The Space Navy Series Books One & Two: Including the Kindle novellas Josiah Trenchard and the Might of Fortitude & Josiah Trenchard and the Morgenstern

by Jonathon Fletcher

  Captain Bird placed a comforting hand onto Pugh’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m reassured by your concern Pugh, but we’ll have to straighten out the kinks while we’re out there. We’re close to finding Harlequin now, so very close. If we can take him out, then the whole of the pirate organisation will be plunged into disarray. They’ll be too busy fighting between themselves over who will be their new leader to pose a significant threat to the space-lanes. The time to strike is now. We don’t want to disappoint Admiral Fife now do we?’

  Bird squeezed Pugh’s shoulder and Pugh gave a worried little nod of acceptance.

  ‘No Sir.’

  So, that was the mission target, thought Trenchard. Harlequin was the pirate’s mysterious and enigmatic leader. All that was known about them was that they wore a space suit painted in a bright red and black jester pattern. It wasn’t even known if they were male or female. Whoever they were, they were a magnificent strategist and had a reputation for being ruthless and cunning. If they were going after Harlequin, then the mission was extremely important and also damn bloody dangerous. Trenchard made a mental note to bawl out Bird in private later for not telling him about Harlequin sooner.

  ‘Shall we?’ asked Bird, waving his arm for Trenchard to enter the main hatch.

  ‘I’d fucking love to!’ Trenchard replied gruffly as he stepped aboard the Might of Fortitude, right foot first.

  Over the next hour, the party of four officers toured the whole spacecraft, Cochran making a snagging list of faults on a touch screen pad as they went. They took in everything from the engine room that housed the fusion drive, through the escape pods, air re-cycling store, mess, cabins, missile room and launch gear, before finally ending up at the entrance hatch to the control room. Unlike the larger vessels, the room that the Might of Fortitude was controlled and operated from was referred to as the “control room” rather than the “bridge”, another hangover from its ancient submarine lineage.

  The control room was situated at the extreme of one of the four fins where the gravity would be highest in flight. As Trenchard climbed down the metal ladder into the control room, a wave of stifling air and body odour hit him from the multitude of electronic equipment and body heat which was produced in the cramped space. As he settled his mag-boots onto the floor with a clunk, he looked about the room. It was roughly oval shaped, set at the top of the opposite fin to the main hatch, the deck being space-side and accessed by the metal ladder through a hatch in the overhead that led into the rest of the ship. Every available surface was festooned with pipes and cables of multiple colours. The various control stations were crammed in around the curved walls and a small rectangular reinforced window slit gave the actual view of near space towards the front.

  In the centre of the deck stood the virtual reality control station or “Conn”, where the officer on deck would stand to oversee operations. This one station could, if required, control every single function of the ship automatically with the aid of the on-board Guardian computer system.

  The Conn was more like an upright body splint than a chair. It held the legs steady, enabling the torso and arms to move freely through virtual reality. Captain Bird had already been strapped into the leg braces with help from Warrant Officer Cochran. He then placed a black visor over his eyes from which small metal tubes extended and clamped around his forehead and temples. From Captain Bird’s point of view, the control room no longer existed. He could see everything around the ship, as if he were part of the ship itself. He could operate any control by merely waving his arms in the air in front of him or, with practice, by merely thinking about what he wanted the ship to do.

  Trenchard gazed around the rest of the cramped control room as the watch-standers settled into their positions. He had been on the old Hunter class vessels before but the layout of the new Wolverine class was slightly different. There was more automation for a start and so therefore fewer crewmembers in the control room. At the front, underneath the view slit, sat two junior ranked helmsmen in charge of steering and thrust. To their right sat an officer who was staring deeply into a glowing green tactical hologram showing near space and another next to him at the navigation plotting station. Behind them and overseeing their actions stood Lieutenant Commander Pugh, the Might of Fortitude’s Warfare Officer.

  To the left of the helm were the communications station, scanner control, and Warrant Officer Cochran who was settling into the weapons fire control station.

