Uncommon Purpose (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 1)

by P J Strebor

  Nathan took the young rating aside. “Archie,” he said, “we can find the control room without you but it might take precious minutes Redpath's teams can ill-afford.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “You won’t be expected to fight, but I need you with us.”

  “Of course, sir,” Archie said.

  They shed their leg armor, retaining their breast plates, arm guards, shoulder guards and helmets.

  Nathan led the team stealthily down to deck four with Archie giving occasional directions. As they proceeded to the cargo bay Nathan’s back flared.

  “Into the access tubes,” he ordered. Instantly and without question everyone scrambled into the nearest tube. The team-member’s exchanged mystified expressions. Shortly after they found refuge, hanging onto the ladder rungs, the sound of marching boots passed by their position. Everyone froze, daring to neither breath nor blink. Gradually the rumble of the boots faded, before disappearing.

  With most of the headhunters gathered below on deck five their entry into the cargo control room went undetected.

  They gathered around the clear screen and observed the unfolding situation. From the cargo hold below the high-pitched squeal of a cutting torch assaulted their ears. Sparks danced across the deck as the glowing line moved inexorably to the coaming.

  Dearkov used a cutting torch to remove a section of the view-plate. The sound produced by her efforts was muffled by the enemy’s shrieking effort to get into the hold. She completed the final cut just as the headhunters cutting torch fell silent.

  Nathan stopped all movement with a raised hand then held his finger to his lips. For a several seconds he listened carefully. No shouted alert came from below. It took the efforts of the entire team to pry the section of view-plate clear of its housing and rest it silently onto the deck. As Nathan stepped through the opening the lights went out. Below, a section of hatch crashed onto the deck.

  The opening act of a new drama began to unfold on the deck below. However, the behavior of the headhunters did not follow their usual ferocious pattern. A solid wall of enemy troops filed into the hold without uttering a sound. One of them removed his helmet and stepped forward.

  “Who speaks for this detachment?” he asked.

  “What's it to you, dickhead?" CPO Rocca yelled, followed by jeering from the rest of Redpath's thugs.

  “If you want to live you will show the respect due to my rank," the headhunter yelled.

  Redpath raised his hand to silence the rabble. “Sergeant E J Redpath, Monitor Corps.”

  “I am Captain Foss, master of this vessel.”

  Redpath shifted his ax so that it rested across his right shoulder. “What can I do for you, captain?”

  “You can save your life and that of your companions, Sergeant Redpath, by surrendering immediately. I give you my word you will be well treated.”

  Redpath sneered. “Like the way you well treated the civilians?”

  “An oversight by a subordinate,” Foss said. “Brave sailors such as yourselves deserve better. Spare us this unpleasantness and surrender now.”

  While the remarkably civil discourse continued, Nathan motioned to Koops, the medic. She carried two satchels; one contained medical supplies, the other their hastily engineered incendiaries.

  Petty Officer Koops gingerly handed Nathan the first of the lethal cocktails. He tossed the green bottle to Dearkov who caught it in one large hand.

  On the deck below the conversation neared its inevitable conclusion.

  “And if I don't surrender, you’ll kill us all?” Sergeant Redpath said.

  “This doesn't have to end with your deaths, if you are willing to see reason. Is it not better to live rather than die?”

  The venomous smile returned to Redpath’s face. “Yes, and it wouldn't hurt your profit margin either, would it? Twenty-three civilians and fourteen captured Monitor Corps personnel would be quite the coup for you. I dare say we’d fetch a handsome price on the auction block at Kulak.”

  Nathan nodded to Moe and together they stepped through the opening, dropping noiselessly onto the container stack. Dearkov and Archie remained where they were as the academy’s finest silently edged along the containers.

  “Look around you, sergeant,” Foss said. “You are vastly outnumbered and even Athenians cannot win against such odds. Be reasonable. Surrender or die. What do you say?”

  “Blow it out your crack,” Rocca yelled.

  “Go fuck the ship's cat you pantywaist,” Tokunaga added, leading a flood of foul-mouthed abuse.

  Instead of becoming furious, in typical headhunter style, the captain's face assumed a pathetically weary expression. “Very well, you chose death.”

