Uncommon Purpose (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 1)

by P J Strebor

  “No, skipper. I don't believe that will be necessary. It was a productive operation. We confiscated a significant quantity of drugs, captured a Line Runner and everyone came home alive. I’m simply noting my slight concern.”

  “Very well. We’ll leave it there for the moment.”

  ***

  Commodore Waugh examined the briefing room’s elliptical table. Two hours ago she and her senior officers had gathered around the table, holo screens blazing, computer predictions and star maps projecting above the black top. During the past hour the pragmatic nature of the apparatus had undergone a transformation. Almost everything on a monitor had more than one use. This included equipment as well as personnel. A stark white tablecloth draped over the table’s protective cover disguising its obsidian practicality. Silverware marched along the dining table at uniform intervals, the crystal glassware reflecting the mellow candle light.

  Seated to her right, Luis took occasional sips of his wine. His eyes stared sightlessly at the bridge hatch. She knew him well enough to appreciate when to leave him alone with his thoughts. No doubt he would be monitoring data over his earpiece while simultaneously enjoying the social occasion. The old axiom still held true: A good operations officer was akin to a dual brained octopus. The daily administration of the boat fell squarely on his shoulders and the responsibility preyed on him around the clock.

  The hatch chimed. “Ad-mit,” she said.

  The marines, resplendent in their black, high-collared marine class A uniforms, stepped through the hatch. The young marine lieutenant presented a fine picture, with a lean row of medals and Corps awards glistening against the black material. In contrast Sergeant Redpath could not fit another service decoration onto the chest of his immaculately pressed uniform.

  “Good evening, marines.”

  “Good evening captain, commander.” Jakovich said. They took their seats to her right.

  Waugh stared toward the room’s far corner from which the smell of scrumptious treats wafted. Tonight's meal represented an all too rare occasion for Chief Balski to show off.

  “Have you finished defiling our meals with your vile toxins, cookie?”

  Balski poked his grinning face around the jam. “Any time you’re ready, skipper.”

  “You can start poisoning us shortly.”

  Waugh's mood had improved appreciably during the last day. After cooling her heels for the better part of two months on station, they had finally attained a positive result. Not as rewarding as bagging a headhunter but better than nothing.

  The kilo of Kesium discovered by young Telford proved to be the beginning of a highly valuable confiscation. A half day of tearing League Trader apart garnered another nine kilos of the drug. Ten kilos of misery destined for the drug afflicted streets of the Bretish home world. To the layman, ten kilos sounded like a trifling quantity. However, once refined it would have supplied the needs of half a million addicts for a year. Illegal drugs like Kesium adopted constantly changing names: Light Bright, White Star, Solar Dust, K, Soft Anvil. By whatever name it was called the salient fact remained. It killed people and destroyed lives.

  The hatch chimed. “Ad-mit.”

  Ensign Saunders stepped through the hatch the elegant cut of his class A uniform suggesting hand tailoring. The immaculately pressed, long-tailed black coat was crisp, as were the bone-colored trousers. The light-beige waistcoat complimented the white shirt and black cravat to complete the ensemble.

  Midshipman Telford followed, his standard issue gray class A uniform dull by comparison. Once again Waugh found herself drawn to his eyes. The shadow behind those innocent eyes reflected an ageless distinction separating soldier from civilian.

  “It's only fashionable to be late on Athens, gentlemen,” Waugh said with a cordial grumble. She motioned them to the chairs on her left.

  Petty Officer Dearkov, wearing a white steward's coat over black pants, stepped from the kitchenette.

  Has she washed her hair?

  Telford shot her a tiny, obscure nod. Dearkov opened the wine bottle and offered the cork to the commodore.

  “I believe you will enjoy this. Thessaly Chateau Ruemont, 299. It’s been sitting idle for three patrols so it’s had time to mellow.” When the glasses were charged she raised her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Republic, duty and the Corps.” The returning toast echoed from her guests.

