Uncommon Purpose (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 1)

by P J Strebor

  “Commander Bannister,” Foss cut in, “we need to purge the power from the capacitors. If we don't do it within sixty seconds the ship will explode.”

  “I’m aware of that captain.” The briefest of pauses. “Lieutenant Saxon, I am placing you in command of this mission. Remember who you serve.”

  “Aye-aye, commander.” Orson fed the dangerous power from the overloaded capacitors into the EDF compartment. He struck the ignition switch detonating the explosive bolts. The emergency hatch fitted to the outer hull of the EDF compartment blew out. The potentially fatal power surge discharged safely into the vacuum of space. The power levels fell rapidly below the red line.

  The ship survived. The mission survived.

  All for the loss of only one man.

  CHAPTER 41

  Orson drove his foot into the sleeping man's stomach. Muttering a curse the prisoner curled into a fetal position on the deck of the brig.

  “Sit up.” When the prisoner took too long to respond Orson kicked him in the shattered elbow. The crewman screamed, rolled over and propped his back against the bulkhead. He cradled his broken arm across his chest.

  “Grunberg, that's your name isn't it?”

  The prisoner nodded.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, Grunberg.” With an extraordinary effort he maintained low and even tone. “Very soon I am going to start hurting you. I will continue to hurt you until you tell me what I want to know. Do you understand me?”

  “Fuck you,” he snarled. “I'll tell you nothing.”

  Orson smirked at the crewman’s defiance. There is more to Grunberg than meets the eye.

  “Believe me Grunberg, you'll tell me everything I want to know. The only question is, how much suffering you choose to endure?”

  From the sheath on his left forearm he gripped the small hilt of the finely honed knife between his index fingers. The blade, a mere six centimeters long and two wide, was strong enough to cut through bone and sharp enough to slice silk in mid air. To anyone not versed in the art of death it would look like an inoffensive toy.

  Grunberg stared at the knife but remained stubbornly mute. His obstinate attitude pleased Orson. He would hate to interrogate a coward.

  Orson seized Grunberg’s throat with his left hand pressing it against the bulkhead. His knee pinned the prisoner’s legs to the deck. Orson drove the knife under the crewman’s right kneecap and twisted the narrow blade. Grunberg screamed. The saboteur grabbed for Orson’s face. Orson twisted the knife, wrenching another pitiful shriek. Grunberg refused to talk despite writhing in unbelievable agony. The prisoner remained resolutely silent, except for his screams, for longer than Orson expected.

  Less than thirty minutes later Orson left the prisoner in the blood-spattered brig. Grunberg had been a tougher nut to crack than he had believed possible. The saboteur had blacked out several times during the interrogation but the outcome was never in question. He had shown guts but no one withstood Orson’s brand of torment. In a detached way he almost admired the gutsy bastard. Many of the scum on this ship would have pissed their pants as soon as they saw his blade.

  The productive session filled him with a powerful sense of accomplishment. No, more than that. I really enjoyed torturing Grunberg. Orson’s considerable experience in such interrogation techniques convinced him Grunberg had not lied to stop his agony.

  Orson considered washing his bloody hands but impatience drove him on. He would shower later.

  When he marched into the engineering section the guards gave him a wide berth. At the far end of the reactor room Cmdr Weiss oversaw the repairs to the EDF compartment. Crewmen in v-suits had patched the area where the hatch had blown out and were installing new explosive bolts.

  “Find out anything useful?” Weiss asked.

  Orson ignored him and strode through the engineering department.

  “Lieutenant Saxon, I asked you a question,” Weiss yelled.

  Orson glanced around the compartment until his gaze fell on the chief engineer. His eyes tracked to Orson’s bloodied hands.

  “I need to find two of your crew. Shattock and Nehmer.”

  “Lieutenant Saxon.”

  “I'm busy Weiss.”

  “You will report on your interrogation at once. As executive officer it is my responsibility – ”

  Orson struck with the speed of a snake, pinning Weiss against the bulkhead by his throat.

