A stocky man strode over and stood beside Trenchard. His insignia identified him as Trenchard’s Lieutenant Commander. He too was glaring angrily at the prisoners and then he spoke quietly to Trenchard through gritted teeth.
‘This should have been a straight forward mission, damn it boss! I’ve just about had enough of the bloody insurgents stirring things up. What the fuck do they want with one of Jupiter’s moons anyway? I mean, Europa for fucks sake! It’s a pissy little moon in the arse end of nowhere. There’s absolutely nothing whatsoever of value here!’
Trenchard grunted in agreement. ‘I think these fuckers just like to cause mischief wherever they can,’ he replied.
Not much had changed since the Martian uprising four years ago, Trenchard thought to himself as he scratched reflectively at his scar again. It was a solid reminder of the uprising in Belatu-Cadros. That was where the insurgents had first learned to fight, learned to make bombs and learned to kill. He had beaten the “Red Right Hand” on Mars, but they had managed to regroup and grow stronger on other planets. The war against the Rubente Dextera still raged relentlessly across the United Worlds despite the best efforts of the Space Navy.
‘The insurgent leaders must have persuaded the colonists on Europa to declare independence somehow. If there’s one thing that the United Worlds government hates, then it’s pokey little back water colonies trying to avoid paying their taxes by suddenly getting all holier than thou!’ Trenchard groused.
The massive star-ship that Trenchard was currently based upon, the “Hand of Valour”, had been sent to Europa to deal with the recent uprising. It had arrived in orbit of Europa and Trenchard’s platoon had been blasted towards the small moon, expecting an easy victory. He played back the journey from the Hand of Valour to the surface of Europa in his head, remembering the sudden thrust of acceleration as they blasted off. He recalled the shaking and jostling as the tiny Space-Air-Water drop-ship fell through the thin atmosphere of Europa. He could almost feel the sudden jolt of deceleration as the tiny ship plunged into the icy ocean and dived towards the atmosphere processing station, deep beneath the ice on the ocean floor. That was where the trouble had really started.
‘I don’t understand it boss,’ said the Lieutenant Commander bitterly. ‘It should have been a piece of piss to gain entry to the atmosphere processor. These guys are supposed to be civilian engineers and technicians. It was a straight-forward op!’
Trenchard nodded. ‘It should have been,’ he agreed, ‘but that was before the fucking R.D. armed the colonists and taught them how to make I.E.D.s. They’re spreading their political hatred to as many people as will listen to them. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. It’s fucking Belatu-Cadros all over again.’
The Lieutenant Commander gave Trenchard a respectful smile and a nod. Every trooper knew about Belatu-Cadros. It was where the war against the terrorists had begun in earnest. In the early days, the enemy were only fervent amateurs and they had done enough damage as it was. Someone had obviously taught the Europan colonists the same guerrilla tactics that had been used on Mars. They had started blowing up barrels of oil, packed with nails and bolts, as the troopers gained entry to the airlocks. Trenchard shuddered as he felt the heat of the explosion in his mind. He could see the troopers falling all around him, feel their fear and taste the air that was thick with smoke and the tinny smell of blood and burning flesh.
‘How many did we lose?’ asked Trenchard grimly.
‘At least half of the squad,’ replied the Lieutenant Commander, ‘mostly to deep tissue shrapnel wounds.’ He turned and spat onto the ground. ‘Bastards!’
Trenchard looked down at the deep, fresh wound on his own arm as he pulled back his ripped sleeve and scratched at the skin around it. He winced in pain, idly plucking shards of metal from the wound. He would have another scar; another permanent reminder of battle and death. It had been a hard battle. Too hard. He was remarkably pissed off.
‘I don’t know about you,’ said Trenchard, ‘but I feel like I want to rip someone’s head off and piss down their neck!’
The Lieutenant Commander grinned. All it would take was one more little push and Trenchard might just forget that he was supposed to set a good example to the other troopers. The chained prisoners who were standing in a line in front of him were the ring leaders. Most of them were from other colonies, far away. They were R.D. insurgent agitators, trying to persuade the people of Europa to revolt against the rule of the United Worlds. Well these guys would pay, Trenchard thought grimly.