  “And,” she added, “to a successful mission.” She granted Telford a short nod of acknowledgement. Once again he refused to respond in a typically overwhelmed midshipman-like manner. However, the tips of his ears changed color dramatically, giving her hope.

  “Very well, cookie,” Waugh said. “Let the ordeal begin.”

  Balski was best cook in the fleet but naval cooks throughout the ages would turn in their graves if one of their number were hit with a stray compliment. Dearkov served the first course with practiced ease. The leek soup had a mild flavor and wonderful aroma.

  “I believe we have worn out our welcome in the Ibis Nebula,” Waugh said. “We need a new hunting ground.” She cast her gaze around the table. Waugh had already made up her mind but enjoyed these harmless games. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Luis snorted. The marines examined their soup without comment. Leo’s head wrinkled in concentration. Nathan’s expression remained neutral. Waugh nonchalantly sipped her soup.

  “What do you think, Leo?”

  The young ensign hovered on the brink of making a suggestion but wisely chose to abstain. “I'm not sure captain.”

  “Oh? Pity.” Waugh set her gaze on the middy. “What about you Nathan? Any ideas?”

  Nathan paused, his soup spoon poised below his mouth. Half squinting, as if in deep thought, he said, “I suppose Virtus is out of the question.” As he sipped his soup the rumble of laughter began with the commodore and spread around the table. A crooked smile wrinkled one side of Nathan’s face causing Redpath to bark a hollow laugh.

  Yes, after the life he’s had, attacking the most heavily guarded military target in the Pruessen Empire would appeal to him.

  The main course arrived much to everyone’s delight. Wild game hen from Corinth. Luis caught Balski’s attention.

  “Cookie,” he said, while biting into a portion of the delicate bird, "this sauce isn’t making me as nauseous as most of your foul concoctions. Would you care to share the recipe?”

  “Not a chance, commander,” said the grinning CPO. “It’s going to the grave with me.”

  “Probably just as well,” Luis mumbled.

  Throughout the boat the crew were enjoying the benefits of better food and an open bar. Waugh always rewarded a successful operation.

  The meal progressed in a mood of easy conversation. Even the grommits loosened up after a few glasses of fine red cabernet. Leo toyed with the remains of his meal. Waugh read his body language as he mustered all the false indifference he could and plunged in at the deep end.

  “Captain,” he said, “I was wondering about the disposition of the League Trader?”

  Waugh tucked the last of her meal into her mouth. Leo knew perfectly well what the disposition of the captured Line Runner would be. What he really wanted to know was who would get the privilege of captaining her back to Sentinel Artemis. With a skeleton crew of capable non-coms, she rated only a junior officer for the fast journey into Athenian space.

  “She is being returned to base in the morning.” Waugh knew she should not take such delight in torturing the young officer but rank did have its privileges after all.

  Leo nodded gravely.

  “Has an officer been chosen to command her, ma’am?” Nathan asked.

  Waugh soaked up the last of the extraordinary sauce from her plate with a fresh roll. “Yes,” she said before popping the roll into her mouth. Guilt prompted her to put Leo out of his misery.

  “I want you to know, Leo, I gave serious consideration to appointing you to the command of the League Trader.
But I didn't.” Leo nodded stoically. “I even considered dropping you into the captain's chair, Nathan.” His head snapped back with a jolt. Gotcha! His startled expression, though short lived, proved he was human after all.

  “However, in the final analysis I chose an officer whose appointment would best serve the interests of this boat.” She sipped her wine. “Lieutenant Tivendale.” The young officer’s jaw muscles tightened.

  “The massive improvement in the efficiency of the supply department prompted me to reward the person responsible.” Nathan examined his meal. “Unfortunately the loss of Lieutenant Tivendale leaves a hole in the command structure. I don't know what we will do without a supply officer of Lieutenant Tivendale's caliber. I guess we’ll struggle on.” The thought crossed her mind: You are a bad, bad person Donatella Waugh.

