The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  Lt Alderman glanced over the rim of the console. “Permission granted.”

  They stepped through the hatch into the briefing room. Nathan’s skin tingled in a most unfamiliar way.

  CHAPTER 50

  Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

  Or close up the wall with our English dead.

  In peace there's nothing so becoming a man

  As modest stillness and humility:

  But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  Then imitate the action of a tiger.

  William Shakespeare, Henry V.

  Date: 16th August, 320.

  Position: Monitor Truculent. One hundred & sixteen minutes from the Northern frontier.

  Status: Alert Condition one.

  Redpath huddled on the landing boat’s deck surrounded by his team. He had selected the members of Alpha team for their physical strength and steely nerve. They were also the six most notorious brawlers aboard Truculent. They enjoyed a good scrap and Redpath would throw them into the fight of their lives.

  The violent specialists who comprised Strike Team Alpha opted for the same primary weapon that hung from his shoulder strap. Axes were not standard issue aboard a monitor, as the new supply officer pointed out. Until a few hours ago this weapon did not exist.

  Petty Officer Limpski's saving grace, and the reason the skipper kept him aboard, was his transformational genius in the maintenance workshop. Within hours of hearing Redpath's terse demand for a battle-ax in the tradition of barbarian warriors, Limpski had produced a dozen weapons tailored to the sergeant’s specifications. The one-piece, case-hardened, battle-steel ax boasted double-edged blades and a swing radius close to a meter. Limpski gave no guarantees how it would fare against enemy body armor. However, he did guarantee that if a marine of Redpath’s robust physique were to deliver a full-blooded impact, the kinetic energy alone should take his opponent down. Despite the marine’s foul mood the lethal news incited a gruesome smile.

  Augmenting their medieval arsenal, all combatants carried a sidearm or a shoulder-slung pulsar rifle. The sergeant looked forward to chopping into headhunters with case-hardened steel but did not want to be caught with an ax in his hands if the power was restored. They were inventing tactics for this kind of combat on the run. Only time would tell how well their planning worked.

  Redpath examined the middies who clustered against the aft airlock hatch. The eager beavers, false bravado could not mask their fidgeting. However, the middy with the killer's eyes appeared genuinely unfazed by the forthcoming conflict.

  Telford spat on the sharpening stone before running it along the sword's newly honed edges. He sighted along the blade. His lips compressed as he examined the keen edge.

  Swords! Redpath could barely believe the captain agreed to send academy kids into combat armed with swords. In his twenty years in Marine Special Forces he could not recall a more bizarre situation.

  All operational personnel wore the same kit: fighting suits under light, body armor and standard combat helmets. The only people not so equipped were the medics and the hares. Used as runners, the hares relied on their speed and agility for protection.

  Telford and Okuma sported a quiver of arrows over their right shoulders. The marine had serious reservations about how effective the toy bows would be against armored troops. The captain insisted they could be of use. Redpath never argued with the captain.

  He eyed Telford again, wondering if he would risk this wild card if things got dicey. As if Telford did not carry enough weapons, a bone-handled hunting knife hung from the webbing under his left shoulder and a bayonet under his right. The acting ensign glanced at him as if sensing the marine’s eyes.

  Although Telford nodded and forced a tight smile he could not hide his smoldering hostility. He had become noticeably livid when Redpath assigned Telford’s team to Tactical Reserve. Telford did not want to watch from the sidelines. Yet if the speedily fashioned plan stood a chance of working, Redpath did not want untried amateurs getting under foot.

  Next to Telford, Dearkov lovingly stroked the head of her ax. Redpath had been quietly astonished when she volunteered to keep an eye on the middies. She stayed close to Telford, saying little, but ready to act, even eager to please.

  Cmdr Demianski caught Redpath’s attention and held up one finger. “Listen up people, one minute to go,” Redpath yelled. He struggled through the crowd and squeezed onto the flight deck.