‘Is that all of them?’ he asked his Lieutenant Commander.
The stocky man nodded and replied, ‘All present and accounted for Sir.’
For a moment, something caught Trenchard’s eye. On the other side of the vast hangar bay, other S.A.W. craft were returning from the frozen surface of Europa. Trenchard watched a couple of the missile shaped craft land with a thump and whistle of engines. Through the rectangular hole at the end of the runway the white moon of Europa hung in the blackness like a well-worn billiard ball, criss-crossed with dark scarlet cracks. He would be glad to see the back of that crappy little moon he thought as he dropped the spent cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out with his blood splashed boot. He walked over to the prisoners and eyeballed them angrily before beginning his well-rehearsed tirade.
‘You fuckers picked the wrong people to mess with today,’ he shouted. ‘In case you hadn’t been watching the I.N.N. news reports recently, President Smith has just brought back the death sentence for terrorists.’
In the background, another S.A.W.s hatch opened and a weary trooper stomped out. He was wearing a scruffy red ribbon tied around his greasy dishevelled hair, which he pulled off and wrung the sweat out of before replacing it onto his head. He saw Trenchard tearing shreds out of the prisoners and began to walk over, grinning broadly. The grinning trooper stopped just behind Trenchard with his arms folded, seeming to take great pleasure in the entertainment.
‘Section forty-two allows me to execute terrorists on sight! I’d quite happily carry out the sentence right here,’ Trenchard threatened, dramatically drawing his pistol from its holster and clicking a round into the chamber.
‘Smith’s wrong!’ said one of the prisoners in a trembling but determined voice. ‘You are wrong! We want freedom to self-rule, not martial law forced upon us by thugs like you!’
Trenchard narrowed his eyes and walked closer to the prisoner. The man was defiantly staring at him with unbridled hatred in his eyes. Trenchard finally snapped. He’d had enough. He pressed the pistol hard to the man’s forehead. The man did a good job of putting on a brave face, but Trenchard could see the terror welling in his eyes.
‘Do you think that blowing up booby traps packed with sharp metal is the answer?’ he growled. ‘Do you think that it’s honourable or even fair? You might not like the United Worlds but at least we keep the peace. You lot would be kicking ten tons of shit out of each other if it wasn’t for us! Would you prefer that? Don’t you realise that we’re protecting you useless bunch of fuckwits?’
The prisoner’s face reddened but he remained tight lipped.
‘Unfortunately, unlike you criminals, “thugs like me” have to follow the rules.’ Trenchard pulled back the pistol, disarmed the mechanism and slid it safely back into its holster. It had left a perfect red imprint of the barrel on the man’s forehead. ‘But mark my words,’ he continued, ‘if any of you terrorist arseholes put so much as one bollock out of line, I will put you down like a fucking rabid dog! Understood?’
The prisoners remained solemnly silent. Trenchard placed his hands behind his back and tried to relax his aching shoulders. ‘Take them away,’ he ordered, completely exhausted.
As the prisoners shuffled dejectedly away towards the holding cells to await transport back to Earth for trial, Trenchard became aware of childish sniggering behind him. He turned around to find the trooper with the bright red head-band, leaning lazily on the butt
of his rifle and chuckling with obvious glee.
‘Very impressive Trench,’ said the man in a broad Geordie accent. ‘You made them fuckers shit their pants all right!’
Trenchard scowled at the grinning trooper. ‘Haven’t you got something better to do Dasilva?’ he growled.
Lieutenant Commander Dasilva smiled and winked. ‘Whey aye, but I couldn’t miss the show man. It was champion!’
Trenchard looked around to make sure that the prisoners were out of ear shot and then broke into a broad grin himself. ‘Piss off Eddie!’ he said. ‘Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight face with you pratting around behind me?’
‘Aye well, you seemed to manage all right enough,’ said Dasilva with a chuckle, then his face dropped and became suddenly serious. ‘Did you lose many?’
Trenchard grimaced. ‘Twelve… you?’
‘Most of the squad,’ replied Dasilva, ‘just four of our lot made it back, and Commander Fisher took some shrapnel to his hand.’