  Dearkov placed a huge silver desert tray onto the table. Cookie had concluded the meal with chocolate mousse, Waugh's favorite. After she spooned a generous portion onto her plate Dearkov passed the serving tray on to the next in line. Nathan begged off.

  “You don't know what you're missing,” Waugh said to him.

  Nathan tapped his flat, muscular abdomen. Following the luscious dessert, port and coffee arrived. Waugh produced a narrow pouch from an inside pocket. She brought the panatela to her lips. Luis accepted a cigar from her and waited for her to pass the cutter to snip the end. “Smoke them if you have them.” The antique gold lighter clicked several times before igniting the long, dark brown cigar. The marines produced the thickest cigars she had ever seen. Clementine Jakovich snipped the end of her cigar with a small knife. Rusty had gone the traditional route, using his teeth. But in a very gentlemanly fashion.

  “Cookie, would you mind turning the air extractor to full?”

  “Just did, skipper.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rusty blew an enormous cloud of smoke across the table, temporarily engulfing Nathan. As the cloud dissipated, Redpath held the smoking cigar out to him.

  “Would you care for a cigar, Mister Telford? I have a spare.”

  “Thank you, sergeant. I'll pass.”

  “Mister Saunders?” Redpath was determined to get one of the youngsters.

  “Why thank you Sergeant Redpath. Don't mind if I do.”

  Redpath bit down on his cigar, reached into a pocket and handed Leo the long, thick roll of leaf. The marine leaned back puffing mildly while anticipating the young ensign's forthcoming distress.

  Leo produced a small pocket knife and snipped the top and bottom from the gigantic cigar. He dipped the end in his glass of port and used the candle’s flame to light up expertly. Waugh covered her mouth with her napkin as the sergeant’s smile wilted. Leo made a face as he drew the first draft of smoke into his lungs.

  “My Lord, you marines really are tough, aren't you? Back on Crete, my family has been growing their own leaf for two hundred years. This,” he said, examining the cigar with mild disgust, “tastes about that old.”

  Nathan fought back a coughing fit as the extraction fan battled to clear the room of the thick smoke cloud. When the coffee arrived Waugh sampled the fine blend from the silver coffee pot and nodded to Dearkov. Nathan begged off. The smoke had obviously blocked his sense of smell.

  “Dearkov, pour,” Waugh ordered.

  As soon as he smelled the fresh aroma, he smiled. A contented sigh escaped his lips after the first sip of the Kastorian blend coffee.

  “Oh, by the way Nathan have you completed your rotation through the supply department?”

  “Yes, ma’am, two weeks ago.”

  “What's your opinion of Chief Argento?”

  “First class, captain. She’ll make a great supply officer.”

  “Agreed,” Waugh said. “Pity she's not an officer. We really need someone who has a firm understanding of the department’s current situation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Guardedly he said, “I suppose so, captain.”

  From the sound of the badly concealed chuckling, Luis and the marines caught her meaning.

  “Better go easy on the port, Nathan. I want you bright-eyed and on the ball when you report for work in the morning. As interim supply officer.”

  Nathan’s air of blasé restraint failed him miserably.

  “But captain,” Luis said, right on cue, “surely you’re not going to appoint a mere midshipman to such a responsible position?”

  “Why thank you, commander. Correct as always.”

  Waugh reached into a waistcoat pocket and removed the small shiny object. She stepped behind Nathan and pinned the silver star onto his left epaulet before returning to her seat.

  “I shall expect that back at the end of the cruise, Acting Ensign Telford.”

  Nathan’s gawked at her. His initial attempts to form words failed. Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed his running mate.

  “May I borrow that disgusting thing?”

  Leo handed him the monster cigar. Nathan inhaled a huge draught into his virgin lungs.

  Rusty grinned in anticipation at of the inevitable outcome.

  CHAPTER 45

  Date: 13th August, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, on station: Ibis Nebula.

  Status: Alert condition three.

  Nathan strolled into the wardroom, his easy saunter reflecting a mood lightened by the previous night’s celebration. He received a prompt reminder that very little happened aboard a monitor without everyone hearing about it.