  Trenchard assumed his place behind Cochran, just behind and to the left of the Captain. Glancing back, at the rear of the control room, he could just see the technical station and damage control, manned by two junior engineering officers. Finally, Trenchard eyes came to rest on a brass plaque that was bolted to the back of the Conn. It had a picture of a dolphin inscribed into the metal and underneath the words “We hide with pride!” This was the traditional motto of the Space Navy’s hunter killer spacecraft and reflected their skill at stealth tactics. All the crew were ready, tense and expectant, concentrating on the job at hand. The feeling of concentration was tangible, like mist in the air.

  ‘Guardian,’ Captain Bird announced out loud, ‘transfer all automatic controls to respective manual stations and pipe the boat to harbour stations!’

  ‘CONTROL TRANSFERRED,’ said the monotone voice of the ship’s Guardian computer software. ‘ALL CREW TO STATIONS READY TO LEAVE HARBOUR.’

  The control room hummed with new power. The vessel seemed to come alive like a bear rousing from deep hibernation.

  ‘All stations check in,’ ordered Bird.

  One by one the officers called out to confirm that they were ready.

  ‘Clear moorings,’ ordered Bird.

  ‘Moorings cleared, aye, aye Sir.’

  Captain Bird tapped the air in front of him. To an onlooker it appeared odd, but inside the virtual reality he was operating controls that only he could see.

  ‘Captain Bird to Breath of Vengeance. We are squared away and ready to launch.’

  The voice of the controller came over the ship-wide communicator system. ‘Prepare for launch of Wolverines. Release clamps.’

  The Guardian software answered him, ‘DOCKING CLAMPS RELEASED.’

  Outside, the huge docking clamps that held the Might of Fortitude in place clicked and slid back with a hiss of compressed air and a loud clunk. She was now free from the Breath of Vengeance and ready to manoeuvre on her own. Navigation lights flickered on and blinking red and green lights shone out to port and starboard.

  The controller’s voice reverberated again. ‘Launch in five, four, three, two, one...’

  ‘Fire manoeuvring thrusters,’ ordered Captain Bird.

  Outside on the hull of the Might powerful thruster jets fired, pushing the vessel away from the hull of the Breath of Vengeance. Manoeuvring jets now fired and she began to spin gracefully outwards at an angle from the hull. Gradually she gained distance, spinning like an arrow in flight. Inside the Might of Fortitude, gravity finally took hold and the crew felt the weight of their bodies press them to the deck once more. The mag-boots that Trenchard was wearing automatically released as the gravity came back on and he stretched the aching muscles at the back of his legs. Being in the boots was like standing on a ladder for any length of time, all your muscles were pulled and stretched in odd ways. It always gave Trenchard cramps in his calf muscles. Finally, the nausea that Trenchard had been experiencing began to subside as his inner ear became accustomed to gravity once more.

  The three other Wolverines then slowly came into view from underneath the Breath of Vengeance, each spinning elegantly. As the ships formed up into a diamond pattern, a new voice came over the tannoy in a thick Canadian accent that Trenchard recognised from the chilli-dog eating competition in the mess.

  ‘This is Captain Collins aboard the Gift of Stealth. Permission to engage main thrusters,’ he said.

  ‘Permission granted to engage main thrusters on my mark,’ said the controller’s voice. ‘G
ood luck Captain, may you have clear skies and calm seas. Thrusters in three, two, one...’

  ‘Fire main thrusters,’ ordered Captain Bird.

  ‘Firing main thrusters, aye, aye, Sir.’

  Everyone on board felt the judder as the main engines came on line. The tactical hologram showed the four Wolverines peel off into different directions, heading for different sectors of the asteroid belt.

  When they had gained enough distance, Captain Bird pushed a small button on the black visor, just above the bridge of his nose and the small metal tubes retracted. He removed the visor and placed it safely back onto its stand next to the Conn. He looked tired and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

  ‘Christ, these things still give me a headache,’ he complained. ‘Well done everyone. That was first class. Kittinger, begin sweeping the area for exhaust trails. Schmidt, plot a safe course to the first waypoint. I don’t want any stray rocks damaging the paintwork. This boat is brand spanking new and Admiral Fife will have my guts for garters if I bring her back damaged.’