  Foss had been good enough to remove his helmet for the exchange. How obliging. Nathan’s first arrow followed a logical path through his right ear. The wooden shaft struck at an acute angle, partly exiting at the left extremity of the throat.

  Everyone froze for a timeless moment, stunned into silence. Seconds later, Foss' eyes rolled into his head and his body collapsed to the deck. At almost the same instant another enemy fell with an arrow in his throat, courtesy of Moe.

  The headhunters began to panic, staring in all directions for the source of the death raining down on them. Nathan fired again and while he strung another arrow nodded once to Dearkov.

  Archie lit the fuse. Dearkov threw the first Molotov cocktail. The bottle sailed in a high arc toward the torn hatch before shattering just above the opening. Its ignition cast a layer of vile-smelling, sticky burning goo across the exit. The incendiary splashed onto six headhunters who were leaning against the adjacent wall. High-pitched screams echoed from the bulkheads as the blazing headhunters staggered around the exit. The awful noise continued until the flames burned through the weak points in their body armor roasting exposed skin, boiling blood, filling helmets with noxious fumes.

  While the archers continued to unleash arrows into promising targets, Dearkov lobbed two more incendiaries onto the same spot, catching a small group of headhunters who were trying to escape.

  Nathan caught Redpath gazing up at middies. The marine grinned like the devil himself. “Let’s have at them,” he roared and he led his teams from behind the barricade.

  The larger headhunter force had deteriorated into a panicking mob.

  Dearkov followed the third cocktail and leapt onto the container stack.

  Nathan had only two arrows left in his quiver. He ran toward the flaming door. Two more enemy fell to his arrows as they tried to escape.

  Within a half minute of Captain Foss' grisly death, four middies and one petty officer stood atop the containers swinging their weapons down onto the rabble. Dearkov's ax cut a bloody swathe through any headhunter foolish enough to come within range. The middies were not faring as well, making impacts only on the helmets.

  Nathan was possessed by a demon who denied him his rightful kill. Despite his rage the enemy troops remained stubbornly out of reach of his bloodless blade.

  Time and again he struck down at the enemy forces only to have his sword blocked by helmets and armor. The angle was wrong and although he shifted position several times he was still unable to deliver a killing blow. A bold headhunter swung his broadsword, narrowly missing his ankles.

  “Fuckers,” he yelled.

  Nathan slipped his helmet on and stepped to the edge of the container stack closest to the flaming hatch. He surveyed the chaos on the deck below. A small gap had opened between the wall of flames and the frenzied headhunters. Moe yelled to him but he heard only gibberish over the din. He paused for an instant then jumped into the fray.

  His feet hit the deck, slipped in fresh blood and he crashed onto his back. Using his momentum he rolled away. A broadsword struck where he had landed. Still on his back, he parried multiple blows and caught one of his attackers in the stomach. Their unyielding attack prevented him from regaining his footing. The heat from the flames burned against the back of hi
s neck. If he gave ground he would burn. If he didn't they would hack him to pieces.

  “Stay down,” Dearkov yelled. She leapt from the containers.

  Her considerable bulk crashed into the three attackers with a crushing force, driving them into the fiery hell. The headhunters staggered blindly through the opening, their armor ablaze. Dearkov swung her ax in wide arcs, keeping the enemy at bay until Nathan regained his footing. Side by side they pressed into the pack.

  Nathan's training automatically kicked in. Duck, parry, strike. Duck, parry, strike. Find the openings, legs, abdomen, armpit, throat. Dearkov did not exercise Nathan’s selective method. Chop, club, smash became her mantra. Together they held the line while the middies dropped into position behind them. They gave Dearkov's swinging ax a wide berth, plugging gaps as required.

  With Redpath's team on one side and the reserves on the other the headhunters were squeezed into a tight pack. Most of them could not swing their weapons. Line by line fell before the closing ranks of Monitor Corps sailors. On both sides of the shrinking line the odd enemy soldier tried to surrender. Within the blazing teeth of combat, bloodlust overrode any sense of compromise.