‘Shit!’ said Trenchard as helpfully as he could. ‘How’s he taking it?’
‘Fisher?’ said Dasilva, ‘Ahh, he’ll be all right. The man’s as tough as old boots. He’s got footballs for knackers! He’s more upset about losing good troopers. That prick reporter on the news is going to have a field day with this!’
Trenchard took another cigarette from its packet and offered one to Dasilva, who refused.
‘I just have this creeping feeling that maybe…’ Trenchard began in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. He tailed off, deep in thought. ‘This sort of thing used to be sorted out peacefully by the politicians. The United Worlds is supposed to be a democracy Eddie. We’re meant to uphold the law and protect the people. Recently, things have been… different. High Command didn’t even give them a chance to negotiate this time; we just waded straight in, feet first. This mission wasn’t honourable.’ Trenchard narrowed his eyes and stared at Dasilva. ‘Know what I mean?’
Dasilva looked around nervously. ‘Yeah, I know mate,’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘But keep it to yourself man, or Ciaputa will have you up on a subordination charge.’
Trenchard’s shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply. ‘Oh… I don’t know Ed. I’m probably just tired, but this doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s not what I signed up for.’
Dasilva gave a quick nod of affirmation. ‘You can’t do anything about it mate, other than vote that is. Smith and Chang are running things right now and they’re talking tough! Pretty soon there’ll be another election and the government will change again. Someone else will be in charge and they’ll try diplomacy again instead of the hard line. Trust me, you’ll see.’
Trenchard nodded knowingly. ‘I hope you’re right Eddie,’ he said. Then he paused and stretched, cracking his aching back. ‘I could do with a fuckin’ big drink,’ he sighed, stretching some more and clicking the bones of his neck.
‘With a bit of luck,’ said Dasilva, ‘we’ll all be back at base on Cairn soon and we should all be due some leave after that mess down there,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards Europa. ‘Fancy a pint in Mike’s and then a curry?’
Mike’s Bar was the local haunt for the troopers at their home base on Cairn. The thought of its sticky floor and sticky beer was very tempting. Trenchard was about to reply when the dull, toneless voice of the ship’s Guardian computer echoed over the tannoy system.
‘COMMANDER JOSIAH TRENCHARD, REPORT TO COMMODORE CIAPUTA ON THE BRIDGE IMMEDIATELY.’
Dasilva looked up and listened to the message with a puzzled expression. ‘What does that frigid old bitch want?’ he asked with more than a hint of bile.
Trenchard shrugged. ‘God only knows, but it can’t be good. I’ll see you later Ed.’
With that, Trenchard picked up his heavy harness from the floor and trudged off towards the bridge, past the tail fin of the S.A.W. where the Space Navy’s proud slogan of “Honour, strength and unity!” was painted in bold white letters. It was a motto by which Trenchard had tried to live his life. Recently, it was becoming harder to adhere to.
As he left, Dasilva shouted cockily after him, ‘Keep your hands in your pockets mate, or she’ll freeze your bollocks off!’
The bridge was a shielded dome that was built onto the outside of one of the massive rugby ball shaped habitation pods that rotated continually around the hull of the Hand of Valour on giant metal spokes to provide gravity within. The domed floor of the bridge faced space-side, with the main hull and engine core of the ship above the crew’s heads. An iris shaped hatch in the ceiling slid apart gracefully with the sound of grating metal and Trenchard was lowered down on a circular platform towards the deck below. He waited respectfully at attention for a moment as he studied the bridge watch-standers busying themselves at various control stations set around the curved walls of the compartment. At the front of the bridge was a large reinforced rectangular window that gave a view of space ahead. Clustered around a large tactical hologram in the centre of the room were several high-ranking officers. Trenchard coughed politely and a female officer in her late forties, who was wearing an immaculate bright scarlet uniform, seemed to notice him for the first time. By the look on her face, his very presence appeared to annoy her somewhat.
‘Ahh, there you are Trenchard,’ said Commodore Constantine Ciaputa in a clipped, tight voice that sounded like the lid of a heavy, wooden box snapping shut.