  He was met with a chorus of ‘Aye, aye Sir.’

  Bird carefully un-strapped his legs, stepped out of the stiff harness and stretched. ‘You’d think that they’d design something better than Velcro to hold your damned legs in!’ he grumbled to himself. ‘Cheap sons of…’ He caught Trenchard’s eye and winked. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Trenchard nodded appreciatively. ‘Nice shi... er, boat! Let’s hope that she doesn’t fall apart in the first battle.’

  This comment received a disapproving glance from Lieutenant Commander Pugh.

  Captain Bird chuckled. ‘There’s nothing you two can do up here for now. Most of the systems are switched to automation. Pugh, why don’t you take Trenchard down to meet his troopers? I’m sure that you’ll want to introduce yourself?’

  Trenchard smiled a broad smile. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve had to break in a new platoon. Come on Pugh, let’s go squeeze some balls!’

  Trenchard headed up the ladder followed by Pugh, who cast a despairing glance towards Captain Bird as he left.

  Aboard the Breath of Vengeance, a lone figure dressed in red stared out of a huge plexi-glass observation window. The expanse of the asteroid belt stretched out almost to infinity in front of him and the four Wolverines could still just about be made out as small dots disappearing into the darkness; tiny points of light alone in the void. The sun was a distant orb, still bright but diminutive and lonely looking. The rocks that orbited here were cold and dark; gravestones marking the deaths of the many sailors who had dared to traverse this forbidding and lonely place, hunting ground of the pirates.

  A second figure walked over and stopped beside the first, waiting respectfully. This man was wearing the uniform of a Captain, black with a downward pointing red “V”. After a few minutes of silence, the Captain brought his clenched fist up towards his lips and coughed politely.

  The red clad figure seemed to notice the Captain for the first time and sighed deeply before speaking. ‘Are they away safely Overvoorde?’

  Captain Overvoorde nodded. ‘Yes, Admiral Fife. The launch went ahead as scheduled without a hitch.’

  Fife nodded, but he seemed distant and pensive.

  ‘Is everything alright Admiral?’ Overvoorde asked carefully.

  The Admiral was renowned for being moody, but this was a dark meditation even for him. Fife finally broke his gaze from the distant, diminishing pin-prick that was the Might of Fortitude and turned to face Overvoorde.

  ‘Yes. Fine. I’m just concerned about this mission. There’s a great deal resting on the backs of those Captains out there.’

  Overvoorde raised a curious eyebrow. ‘But it’s just a run-of-the-mill sweep Sir. Those are the four best vessels in the fleet and four of the best Captains. What could possibly go wrong?

  Fife pouted. ‘Nothing Overvoorde, I hope to God! Nothing at all…’

  CHAPTER 6 “WILD TIMES”

  Four years and a great number of beers earlier…

  The two comrades burst into the pub like wild bulls on stampede in Pamplona. They pushed their way through the throngs of drinking, cavorting sailors and headed straight for the bar. Then they sat down heavily on two swivelling bar stools and settled their elbows onto the sticky bar top. Mike, the bar owner, sighed wearily and put down the glass that he was polishing with a filthy bar towel. He walked over and stood in front of the two troopers and rested his hands upon his hips.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two reprobates in here, eh?’ he observed. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’

  Lieutenant Bird smiled broadly at Mike and proudly replied, ‘Saving the United Worlds from the burgeoning threat of the evil insurgent terrorists of course! Don’t you watch the news?’

  Mike raised an eyebrow. ‘You two were on Mars?’ he asked, picking up the glass again, spitting on the towel and resuming polishing.

  Trenchard nodded. ‘That we were Mike,’ he said in a croaky voice. His throat was still bandaged and he was only just starting to regain the use of his voice. ‘…and this is the first time that we’ve been for a run ashore since we returned from that shitty hell-hole, so you can leave the bottle!’

  Mike duly reached down a full bottle of Black Void rum and set it onto the bar top in front of them. He then pulled two shot glasses from under the bar and set them on the counter, picking up the bottle and pulling the cork with his teeth before pouring two brimming shots. The two troopers raised their glasses and then Bird proposed a toast.

