Echo of Tomorrow: Book One (Drake chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  “Good God! You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Very.” Admiral Kenning answered.

  “Who on earth thought up that…” He stopped and reexamined the situation.

  “Needless to say, saner mind prevailed, and consequently, the United States went on to become the world superpower.”

  “Yes, I seem to remember that, but I don’t see where this is leading.” He did in a way, but wanted to hear them say it.

  “In a nutshell, General. What are your plans for a government, what laws will you be acting under, and will you be under the control, or authority of that government as before?” There is was, plain and simple, and the one element Scott hadn’t really thought about.

  “I assumed I’d implement something similar to the old US constitution and bill of rights, if and when the time came, and we defeated the aliens.”

  “Both the documents you mentioned are worthy of review, however, what about the UK and other countries now involved?” The PM asked. It was a good point from their perspective. He couldn’t assume the UK, or anyone else would want to live under a system most barley understood, and most not even aware of.

  “Yes, I can see where trying to implement or enact a constitutional form of government here, or in those other countries might be a bit of a problem.”

  “It would indeed. We are used to having a King or Queen as the head of government, while others might find that a bit strange.”

  “I don’t find it that strange, being part Brit myself.” The PM chuckled.

  “Yes, we did check the records, and for your information, you were, or are registered at Somerset House, and therefore, technically a British subject.” It was Scott turn to laugh.

  “My mother did mention that, but as I went to the US at the age of five, I never really thought about it until now. However, I can see that a hundred years from now, having two armed powers on this planet might cause a problem, and lead to the same problems we had before, so what are you suggesting?”

  “An amalgamation of all the armed forces into one unified force under one agreed upon form of government and set of laws with a monarchy as the head of state.” There is was in a nutshell, the idea they’d been leading up to all evening.

  It was one hell of a proposition, and it mentally sets Scott back on his heels. Since 1776, England and America had diverged into completely different political philosophies. What they were asking was to turn the clock back, and yet, American no longer existed, nor did the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. So where did that leave Scott and his merry band of killers? That was only part of it. Could he persuade his people to adopt a totally new form of government and laws? Question upon question piled up, one atop the other, yet when it came down to it, what choice did he have. He could either re-invent the wheel, so to speak, and form a government, re-write all the laws, create the necessary bureaucracy, or take one fully formed. The thought of having to re-invent a defunct governmental system from the bottom up, a daunting task at the best of times, and build, equip, train and lead a fighting force to defeat the aliens at the same time was something he didn’t want to contemplate.

  “I’ll have to think about that, and present it to my people, as well as Japan. By the way. Did you know that Japan has an Emperor again?”

  “Yes, we are aware of that, but don’t see it as an insurmountable problem.”

  “It’s a subject we need to address once we have this alien problem sorted out.”

  “We agree, so let us concentrate on that for the time being, Scott.” They toasted each other and signed off, leaving Scott in deep thought.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Cadet Drake

  The week went by in a whirlwind of activity as flights of shuttles lifted off and landed, carrying people back and forth to England, Japan, and New Zealand, others ferrying people into orbit, or to the moon. The mining and construction teams worked round the clock preparing living quarters and service areas for the new influx of personnel, as more and more equipment diverted to the project arrived on site. Early Friday morning Scott called for a meeting of senior officers in his office, and many of the newly promoted senior NCOs looked a little uncomfortable in such company as Scott, Brock, and Pete Mitchell. After coffee and general conversation, Scott got down to business, calling the group to order. "I've gathered you all here to witness one more promotion, which I think you will all agree is long overdue." People looked at one another, wondering what was going on. "Captain Brock, front and center!" Surprised, Gunny Brock stepped forward, coming to attention.

  "Sir! Captain Brock reporting."

  "Captain Brock, by the power invested in me, I hereby promote you to the rank of Colonel of this unit, effective this date.” He said holding his hand out.

  “You will now assume command of this unit, along with all of the privileges of that office, effective immediately.” Scott handed the stunned man his commission, and shook hands with him standing back and saluting. "Congratulation Gunny." The look on his face said that he didn't know whether to cry, laugh, or kill him.

  "Err... Thank you General, I... I'm not sure what to say."

  "Don't thank me, you earned it.” He said, picking up his duffel bag from behind his desk. "I have to rush, or I will miss the shuttle, carry on Colonel.” He said, and ducked out the door as the others surged forward to congratulate Brock on his promotion.

