The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

  “We are in the main port-side cargo hold. The enemy is using cutting tools to get to us. I estimate no more than ten minutes until they get through. How is Auntie doing?”

  The commander's update on Grimmett's failure painted a gloomy picture. “Can you hold out, Rusty?”

  “Guess we'll have to,” Redpath said.

  A long pause followed. “You have eighty-plus on the other side of the hatch.” Again the silence.

  “We’ll make sure to take some of them with us.”

  “Very well. Demianski out.”

  ***

  Cmdr Grimmett fired her rifle, bringing down another enemy combatant. Gamma team fell under attack twenty meters from their LB. A desperate running gun battle ensued as the Athenians backed toward the boat. Blazing silver pulsar fire ricocheted off the bulkheads from more than twenty enemy soldiers. The gammas killed five of their attackers and wounded an unknown number. Just shy of the LB Iris Ahrens was hit in the chest. Grimmett dragged her into the protection of the boat.

  “Chief, stand by to disengage on my mark,” Grimmett yelled.

  “Standing by.”

  Grimmett removed the shaped charge from her satchel and primed it.

  “Fall back to the boat now,” she yelled.

  Firing automatic rifle bursts, the team cleared the corridor of all resistance before diving into the boat. Grimmett pulled the pin on the improvised explosive device, threw it into the corridor and secured the hatch.

  “Now, chief,” she yelled.

  To the accompaniment of severe grinding the LB disengaged from Picaroon. Grimmett counted the seconds. She had no idea if the makeshift bomb would work.

  Through the forward view-plate she saw a brief burst of orange flames as Picaroon’s hatch disintegrated. The escaping air turned into fine mist as it bled from the vessel. Most pleasing to the eye were the four mangled bodies expelled into space.

  While the medic worked on Iris, Grimmett reported to Demianski.

  “Commander, we have egressed Picaroon and are in transit to Truculent.”

  “Very well.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to come up with another plan.”

  ***

  From the outset the operation had been plagued by bad luck. Without the ingenious secondary hatch to frustrate their efforts, Gamma Team would have had the bridge crew for breakfast. Redpath reflected that bad luck could undo the best-laid plans.

  The COB stood by Redpath’s side watching the line of sparks make its final slow cut. The cutting torch spilled the embers onto the deck of the purpose-made corridor CPO Rocca had named Redpath’s Run.

  “Well Emmett,” Scaroni said, “it's been quite a life we've had.”

  “Wouldn’t have had it any other way, Corrina.”

  In silence he stared at the hatch for some time while contemplating their short futures.

  “This is the only way for soldiers to retire,” Scaroni said

  “Definitely!”

  She stepped close and whispered. “I'll take care of the civvies, if you like?”

  He snorted without humor. “I'll deal with my responsibilities.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The line of sparks stopped when they reached the hatch’s lower coaming. Minutes passed before the lights went out. Once again the overheads cast a dull green hue across the hold. Now we're for it.

  “Switch,” Redpath yelled.

  The fourteen determined men and women prepared for the final assault.

  A great slab of hatch crashed onto the deck. Redpath braced for the sound of the screaming, frenzied attack. Instead, a tall, lean man stepped through the opening and onto Redpath’s Run. The cheeky sod marched down the corridor smiling as he examined the makeshift construction. Rank after rank of armored troops followed him. All were armed with broadswords. The newcomer stopped five meters from the barricade while his troops crowded in behind him. He removed his helmet, revealing a long, pock-marked face lacking the usual headhunter beard. His hands went to his hips.

  “Who speaks for this detachment?” he demanded.

  ***

  “I suppose we’ll have to come up with another plan,” Cmdr Demianski said, ending the transmission.

  Nathan noted the dull hue of defeat in the commander’s eyes.

  Demianski glanced at Nathan, did a double take then sighed.

  “Very well, Telford, if you’ve got something to say, get it off your chest.”

  As succinctly as he could, Nathan patiently explained the bones of his strategy. The commander procrastinated.

  “You’ve seen what we can do to an organized enemy in a confined space,” Nathan said.

  Cmdr Demianski set a hostile eye on the acting ensign. “I saw everything you did, Telford. Everything.” He rubbed his chin. “If they drop the dampening field, they’ll detect your team’s weapons emissions. Even if your sensor suppressors mask your bio signatures you will show up on their internal sensors. When that happens – ”

  Nathan slammed his sidearm onto the console. Four more sidearms joined his.

  “If this plan doesn't work a few sidearms won't make a shit’s bit of difference, will they?” Nathan expelled a noisy breath between pursed lips. “Commander, I apologize for my … abruptness. I appreciate that the responsibility for this operation falls squarely on your shoulders. But we can’t just sit here while our shipmates are butchered. To do nothing is unconscionable, sir.”

  The commander shook his head.

  “I don’t like the idea of sending grommits into the teeth of battle.” He shook his head again. “But I’ll agree to this as long as you stick to the plan. Do you read me, ensign?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  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 members 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 breathe nor blink. Gradually the rumble of 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 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 choose 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 the 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 his 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 to rejoin the fight. He tore off the helmet an
d 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.