  ‘To fallen comrades!’

  Trenchard glazed over for a moment, lost in thought.

  ‘To fallen comrades…’ he said eventually in a subdued voice.

  Trenchard clinked his glass into Bird’s and the two young men guzzled their drinks down in one. Trenchard grimaced as the alcohol stung the sore inside lining of his throat. The assassin’s blade had cut deeply, not only into his neck, but into his soul. He was still suffering from nightmares and sleeplessness. He held the shot glass up to the light and studied the finely etched design on the side.

  ‘You know,’ he croaked, ‘I must get myself a couple of these glasses one day.’

  Mike raised an eyebrow again. ‘You’re joking! Do you know how much it costs me to get those glasses printed? Three-dee glass printers don’t come cheap you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t we buy ‘em?’ Bird asked, as he poured them both another shot.

  ‘Of course you could,’ grinned Mike with a twinkle in his eye. ‘The next time you two have any money left after you’ve spent the night in here, I’ll gladly sell you a couple.’

  Bird grinned. ‘Fair point,’ he said.

  Mike suddenly became serious once more.

  ‘So, you two were at Belatu-Cadros? I hear things were pretty rough out there?’

  Trenchard stared at his rum as he remembered the battle. ‘They were,’ he growled.

  Flashes of orange dust, howling storms and the cacophony of rifle fire filled his mind. Visions of his pals, blown apart by the insurgent’s explosives, still haunted his dreams. A picture of his friend’s face flashed through his mind, their lower jaw blown clean off. Then Lorna’s face inevitably filled his thoughts. He shook his head to clear the image, took the bottle, filled his glass to the brim and swigged it down. It stung a little less this time.

  ‘We lost all of our squad…’ Bird said with a deep breath. ‘Only Trench and I made it out.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about the bombs… what is it you guys call ‘em?’

  ‘I.E.D.s. Improvised Explosive Devices. They’re just chemicals packed with metal, not too technical, but they do a lot of damage,’ said Bird as he studied Trenchard. His friend had gone into a deep, dark place inside his head. ‘The insurgents used fuel cans and packed them with nails. Not a good way to die!’

  ‘Is that where you got that?’ Mike asked, pointing at the dressing on Trenchard’s throat.

  Trenchard looked up. ‘Something like that,’ he growl
ed, remembering the cold sting of the assassin’s blade. Abruptly, shouting and bawling came from the far corner of the bustling bar. The three men looked over towards the noise and Mike’s face fell.

  ‘Not them again,’ he complained as two large men began pushing and shoving at each other.

  ‘What’s the score?’ asked Bird, studying the men carefully. They were not dressed in navy uniforms, but dull brown, full-body flight suits.

  ‘They’re cargo hauler pilots,’ Mike explained disconsolately. ‘They’re on a lay-over while their cargo’s being unloaded. They’ve been in here every night and every night there’s been trouble.’ Mike leaned in closer to the two troopers and spoke more softly. ‘I’ll tell you what. You calm them down and save me from calling the navy police again and you can have those shot glasses and the bottle on the house.’

  Bird smiled and pushed himself up off his bar stool. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Come on mate!’ he ordered Trenchard and began to make his way over towards the two arguing pilots.

  Trenchard shook his head and stood. ‘Thanks for that,’ he hissed at sarcastically Mike, before following his comrade across the bar.

  By the time Trenchard and Bird reached the two men, they were engaged in a full-blown row. One of the men had the other by the scruff of his collar and was drawing his fist back for a punch.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Bird announced as he clamped a restraining hand down onto the man’s quavering fist. ‘Why don’t we all calm down eh lads? There’s no need for fisticuffs.’

  The two men looked around and stared at Bird. Lieutenant Bird was himself a large man, but the two pilots must have had Viking somewhere in their lineage. They were both blonde, bearded and around seven foot tall. Trenchard stood behind his best buddy and looked up at the two. One had a large scar on his forehead, the other was missing one of his front teeth. Clearly, they both enjoyed a fight.

  ‘What’s it to you, squaddie?’ said the man with the scar.