  His driver gave him a funny look as he chuckled all the way to the airfield. He was still laughing as he climbed aboard and took his seat, thinking of what Brock would be saying about this point. His comm unit buzzed, but he ignored it, knowing who it was. Payback can be a bitch, this time, it was his turn. Settling back in his seat beside Kat, he had a nice peaceful sleep all the way to England, waking up just as the shuttle landed on the parade ground at Dartmouth Naval College. The rest of the shuttle passenger list was made up of the three captain’s of earth’s first warships, and an assortment of people thought to have the necessary qualifications to be bridge officers, or ship’s Captains. This was only the first shuttle load, and theirs would be an abbreviated course, as time was of the essence. Another shuttle was taking another group of volunteers to another training facility to learn the intricacies of important ship’s functions, from air handling, sanitary recycling, engineering, power distribution and the likes. Much of it was knowledge learned from nuclear submarines, which in many ways were very similar to a space ship. Both were an enclosed system with an outside hostile environment and many of the ship’s systems were the same, only on a larger scale.

  The first day was spent familiarizing themselves with the aspects of the British indoor plumbing, vocabulary, and customs of the naval college. A ‘Housewife’ was something completely different than what he thought. Maybe a blowjob to go? It also meant they had to get their different uniforms, and equipment ready for evening inspection, which was something Scott hadn’t needed to worry about for a long time, and he was still trying to get everything sorted out by the time some idiot call 'Attention! Officer on deck'. He stood by the door, grinding his teeth in frustration. The last time he had to go though anything like this was at West Point when he was eighteen. The officer turned out to be a young cadet Lieutenant in his early twenties who Scott didn’t recognize, suspecting one of the early recruits from the UK. He took one look at Scott's locker and wrote him up for ten demerits.

  Classes started the next day, and they learned all the mundane jobs that any seaman or sailor needs to know. What knots and ropes has to do with running a Starship he had no idea, but it soon became apparent to the instructor that he and five other cadets in this class were wizards at it. The one thing he hated more than anything else was rifle drill, as his ingrained training at West Point kept tripping him up. The Brits had a different way of drilling all together; doing everything on a count of three, one, pause, two-three, and it took some getting use too, but then again, so did the weather.

  After six weeks they moved onto the second phase of training, working in the newly install sim
ulators that represented the inside of a space ship. Scott was pleased at the speed in which they had been built and installed, and of the instructor learning abilities. They threw at them many different kinds of emergency- situations, such as hull breaches, loss of power, reduced and loss of gravity, as well as many other different conditions as they could think of. During this time they were measured and fitted for space, or Vac suits, courtesy of one of the design teams back in New Zealand. Someone back there was thinking ahead and had anticipated the need for several types of incremental suits, including one that resembled a suit of armor. He learned the intimate details of inserting rather uncomfortable devices into various orifices of his body, and if that wasn’t bad enough, cleaning them afterward was unpleasant. With a manufacturing base in other cities and direct orders from President Westwood, the new suits started arriving three weeks later.

  Once the suits were delivered, they practiced climbing in and out of the different suits day in and day out, until they could do it in complete darkness and in a weightless environment. Most had some form of helmet that could either be removed, or the face shield moved up into the interior by touching a power point on the side, unless you were in vacuum, then it remained locked in place. The face place had three shields, a clear one that polarized to black in strong light, a night vision plate, and a blast plate. The internal power system provided twelve continuous hours of full support, including life support, communications, internal and external lights, plus the recycling system and food dispenser. Even though they’d have a suit maintenance crew aboard, everybody had to learn to maintain his or her own suit on the off chance the techs weren’t available. The battle suits had hard points on the outside to mount an assortment of weapons, and thrust pack attachments in case they had to work outside the hull, or engage the enemy. All this and more was tested repeatedly, and any problems careful noted by the instructor. This was one point they took seriously and didn't yell or complain if you indicated you had a problem, or an idea for improvement.

  Everybody was groping in the dark where spacesuit design was concerned, and nothing was taken as trivial or unimportant. It could save someone’s lives in the future. The drills when on, week after week until it became natural to them and they started falling into natural teams, helping and assisting each other. Then they added the simulated command deck and the learned the basics of each station from the Captains chair, to navigation, environmental, weapons systems and damage control. Everyone knew that some of it was guesswork, as no one was sure what sort of equipment they'd end up with, but that was not the point. It was management of these stations under battle condition that counted. Could you order the right action at the right time to fight or save the ship. Six intense months passed, and as every day ticked by, Scott looked at the clock. The big unknown was the turnaround time for the aliens to send another fleet back, but he kept his attention on what he was doing. The class work was getting harder and harder, and the simulator work increasingly difficult as it was coming down to sink or swim time, where they started weeding out those they felt unfit to sit in the Captains chair at this time. When graduation day arrived, Scott breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he could get back to New Zealand and see what progress they’d made.

  The passing out parade went off like clockwork, as did the graduation ceremony and the presentation of commissions. A cheer went up when they announced the sword of honor winner and Scott's name was called. As senior classman and sword of honor winner, it was his duty to give the mandatory graduation speech. As usual, he hadn't bothered to write one, preferring instead to do it off the cuff.