  The carnage continued, the savage bloody clash of human against human. The screaming of combatants mixing with the shrill cries of the wounded and dying. The sharp clang of sword on sword, sword on armor and the metallic crunch of axes crushing the enemy. Nathan stepped on and over bodies as his team pressed relentlessly forward.

  Dearkov took a mighty swing at an enemy soldier, cleaving the helmeted head from the neck. A gush of blood erupted from the neck’s ghastly stump, splashing a coating of thick red goo across Nathan’s visor. Partly blinded, he fought on. He desperately tried to clear the sticky muck from his visor while fending off attackers. A broadsword came at him through a blind spot. He groaned when the impact hit his breastplate. Another struck the sword from his hand. A third thundered into his helmet with stunning force. Meta lunged forward, dragged him from the fight before slicing the throat of the nearest enemy soldier.

  Nathan frantically wiped his visor but his meshed gloves only smeared the viscous fluid. His frustration grew. He desperately needed rejoin the fight. He tore off the helmet and threw it aside. On his knees he groped the deck for a weapon, but found only bodies and the useless headhunter swords.

  Meta cut down another two enemy crewmen. She parried brilliantly, holding off three of the brutes. Another enemy fell but the sheer weight of numbers became too much for her. Meta screamed as a broadsword got past her guard and smashed into her shoulder armor. Her sword dropped from her hand. Unarmed, Meta backed away, her useless left arm dangling by her side. Nathan dragged her as far from the fighting as possible. For a moment their eyes met and what he saw in her eyes said everything. They were losing this battle. With two of the team disabled and despite their best efforts his team yielded ground.

  No, it can’t end like this. Not like this.

  Nathan beat his hands against the deck and screamed. He had to get his hands on a decent weapon and rejoin the fight.

  Then something happened.

  An odd sensation, as if another part of himself hidden just under his conscious surface clicked into place. Like a balloon had popped inside his head. His frustration vanished like the lifting of heavy gravity. Everything became ridiculously clear. Every action absurdly predictable. In a moment of exquisite clarity he acted without conscious control.

  Nathan drew the bayonet from his webbing with his left hand and grasped his hunting knife with his right. All the enemy crewmen were tall broad creatures. He knew he could use their size against them. He charged into the chaotic fight with a clear mind and a single purpose. Keeping low he parried with the bayonet and thrust upward with the hunting knife. He struck at the exposed areas around the throat, under the armor into the stomach and anywhere an opening presented itself. He no longer required a killing blow and concentrated on taking enemy combatants out of the fight. A blade drew a fine red line across his exposed forehead. He ignored it as he cut down another enemy.

  His return to the fight bolstered the team but they were nearing physical and mental exhaustion. They continued to lose ground. The flood of panicked enemy pressed his small team toward the flames. Bodies fell, blood spurting from ghastly wounds splattering the deck and containers with obscene dark crimson. He had lost count of how many they had killed. Twenty? Thirty? And still they came. The team formed into line, risking decapitation from Dearkov's wildly swinging ax.

  From behind a loud whooshing assaulted his ears. It was the unmistakable sound of a powder fire retardant appliance extinguishing the fire. The heat on the back of his neck died. He hoped Meta, although wounded, could somehow cover their backs. They were totally committed to full defensive fighting mode. The temptation to glance over his shoulder was compelling but he could not afford to take his eyes from the forward enemy line for a second.

  As the flames spluttered and died the headhunters saw a way out. They pressed forward with a power born of desperation and revived hope. They could see the light and only had to overrun his team to gain their freedom. It renewed the enemy and the team fell back under their last desperate attack.

  Dearkov disappeared from his side and another took her place. A firm hand grabbed the webbing on his shoulder and pulled him from the battle. Spinning around he went at his attacker with both blades going for the throat. With a start of recognition he held his strike.

  Captain Waugh held her sword defensively. She relaxed only when Nathan dropped his guard. All around her fresh troops from a reformed Gamma team streamed in to fill positions on the line.

  “Stand down, ensign.” Waugh charged into the battle.