  “It's your responsibility to make certain saboteurs don't get aboard this ship. It's your responsibility to ensure the safety of the crew, including Commander Bannister. Thus far you have fucked up in every way imaginable. So now I will do your job for you and you will keep the fuck away from me.” Orson stared into the dark, terror-filled eyes. “Cross me again, Weiss, and I will bleed you dry.” He released Weiss who crumbled to the deck. Orson set his focus on the engineer.

  “Shattock and Nehmer, where are they?”

  “Ah, I'm not certain.” He turned to the chief petty officer beside him. “Any ideas?”

  Only by remembering the mission, now his mission, did Orson control his rage.

  “They're off duty until sixteen hundred,” the CPO said. “Last time I saw them they were heading to the mess.”

  Orson strode past Weiss who remained cringing on the deck.

  Picaroon was a fairly large ship but driven by a need for vengeance Orson reached the crew's mess in less than five minutes. When he stepped into the mess a mixture of curious stares and total disregard greeted him.

  “Crewmen Shattock and Nehmer, on your feet,” he yelled. Most eyes rose to glare at him. Some remained down and a few wandered to the two crewmen sitting at the rear of the mess. As he strode toward them they exchanged tentative glances.

  “Shattock and Nehmer?”

  “I'm Shattock, so what?” said the larger of the two. The other examined his hands.

  Orson stared into Shattock’s eyes. The crewman neither flinched nor looked away. His defiance sealed his fate.

  From behind him Orson heard armored boots clattering onto the deck. Without glancing behind he sensed the pulsar rifles aimed at his back.

  “Lieutenant Saxon, what are you doing?” Captain Foss demanded.

  “Remember, captain, exactly who is running this operation.”

  “This is still my command, Saxon.”

  So the dog has found some teeth. Orson stared over his shoulder, past the heavily armed guards and into Foss' eyes.

  “Very well, captain, perhaps you can explain to me how three members of the Peoples Liberation Front got aboard your command.”

  Unlike the rest of the crew Foss was a professional. He stared at the two crewmen.

  “You can prove this?”

  “Grunberg gave them up.”

  “Grunberg’s lying,” Nehmer snarled, finally finding his voice.

  “Could Grunberg have been lying?”

  Orson grinned in a way he knew would chill the heart of any headhunter. “No one lies to me for long.”

  Foss glanced at Orson’s bloodstained hands, grimaced and nodded more as a confirmation to himself than anyone else.

  “Very well. We’ll interrogate them.”

  “Death to the empire,” Shattock screamed, as the two saboteurs leapt to their feet. Each produced a mini pulsar from under the table.

  Orson had the knife in his left hand. Not his preferred hand but good enough. His high left kick shattered Shattock's forearm. The mini pulsar dropped from his hand. Orson lunged forward, opening Nehmer’s jugular with his dagger. Shifting his balance he slashed the blade across Shattock's exposed throat. Under twin geysers of spurting blood both saboteurs collapsed to the deck.

  Orson glared at Foss and his dumbfounded guards. A warm glow surged through him.

  “We could have interrogated them for intell, lieutenant,” Foss said.

  “PLF members operate in small cells with no discernible command structure. So what kind of inte
ll do you think they would have given you?”

  “Well yes, but still …”

  “I need to shower.”

  The crew hastily cleared a path as Orson strode from the mess.

  CHAPTER 42

  Date: 11th August, 320 ASC.

  Location: Monitor Truculent, on station: Ibis Nebula.

  Status: Alert stand down.

  Nathan could not escape his boyish delight when he first stepped onto the boat's command deck. Like a kid in a candy shop, the old saying went. Nathan reflected that he had never been into a candy shop but assumed it would feel this good.

  His second watch found him at the Auxiliary Operations Station, running through drills. In the jump seat beside him Leo observed, commenting as required.

  From the Operations Station Cmdr Demianski ran checks on the overall condition of the boat. As was SOP during alert stand downs most of the crew station were vacant. At the tactical station Lt Hookes concentrate on her readouts. Her bored expression matched the commander’s. Leo stifled a yawn.