  "Fellow classmates," he began, "this academy has honored me with this sword, and I shall keep it in memory of you all. In many ways, this has been a rebirth for me, and I hope this will be a rebirth of this planet as well. We can no longer stand divided, for as the old saying goes united we stand, divided we fall'. Up until now we have spent the last five thousand or so years fighting each other, let us put that to a better use and apply all our ingenuity, courage and tenacity to carry the fight to the enemy, and destroy him. We must put aside the divisions of the past, and look to the future, for unless we do so, the race of man will be no more. So join with me now in pledging to live and fight together as one race, the human race and defeat this new enemy who has come upon us." Amid wild cheering and flying caps Scott left the reviewing stand and received the congratulation of his classmates, some shook hand, other bowed, and a few even kissed him.

  "Cadet Scott Drake, front and center!” A voice boomed over the comm system, and there was no mistaking the voice of gunny Brock.

  "Oh shit!” He said to the group around him. "I'm for it now."

  "Why, what's up Scott?” One asked.

  "Who is that gentleman?” Another asked.

  "That is one pissed off Colonel who just about to have my guts for garters.” He said walking towards the reviewing stand.

  "Right turkey, now it's my turn!” Brock yelled coming towards him.

  "You seem a mite upset Gunny?"

  "Don't you Gunny me."

  "What the hell is going on, and who the hell is that man?” CPO Hardwick asked, running as he marched up to the group.

  "That is a very pissed off Colonel who is about to read the riot act to a one time General, now Sub Lieutenant."

  "General! Lieutenant? You lost me."

  "A small deception was pulled on you for reasons I will not go into at this time. Suffice to say the man you know and love as Morgan Drake is General Scott Drake.

  "Oh... Good God, you mean the one that...”

  "The very same.”

  "But he can't be, he's... he's too young!"

  "The wonders of modern science can be thanked for that."

  "I'd heard he'd been in something called cold sleep but I didn't know they'd made him so young. My God, he looks twenty year old."

  "Or three hundred and twenty years old, whichever way you look at it."

  "You’ve got a point there.” He said, rubbing his chin. "So why is he here?"

  "The same reason we all are, the fight is out there, in the stars, and he couldn’t very well command a star ship without training, so!"

  "Got it. Smart idea."

  "You can thank their Lordships up at the Admiralty for that."

  "They might have told us."

  "Why, so you could treat him different from the other Cadets? No way, he wouldn't have stood for it."

  "I see your point, sir."

  Scott listened to Brock let off steam for ten minutes. He deserved it, leaving him in the lurch like that, but Brock had to take responsibility sometime, and it was the only way. The Admiralty had promised to keep his whereabouts unknown to everyone unless there was a real emergency, so this was the first time Brock had the opportunity to vent his spleen, as it were, over what he'd done.

  "Jesus H. Christ on a flaming crutch! What the hell do you suppose would have happened if the aliens had come back in force?"

  "You would have taken care of it Gunny, just like you always do."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "You hid behind those gunnery sergeant stripes far too long, turning down commission after commission, why? I knew you were officer material the first time I saw you."

  "Why I didn't take them is none of your business!” He snapped back.

  "Yes it is Gunny, and you know it. Those days are over, the change of command stands and the unit is yours."

  "I don't want it!” He yelled.

  "You don’t have any choice.” Scott yelled back. “I can't do it alone Gunny; I need your help. Christ, I'm not fucking superman!" Now Scott was getting angry.

  "You could have fooled me." Brock muttered under his breath.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing Scott, I'm sorry I said it."

  "No! Say it, say what you mean?” He demanded. Brock sighed, looking defeated.

  "You carried us all for so long we took it for granted you fin
d a way to solve all our problems. When America was ripped apart, you found a way to pay the debt. We come out of cold sleep three hundred year later than we should have, and you find a way to give us a new life. Then the aliens turn up and you were well on your way to solving that problem, that what I mean."

  "I couldn't do it alone then, and I can't do it alone now. I need all the help I can get, including yours gunny. You might say, that it’s your turn in the barrel now.” He said, remembering the old joke. "But, before we go out and save the damn universe, I'm going to celebrate and get blind, falling down drunk, you up for it?” He stated, seeing Brock smile at last.

  "Why the hell not. Drink and be merry for tomorrow we die."

  To say the party was a memorable one would be an understatement, as the town hadn’t seen such a party for many a long year. It would go down in the history book as the year of renewal. Not only were they celebrating the graduation of a new class of cadets, but the end of Britain’s isolation from the rest of the world. Once again, she could stand proudly and take her place in world events. What that future would be, none could say, nor did it matter. Now the stars were within reach, and as she’d once conquered the oceans of this world, she would conquer the oceans of space.