  Through the view-plate, Picaroon loomed large as Truculent closed the gap between them. Much larger than the pursuing monitor, she followed the basic design of most space-going warships. A long, broad, wedge-shaped vessel, four decks higher than the monitor and eight times her displacement.

  Truculent fired two torpedoes. At a preprogrammed point on either side of Picaroon's sensor array, the torpedoes detonated. Instead of a massive wash of nuclear fire, a ripple of Weapons Counter Measures discharge washed over the headhunter. Until the enemy physically carried out repairs she would be as blind as a drunk in a closet.

  “We have a go, sir,” CPO Stokes said from the pilot's seat.

  “Very well, chief,” Demianski said, “proceed.”

  Redpath headed aft as the engines increased to full power. Seconds later, Stokes disengaged the magnetic skids and the landing boat broke away from Truculent’s topside.

  While Redpath checked the hatch controls he noticed Okuma lean in to Telford's ear.

  “Well Stanley,” she whispered, "here's another fine mess you've gotten us into."

  Not for the first time Redpath considered that within the tight confines of a landing boat, secrets were as impossible to hide as a fart in a v-suit. Okuma was right on the money. They had all fallen into one shit-hole of a fine mess.

  ***

  Nathan shrugged at Moe and forced a smile.

  Tactical Reserve! What the hell does that mean? Somewhere to put the middies so they didn't get in the way? The teams were facing odds of at least three to one. They needed every trained body they could muster. But nooooo, Redpath would rather go into combat with four fewer bodies than suffer the possibility the middies might actually prove to be useful. Frigging stubborn ground pounder.

  Nathan dismissed the thought of telling the jarhead what he thought of him. Probably inadvisable with a man like Redpath. The veteran marine was reputed to be able to kill a grown man with a buttercup. At least the mission was on track.

  Nathan grabbed the overhead hand-hold and limbered up. Within the crowded LB he kept bumping into Dearkov's bulky frame. She had recently become his shadow and kept darting short, awkward smiles in his direction. What had come over her? With eye gestures he asked Moe what was going on. Moe shrugged and turned away.

  “Twenty seconds,” the commander said. “Truculent reports the dampening field is currently non-operational. Check your energy weapons.”

  The medieval weapons slid into improvised sheaths and pulsar rifles came to hand.

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Tactical Reserve, go forward,” Redpath ordered.

  Nathan's jaw tightened as he led his team through the crush.

  Redpath stood by the hatch, rifle in one hand, combination tumbler in the other. Chief Petty Officer Rocca covered the other side of the hatch. A slight bump indicated a successful docking maneuver. A dull metallic clunk confirmed the universal locking clamps had sealed the two vessels together. The boat hatch snapped open. The marine attached the tumbler to the locking mechanism of the headhunter hatch. Redpath’s weapon settled into his shoulder as the locking combination cracked.

  When the inner hatch snapped open the marines glanced cautiously into Picaroon’s interior. They stared into the ship for about five seconds. Over Redpath's shoulder Nathan saw Rocca's face turn pink.

  “Fuckers,” Rocca whispered. A grimace covered his face as he averted his eyes.

  Redpath’s hard, unflinching eyes sighted along the barrel of his rifle. �
�Flankers out. Secure the area.”

  Four of Redpath's brutes poured through the hatch and in less than a minute gave the all-clear.

  “Medics out.” Redpath’s voice became as hard as granite.

  A knot twisted into the pit of Nathan's stomach. He followed the two medics and stopped at the hatch. Nathan peered into the headhunter ship. His stomach lurched.

  Leo Saunders hung from the side of the corridor. His arms had been welded to the walls of the corridor in an X pattern crucifixion. What they had done to him was …

  “Cut him down,” Redpath growled.

  Nathan pushed back tears that threatened to blind him. He needed to do something. As if walking through a waking nightmare he stepped through the hatch. Redpath restrained him within a firm grasp. Nathan bared his teeth and wrenched his arm free with a savage twist.

  Nathan stared into Leo’s lifeless eyes. Blood ran down his cheeks. His eyelids had been sliced off.