  Nathan's body tingled with anticipation. Calm down Telford. He took a deep breath.

  Nathan’s console, slaved to the tactical readouts, focused on the northern approaches into League space. The sensor array, calibrated to maximum long range, passive sweeps remained free of contacts.

  Nathan started to ask Leo a question. His screen flickered momentarily, before stabilizing. Nathan’s heart thundered when five giant warships egressed from hyperspace. They converged on Truculent's position.

  Nathan froze for a full second. “Contact! Multiple contacts bearing …” he began, and glanced at Leo. He reclined in his seat, his hand covering his mouth. Tears glistened and he made small snorting sounds. Cmdr Demianski's head bobbed behind the ops station. Turning his attention back to his readouts Nathan found a single word projecting from the blank screen:

  NERVOUS?

  The officers’ constrained chuckling slowly petered out. Nathan took several deep breaths to slow his pulse rate before seeing the lighter side of the initiation. Back at the academy this sort of good-natured joking was referred to as being fried.

  “Good one, lieutenant.”

  Hookes’ eyes remained diligently on her console but her thin smile betrayed her. “The classics never fail to please. Anyway, it broke the monotony, don't you think?”

  “I suppose you could say that, ma’am. Unless you think me nearly soiling my flight suit is monotonous.”

  Raucous laughter exploded across the bridge. Leo slapped Nathan’s shoulder. “Welcome to the club, Nathan. All grommits, including me, go through this sort of initiation to bridge operations. Your three cohorts suffered something similar. They handled it well enough. Although Miss Kaspowitz took a little longer than the rest to see the humor of the exercise.”

  “Nice of my friends to warn me in advance.”

  “They were under orders to remain silent. We didn't want to spoil the surprise for you.”

  “How considerate of my friends.” Nathan knew it was the lot of junior officers to suffer this sort of good-natured teasing until they completed their first combat operation. Still, I should have seen this coming.

  On his screen a flashing red icon caught his attention. The ship had egressed from hyper on a course running directly from the Poseidon Shoals. Her helm officer must be a genius or a madman to try such a maneuver. Although an admirable piece of navigation no sane skipper would permit something so fundamentally dangerous.

  Leo tapped his shoulder. “Step out, Mister Telford.” Nathan took the jump seat.

  “Commander,” Lt Hookes said, “I have a bogey, sir. ETA shortly.”

  “Very well,” Cmdr Demianski said. A moment later the Alert Condition two alarm sounded.

  From the corner of his eye Nathan watched as Waugh marched onto the bridge and took her chair adjacent to the operations station.

  “Report, commander.”

  “We have a bogie, captain. Popped in through the shoals.”

  Waugh grinned, her eyes coming to life. “It's about bloody time. Tactical, what do you make of her?”

  “The range is still long captain but I would bet a week's pay on her being a Line Runner.” Hookes’ grin edged around her green tinted hood. “If she maintains her current course and speed she’ll be on top of us in seventy-five minutes.”

  “Excellent.” Waugh rubbed her hands.

  Lt Cmdr O'Donnell stepped onto the bridge.

  “She's approaching at flank speed.” Hookes smiled wolfishly. “Captain, she’s maintaining course directly for the Ibis Nebula.”

  Cmdr Demianski chuckled as the captain turned a wry grin on him. With raised eyebrows Nathan shot Leo a question. Leo shrugged.

  The commodore noticed the curious interaction.

  “It would appear, gentlemen,” Waugh said, “that our friend is planning to emulate our actions.” She noted their perplexed reactions. “She is going to utilize this nebula's interference to hide from, well, us.”

  Their grins matched those of the bridge crew.

  “Captain,” Hookes reported, “she is a Bretish, Culver class fast haulage ship.”

  Nathan ran the class through his head. As with a monitor she had a third of her displacement dedicated to her power-plant. If she reversed course quickly enough and matched harmonics for ingression into hyper, she would escape. Pity she’s not Pruessen.

  During the next hour the crew donned v-suits and light armor. The captain never took possible enemy action lightly. Even with a lowly Line Runner.