  “Yes ma’am.” Nathan could barely recognize his strained, raspy voice. The captain? Here? The captain never leaves the boat. Exception to the rule for an exceptional ruler? A bleary thought came to him. If I were captain, would I sit back while my crew was getting butchered? The answer was too obvious for words.

  More fresh troops brushed past him and drove back the panicked enemy. The grisly spectacle mesmerized Nathan. With Redpath's larger force still pressing forward and fresh replacements blocking the enemy's escape, the pack of headhunters shrank as the converging forces cut them to pieces. It took mere minutes of ferocious close-quarter combat to eliminate the last of the once powerful enemy force.

  Truculent's sailors stood with bloody weapons in hand. Even the fittest of them breathed raggedly. Nathan’s madness had fled, replaced by knee-buckling fatigue. As his heart rate slowed his senses returned. The first was his sense of smell, bringing him the fetid stench of burning flesh mixed with the unique scent of death.

  In the background someone vomited.

  Nathan staggered through the sea of mangled corpses. I have to find my sword. Where’s my sword? Down on hands and knees he groped through the carnage until he found it wedged under a fallen enemy. He could barely lift his arm to sheath his sword.

  “Mister Telford.” Redpath stepped through the crowd of blood soaked sailors removing his helmet.

  “Sergeant Redpath.”

  The two men faced each other for several mute seconds. “Tactical reserve.” Redpath chuckled, shook his head and slapped Nathan on the shoulder.

  Nathan had never received a higher compliment.

  Medics worked their way around the slaughterhouse, moving from one team member to another. Few were without wounds of some kind. Moe attended to Meta's fractured shoulder. Medics worked on Chief Petty Officers Rocca, Lubar and Tokunaga who lay on the deck.

  Cmdr Demianski stepped into the charnel house and froze. His face paled alarmingly when he made the mistake of breathing through his nose. He joined the captain who stood beside Babs Grimmett. Waugh took in the grisly sight and shook her head.

  The victors stood ankle deep in the carnage. No one spoke for what felt like a long time.

  CHAPTER 59

  The hypo hissed as Moe administer
ed the pain medication to Meta’s neck. Within seconds Meta’s face mellowed from intense agony to glassy-eyed euphoria.

  “Meta like,” she slurred.

  Moe waved to a medic at the far end of Redpath’s Run. They could now painlessly strap Meta’s crushed shoulder. Moe slipped the hypo into the first-aid bag noting with disbelief that her hands shook. She clasped her unruly hands together. “Stop that,” she whispered.

  Nathan grasped her right hand in his while slipping his left arm supportively around her shoulders. Meta, Ozzie and Dearkov looked on as Nathan eased her to the deck. Moe felt overcome by a curiously disturbing numbness. She rested her head on Nathan’s shoulder and waited for the malady to pass.

  From the far end of Redpath’s Run the captain appraised her bloodstained crew.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am rarely lost for words so I trust you will forgive me if I simply say … well done.”

  Waugh moved amongst her crew checking in with each in turn.

  She looked at Nathan’s small battered team. With a single nod and a tight smile she acknowledged their contribution. Her small commendation almost made up for their savage day.

  The captain crouched by the civvies, listening attentively to their heartrending pleas. Moe could not hear her words but could well imagine her response to these people who had suffered so much. Waugh would no doubt placate the traumatized civvies by saying she would do what she could to recover their lost children.

  “How long?” Moe asked.

  “We cross the frontier in twenty-six minutes,” Ozzie said.

  “That’s it then.” Moe felt Nathan’s body tense.

  They could not remain onboard the headhunter ship. Nor could Truculent pursue Picaroon across the frontier. Violation of the plague quarantine regulations carried an automatic court marshal for any crew that did. Such was the understandable panic engendered by the Derwent Plague.

  The female civilians filled the first landing boat. The Franc males, heavily drugged to dull their terrible pain, followed.

  One of the ratings found bottles of clean drinking water in a container. The combatants quenched their parched throats and removed the worst of the bloody residue from their body armor. With their high bloodlust fading to a nightmare memory, a lighthearted mood surfaced. Water fights broke out amongst the combatants who had so recently been embroiled in brutal mayhem. Any hares who failed to demonstrate their fleet footedness got a good soaking.