  Redpath grabbed his shoulder. “We all have our duty to perform, son. Are you capable of protecting the landing boat?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  Redpath nodded and turned to his team. “What are you killers waiting for. Let’s go.”

  Alpha Team followed him into the ship.

  The medics had to use laser torches to cut the body free.

  As the bloody lump of butchered flesh fell, Nathan scooped it into his arms. Redpath was wrong. Leo did not die during the ambush. His naked body still retained slight warmth and rigor-mortis had not fully set in. These fucking animals had hours to work on him. Leo had been alive when they crucified him.

  Battling against grief and rage Nathan carried Leo into the LB.

  Nathan took special care not to bump Leo’s head against the coaming. He placed his body gently onto the airlock deck. The lifeless eyes stared at him. Where were you, they cried. Where were you while they tortured me to death?

  Nathan’s body shuddered as he forced his fury under control. Pull it together Telford, it’s time to get bloody.

  CHAPTER 51

  Date: 16th August, 320 ASC.

  Position: Headhunter Picaroon. One hundred & five minutes from the northern frontier (Rio Grande).

  Status: Awaiting implementation of Operation Ensnare, phase two.

  “The enemy has cracked the port midships hatch.” Weiss smirked at the prospect. “Four enemy boarders are scouting the corridors.”

  “Can you get an internal reading on the LB?”

  “Negative, captain.”

  Foss’ day of redemption had finally arrived. He felt light-headed at the probable outcome.

  “The first boarding party has entered the ship.”

  “How many?”

  Weiss sniggered. “Seven.”

  Foss knew the captain of this monitor. Not personally of course, but intel reports on Donatella Waugh had seeped from the south over the years. She was by far their best line officer. With the external scanners knocked out he could not be sure what she was up to.

  “Hatch cracked, starboard bow. Another boarding party.”

  This successful operation would change his fortunes. Restoration of citizenship and perhaps more. Today he would show no mercy.

  “The second boarding party is aboard. Another seven fools into the net.”

  Weiss was a coward and a fool. Earlier he had taken matters into his own hands with the atrocities he committed against the civilians.

  “Enemy teams are moving toward deck five,” Weiss said. “As expected.”

  Foss nodded slowly.

  From the periphery of the bridge he sensed the officer’s presence. Saxon said little, simply waiting for the captain's order to activate the energy dampener. Lt Saxon might wear an IRN uniform but Foss knew him for what he was. Foss did not care. To get off this ship and regain his life he would deal with the devil himself.

  Saxon’s ruthlessness had hidden behind a civilized façade for months. The bloody aftermath of Grunberg's interrogation brought about a dramatic change to that benign impression. Saxon’s coldblooded murder of the two saboteurs was done with ease, confidence and pleasure. Yes, perhaps not Satan, but a damn close relative.

  “Both enemy teams are on deck five,” Weiss reported. "Should I activate our platoons, captain?”

  “You’ll do what I say and no more,” Foss bellowed.

  In another life he might feel sorry for the Athenians. In this life they were a means to escape his misery. Damn the rules of war. And damn the Athenians.

  CHAPTER 52

  Lt Cmdr Scobie O'Donnell led Beta Team to deck five without incident. So far so good. Scaroni took point, rifle in one hand sensor pad in the other. Lt Alderman covered her.

  “Scobie,” Demianski called, “we have small groups of hostiles on decks three and four, directly above your position. They're static for now but that could change so watch your six.”

  “Roger.”

  There was no easy way of accomplishing their mission. O’Donnell had memorized the schematic showing possible locations of the civvies. Truculent’s sensor sweeps indicated that deck five housed the ship's cargo holds. They contained replacement parts, food stocks, general supplies and an indeterminate number of sensor traces. In a best-guess scenario the cargo holds presented the most promising starting point. His team moved cautiously aft sensor-scanning each compartment, wary that death could lurk behind any hatch. The lack of headhunter activity increased his edginess. He had expected an attack when the internal hatch slid open. As with any soldier he feared the waiting far more than the actual combat.

