican but had a languid quality common to the worlds of the outer core.

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right, Nathan, in case you haven't researched this cruise in finite detail, here are some of the rules.” Nathan had done his homework but remained silent. “When not in your rack you will secure it to the bulkhead. You have access to the boat's database through the terminal. Your running schedule is posted on the database so familiarize yourself with it. The showers and head are forward, Wardroom sternward, both off the longitudinal corridor. Free time is a rarity for the crew but middies will be given ample downtime to continue your studies. Once we get underway someone, I’m not sure who at the moment, will give you the grand tour.

  “One last thing.” His mouth tightened. “Do not, under any circumstances, borrow my socks. I had a roomy on my first deployment who frequently borrowed my socks. It drove me bloody crazy, so don't do it.” He winked. “Any questions?”

  “May I ask what your postings are?”

  “Apart from keeping you out of mischief I am the boat's Auxiliary Operations Officer and fourth assistant engineer.”

  With a compliment of only ninety-seven everyone multitasked. Nathan’s eyes tracked to the silver wings above Leo’s left pocket.

  “You're a flyer?”

  “Flight Training School class of 317. I graduated forty-fifth in my year. They offered me a posting to a picket boat in the outer core or this,” he said, raising his hands. “Sit in orbit around a safe Athenian world or serve with Commodore Donatella Waugh. A no-brainer, right?”

  Nathan nodded. “Have you served with the commodore for long?”

  “Third cruise,” he said. “Aren't you the lucky middy? Not only do you get to go on an actual Combat Interdiction Patrol but your first skipper is Donatella Waugh.”

  Nathan felt his idiotic grin return.

  “Have you ever – ” Nathan stopped as Leo held his hand to his right ear.

  Leo made a short swallowing motion. “Saunders.” Leo nodded as the thousand-meter stare set in. The hands free larynx and audio implants were standard issue for monitor crews. Nathan could hardly wait to get his. “Aye-aye, sir. On my way. Saunders out.” From his locker he retrieved a sealed container and removed the external communications set. “I assume you’ve used these before?”

  Nathan inserted the earpiece into his right ear and strapped the larynx mike to his throat.

  “A tip. Never remove the earpiece, even when showering. Don’t fail to answer a hail. There are no excuses.”

  “I’ve got it, Leo.”

  “Very well, settle in and I will catch up with you later.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “No problem.” Leo paused briefly at the open hatch as if he had something further to say, reconsidered, then left. Nathan couldn’t be certain if he caught a brief touch of concern on Leo's face.

  CHAPTER 25

  Date: 5th June, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent. Moving out of the system.

  By the time Truculent had ascended from Carina and left orbit Nathan had squared his kit away. He brushed at an imaginary spot on the gray colored academy flight suit. The soft soled footwear felt springy underfoot.

  Nathan tied into the computer and memorized the names, ranks and faces of every crewmember. The exercise had reaped benefits during his third year cruise convincing him of its worth. With that task completed he examined the midshipman’s running sheet. Nothing until boat orientation at 1400 hours.

  Nathan fell onto his rack, impatience eating at him. Monitors scoured the frontier looking for trouble. Pruessen trouble. This is a lucky boat. Maybe, if her luck holds, we’ll see some action. Kill some Pruessen swine even if they're only headhunter raiders.

  He stood and paced the room before dropping onto his rack. Nathan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Calm down, relax,” he said as he began the meditation exercise. Although he tried to reach a level of controlled relaxation he felt hindered by a curious sensation. I’m aboard a monitor, surrounded by professionals, so why is Prep warning me. It didn’t burn as it would if he faced imminent, life-threatening danger but pulsed with a slight, but unmistakably steady hum. Prep mark two?

  Nathan’s eyes snapped open. His body buzzed like a plebe on his first day at the mount. Me, of all people.

  He pushed away from his rack carefully stooping to clear the low overhead. Nathan locked the rack into position before stepping into the corridor. With the crew at their duty stations preparing for hyper ingression he encountered no one.

  The uniformly gray hatches passed by, identified only by stenciled numbers. A locked hatch stood before him, emblazoned with bold red lettering: Maneuvering. Authorized Personnel Only. A drop shaft marked DS 2/5 lay open beside the hatch.