  “Atten-tion!” Meta ordered. The middies snapped to attention. “Good morning Acting Ensign Telford, sir.”

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Acting Ensign Telford, sir,” Ozzie said. “Permission to continue breathing, sir.”

  Nathan clamped his hands behind his back and ran a critical eye over the three grinning middies.

  “Your deportment is thoroughly deplorable middy.”

  “Yes sir, sorry sir, acting ensign, sir,” Meta replied.

  “Get a shine on those shoes middy.”

  “Yes sir, Acting Ensign Telford, sir.” Ozzie's grin underscored the absurdity of the moment.

  “And as for you Midshipwoman Okuma,” Nathan shook his head, “I don't see any hope for you at all.”

  “Whatever you say acting ensign, sir.”

  “I will now give you clowns my one and only order. Knock it off.”

  Too late Nathan realized his mistake.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Of course acting ensign, sir.”

  “Oh, my deepest and most profound apologies acting ensign, sir ensign acting, sir.”

  “Everyone's a friggin’ comedian,” he muttered.

  “Whatever you say, acting ensign sir.” Moe slapped him on the back. They all fell about laughing. Thankfully the novelty had worn off by the end of the day. They finally stopped the sir nonsense, even resisting the temptation to buff his new star. His friends were happy for him, which made the promotion all the more rewarding.

  Truculent departed the Ibis Nebula three hours later and for two days escorted League Trader toward Athenian space. Regardless of the relative capriciousness of League Trader’s temporary captain, Truculent left her within three hyper transitions of the Oceanian System before altering course northward. I'm sure CPO Instelle will pull Tivendale into line if he tries anything stupid. Although the last time I saw him he looked like a whipped dog.

  Reliable scuttlebutt suggested that, on the captain’s most judicious recommendation, Tivendale would never again set foot aboard a monitor.

  The deployment was almost over. In nineteen days they would disembark at Sentinel Artemis and the great adventure would end. And with it Nathan’s hope for retribution. For the first time in thirteen years he made a wish. He shook his head irritably. Wishes are for children and dreamers. Even if, by some dark miracle, his wish came true, would it lessen his dreadful guilt?

  CHAPTER 46

  Date: 16th August, 320 ASC.
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  Position: Monitor Truculent, running along the Fenchurch Depression.

  Status: Landing boat orientation.

  The tractor beam manipulated the small landing craft as if it were a black fish at the end of a high tensile line. The forward view-plate automatically tinted, adjusting to the beam’s glare. Chief of the Boat, Scaroni, had tractored aboard in this fashion so often she had little concern for having handed her life to another human being.

  “Landing Boat three, this is the LCC, I have you on the beam,” the Landing Control Officer said. “Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Three acknowledges.”

  Truculent’s boat bay doors stood open, the fantail extended at a slight downward angle. The young man beside her revealed a glimmer apprehension.

  “Mister Telford,” the Chief of the Boat said, “I understand you dined with our captain recently.”

  “I was privileged to do so, COB.”

  “How was everything?”

  “Fine.”

  He kept his tone informal but his eyes remained glued to the steadily growing boat bay.

  “Now that you’ve broken bread with her, what do you think of our commodore?”

  “She was everything I imagined she would be.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like her. Sure, I’ve read everything written about her but no words can convey …” his eyes narrowed and stared into the starfield, “her sense of being. It’s as if the room isn’t big enough to contain her energy. You know what I mean?”

  Yeah, I know what you mean. “So, you shared your feelings with her?”

  “What? And sound like every other heroine-worshiping, gibbering middy?”

  The Chief of the Boat chuckled. “Well, you're not a middy anymore are you?”

  Telford sighed. “It's largely symbolic, COB.”

  Scaroni showed mercy and said no more on the subject.

  Truculent skirted the edge of the Fenchurch Depression, its mild interference helping to mask her signature. Fenchurch was a characteristically large hyper depression covering an area that lapped from Athenian space across the Rio Grande and into the north.