  Scaroni slowed her pace and examined her sensor pad. She pointed to the next hatch on the port side. The internal hatches on a ship of this vintage were old style, round-handle type. She un-dogged the hatch and took a cautionary peek inside. Scaroni nodded to O'Donnell and stepped through the hatch. The COB examined one of the eight men who lay sprawled on the hard deck. They were all neatly dressed and did not stink of headhunter sweat. Their glazed eyes expressed the Francs’ intense agony. They hissed and groaned when Scaroni touched their wounds. The COB stared bleakly at O'Donnell.

  “The bastards broke their ankles,” Scaroni said.

  O'Donnell nodded, his feelings pensive. The deliberately brutal nature of the Francs’ injuries contained a degree of atypical headhunter ingenuity. His team was supposed to find these damaged men. If his small squad was attacked they would be burdened with eight civilians incapable of independent mobility. Their one true advantage, speed, had been shattered as cleanly as the sixteen purposeful fractures.

  While the medic worked on the Franc civvies, O'Donnell reported to Demianski.

  “Unusually clever for brutes.” The commander's tone held none of its usual dryness. “Did you copy that, Rusty?”

  “Yes sir. We’re double-timing it to his position.”

  O'Donnell sensed a nervous stirring in his gut. Headhunters might be little more than savages but they possessed animal cunning. Hauling these shattered men back to the boat would take time they might not have.

  ***

  “Hold on Sarge.”

  Redpath nearly plowed into Petty Officer Tokunaga.

  Her eyes remained fixed to his sensor pad. “I have warm bodies, two hatches down, port side.”

  “Shit!” As much as he needed to reach O'Donnell's team he could not leave his flanks exposed. He raised his rifle and stepped to the hatch. Down on one knee he un-dogged the hatch and pulled it open. He risked a quick glance into the dimly lit room. Redpath took in the sight, fell back against the bulkhead and sighed. They had found the Franc women.

  When the women saw him standing in the hatch they began to cry, some whimpering pathetically. This was not the first time he had witnessed such an outrage. Redpath detailed two female teammates to care for the distraught women. Sensor scans indicated that the women ranged in age, with the oldest in her early sixties down to a girl in her mid teens. Redpath’s lips compres
sed as the pitiable weeping resounded from the room.

  CPO Sal Rocca shook his head, disgust written across his face. “I can’t wait to catch up with the fucking heroes who did this, Sarge.”

  Minutes later the pitiful sobbing gradually diminished. His people patiently explained that danger still threatened. With gentle insistence, they got the women to their feet and moving. They emerged in twos, clinging to one another, bruised bodies, torn, bloody clothing held together with trembling hands.

  One of the women stumbled and Rocca reached out a supporting hand. The woman cried out and cringed away from him. Rocca held his hands in supplication and backed off.

  Into Redpath’s ear Rocca whispered, “I thought we were the good guys.”

  Redpath suppressed the rage threatening to overcome his professional detachment. “I doubt if any of these women will look at a man and see a good guy for a very long time.”

  Something does not add up. Headhunters were beasts in human form but they were also businessmen. The bottom line always dictated their actions. This sort of obscenity went contrary to their basic imperative. In the Pruessen tradition since the end of the war, their ships carried no female crews. So yes, they might have a taste of the product, but brutalizing their merchandise to this extent was extremely uncommon. This had not been the usual selective reward for the officers. It was a deliberate, systematic process designed to break the women physically and spiritually.

  Redpath reported his situation to the commander.

  “The way is open to evacuate the civilians directly to the LB one,” Demianski said. “The troops above you are making no moves to collate or intercept either of your teams. I don't like the smell of this, Rusty.”

  “Me neither, sir."

  “I’m sending the Reserves to assist you. No arguments Rusty. Like it or not you need them. I will – ”

  The comm snapped off. In the same instant every light went out.

  CHAPTER 53