  Nathan reached into the shaft through the meter wide portal. His skin tingled as he passed through the environmental force-field. He seized the recessed handholds and pulled himself inside the drop shaft. Nathan took a moment to adjust to the null gravity.

  The same iridescent green used on the corridor’s overheads coated the drop shafts. On his third year cruise some middies considered the large black arrows to be funny until they lost their orientation and headed 'up' instead of 'down'.

  Nathan tucked himself into a ball and rotated his body so his head pointed 'down.' Recalling an unfortunate incident while onboard Audacious, he made certain to push away with the most gentle of taps. At deck three he slowed his feeble momentum, reached into the corridor, seized the external handholds and dragged his body into the corridor's normal gravity.

  When his feet hit the deck he stood motionless until the queasiness passed. During training the instructors told him to expect the sensation and not to rush things. It would pass in time, they assured him.

  Nathan headed aft until another hatch barred his entrance. Maneuvering occupied the greater part of deck three and a large section of deck two. For the next ten minutes he floated within the boat’s drop shafts, reacquainting himself with this remarkable vessel. The entrance to the boat bay loomed. Although tempted to examine the hangar areas he thought better of it. In the eyes of the crew, middies were all young idiots who were more trouble than the valuable boat space they occupied. Having familiarized himself with the drop shafts he navigated to the port side of the boat then down to deck two and back toward the longitudinal corridor. Nathan swung from the shaft, landing firmly on the deck outside the wardroom. His navigation had been accurate to the centimeter but his moment of self-congratulation was short-lived.

  ***

  For the past five days Tivendale fought against his sense of outrage. Yet he could not control his seething anger. That bitch Waugh will be sorry. My father-in-law will see to her once I have finished this silly deployment. Three months on this little boat will do wonders for my naval resume. Might even get me my fourth star. When this mission ended he would return home to his darling wife. He shuddered at the thought. But a man with his background did whatever he had to in order to advance. If that meant bedding a sow, so be it.

  Admiral Jardine had assigned him to this particular ship for a reason. He wanted dirt on Waugh. Jardine had never specifically said so but Tivendale knew his mind. Jardine and Waugh had some kind of falling out in the distant past. Tivendale suspected Waugh had gotten the better of him.

  The crew was not what he expected. Their overall indifference toward proper discipline appalled him. Even his assistant, CPO Argento, displayed
an unhealthy familiarity toward someone of his rank. He put her in her place.

  Tivendale glanced around the otherwise empty wardroom. Where could the rest of the crew be? The ship was underway but surely the services of the entire crew were not required.

  When he stepped into the lateral corridor a body dropped onto the deck. Startled, he jumped back.

  “You there, what do you think you are doing?” he shouted. “Midshipman, I asked you a question.”

  The middy swayed as if disorientated before finding his balance.

  “Just taking in the sights, sir.”

  “Are you trying to be funny, mister?” The boy looked too young to be in uniform, even academy grays.

  “No sir.” Although outwardly respectful there lingered within his appalling accent a hint of weary impudence.

  “Stand to attention when you address a superior officer,” Tivendale snapped. “What the blazes do you think you are doing playing around in the drop shafts?”

  The middy slowly straightened his back as far as he could without hitting the overhead. Even in the slightly hunched position his stance lacked conviction. Did he just sigh?

  “Familiarizing myself with the layout of the boat, Lieutenant Tivendale.”

  “Who authorized you to go wandering around the ship?”

  “Well, lieutenant, you did.”

  “What?”

  “It's on the running sheet, lieutenant.”

  Running sheet? Oh yes, of course. He had not found the time to examine it so he used the previous MTO's running sheet.

  This middy’s accent was going to drive him insane. So slow, such an irritating drawl.

  “What is your home planet?”

  “Kastoria.”

  Tivendale nodded knowingly. A colonial and an academy senior midshipman. The universe is definitely conspiring against me.

  “What do you call yourself?”

  The colonial brat raised his eyebrows. “I call myself Midshipman Nathan Telford.”

  “Do not be impertinent. You know perfectly well what I mean. Are you Republican or colonial?”