  “No Culver class vessel has lodged a flight plan for this region,” the Commander said. “I am classifying her undesignated.”

  Nathan continued watching as Waugh nodded and adopted a relaxed semi-slouch. She received regular updates on the bogie as it blithely continued on course for the nebula. If they could prove she had violated quarantine regulations, her captain would lose his masters certificates, his ship and his freedom. After a Line Runner had infected Delos the penalties for incursions into the Quarantine Zone were significantly increased.

  Nathan tensed as the captain’s back straightened. No doubt at a time determined by years of experience Waugh came to life.

  “Tactical, report when the bogie is thirty seconds from nebula insertion.” Hookes acknowledged. “Helm, prepare to go to maximum intercept speed on my mark.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  “Captain,” Hookes reported, “the bogie is thirty seconds from insertion … now.”

  “Very well. D-O, Alert Condition one if you please.”

  “Aye, captain,” Demianski said. The bridge lights died. The iridescent glow from the overheads cast a dim green tint across the command deck. At almost the same moment the dull pulsing alarm sounded.

  “Helm,” Waugh said, “go get her.”

  “Aye-aye, captain.”

  The main engines engaged with force enough to press Nathan into his chair.

  On his screen a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors rushed by as the monitor breached the outer edge of the nebula. When the stars reappeared Cmdr O'Donnell slewed the boat viciously to starboard, before straightening from the seven gee turn. Pumped on adrenaline, Nathan ignored his harness as it dug into his shoulders. The bogie had detected Truculent as soon as she fired her engines. She had already come about.

  “Ship to ship, commander,” Waugh said.

  Cmdr Demianski, as with any good D-O had anticipated his captain's needs. “Channel open, captain.”

  “To Culver class transport. This is Commodore Waugh of the Athenian warship Truculent. You have been classified undesignated. Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded. Respond to my signal.”

  The Culver responded by raising her shields and increasing speed. Waugh shook her head making sharp tish, tish sounds between her teeth.

  “Commander, I'm going downstairs.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  Waugh unhooked from the command chair, w
alked the short distance to the centrally located combat chair and strapped in. Nathan watched intently as she tapped the stud under the right armrest. The iris beneath the chair dilated and the combat chair dropped through the opening. When the commodore's head disappeared from view, the iris snapped shut.

  From the combat sphere Waugh said, “Helm, it's my boat.”

  “Aye, captain, it's your boat.” O'Donnell relinquished helm control to the captain.

  The beep of the comm. channel sounded through Nathan’s earpiece. “Culver class transport this is Truculent. Cut your engines or I will fire into you,” the captain said with finality.

  “Commodore Waugh,” a deep rumbling voice replied, “this is Captain Maloof of the Bretish commercial vessel League Trader. Your records must be in error. We filed our flight plan as per League of Allied Worlds provisions. If you dare to fire at this ship I will make the most profound protests to the … ahhh!”

  The squeal from the weapons tracking system targeted the fleeing vessel.

  “Damn, she locked him up.”

  “That's what he gets for trying to stall her,” Leo said.

  “Don't fire, don't fire,” Maloof cried. “I am cutting my engines now.”

  “Good for you, captain.” Waugh said.

  The transport ship applied full power to her forward grav plating. Her speed rapidly diminished.

  “Helm, the boat is yours,” Waugh said.

  O'Donnell replied while the iris dilated and the captain surfaced from the combat sphere. Waugh swiveled her chair to face the Operations Station. "Some people cannot be reasoned with in a civilized manner." Demianski snorted as Waugh unstrapped. “Do you have the LT for me?”

  “Waiting in the briefing room, captain.”

  “Very well.” She disappeared through the hatch.

  The atmosphere on the bridge had transformed from one of dull routine to an electrically charged condition Nathan could feel on his skin. He wondered if Truculent's prize crew still suffered from the same butterfly attacks as him.

  “They are rarely so easy,” the Commander said, his eyes peering over the console. “This character was too lightly armed to dare fighting back and too far in system to escape into hyper. Bear in mind gentlemen, this isn't over yet.”