Ciaputa handed a tablet screen that she was holding to an aide who rushed over from one side. She shooed the aide away irritably and the young officer dropped his head and respectfully backed away again.
‘You sent for me Sir?’ enquired Trenchard as politely as he could muster. He was tired, dirty and aching. He was in no mood for another telling off from his boss. Ciaputa was the worst kind of officer. She had worked her way up the ranks by doing as little as possible and brown-nosing her superiors. She was now the commanding officer of the Hand of Valour. Trenchard severely doubted whether she had ever seen any combat action at all.
‘Yes Commander, I did,’ replied Ciaputa with a curled lip. ‘At ease.’
Trenchard relaxed his shoulders and placed his hands behind his back, widening his stance. Ciaputa studied Trenchard as if he were something that she had found crawling around under a rotten tree stump. Then she seemed to come to an internal decision.
‘I’ve had word from Admiral Fife at High Command. A new posting has become available and you have been selected.’
‘Sir?’ said Trenchard with a raised eyebrow.
He didn’t like the sound of this. He was comfortable aboard the Hand of Valour. The quarters were quite big compared to some of the smaller ships in the fleet. The food was good and the water wasn’t rationed. He had respect here. He had worked hard to get where he was and didn’t want to leave so soon. Had he done something wrong? Ciaputa seemed to be taking pleasure from Trenchard’s disquiet. She smiled a greasy smile as she continued.
‘The first prototype Wolverine class vessel has just come into operation. Four of the hunter-killers are being sent into the asteroid belt on a seek-and-destroy mission. One of the Wolverines, the Might of Fortitude, is short of an X.O. It seems that the Captain of the vessel has specifically requested you to be his executive officer... although god only knows why?’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Trenchard as politely as he could manage.
It was astounding how Ciaputa could congratulate and belittle in the same breath.
‘The Breath of Vengeance is going to meet us when we dock at Cairn. You will transfer over to her immediately upon arrival. I’m afraid your leave is cancelled as the mission has been brought forward and you are required aboard the Might of Fortitude straight away. That is all.’
With that, Ciaputa turned back towards the glowing green tactical hologram. She snapped her fingers at the aide who rushed back over and handed her the tablet screen once more. Obviously, the audience was over. For a moment, Trenchard didn’t move. He was still shocked by the sudde
n re-deployment. Ciaputa glanced irritably back at Trenchard over her shoulder, seemingly annoyed that he was still here.
‘Dismissed,’ she said sharply and then turned back to her work.
Trenchard stepped back onto the elevator platform and left the bridge in an even worse temper than before. No leave, he thought angrily. Why the hell did the Captain of the Might of Fortitude need him so damned urgently anyway? The Wolverines were a little bigger than the old Hunter class, but they were still cramped fucking sewage pipes compared to the Hand of Valour. This day had started shitty and had just gotten worse and worse.
Deep below the rocky surface of the desolate planetoid Cairn, was a blast shielded, circular bunker. Its twelve-foot-thick concrete walls were resin bonded and electronically shielded. The “War Room” could withstand any attack from orbit and all attempts at espionage. The room resembled a cave or basement. It had a clammy, dank feel and the atmosphere within was oppressive and the lighting subdued.
The man in the centre of the room was clearly agitated; he paced back and forth with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and a tight-lipped expression on his stony face. He wore the bright red uniform with four diagonal black stripes of an Admiral and he looked as if he had the worries of the whole navy bearing down upon his shoulders.
Suddenly, the reinforced titanium blast door screeched open and another figure walked casually into the room. This second man was tall and broad shouldered. His face too was stern and had the polished ebony skin of an Afro-Caribbean lineage. His uniform was also bright scarlet but had a single downward pointing black V that ran from his shoulders towards his stomach. There was only one man in the whole fleet who had the privilege to wear that uniform; Admiral of the Fleet Adisa. He came to a halt in front of the first man, who had stopped pacing and was staring into Adisa’s eyes as if his life depended upon it.
The Space Navy Series Books One & Two: Including the Kindle novellas Josiah Trenchard and the Might of Fortitude & Josiah Trenchard and the Morgenstern Page 2
