by PP Corcoran
* * *
Charlie Sinclair’s eyes flicked from the slate in his hands to the clock on the wall of the converted cargo pod and back to the slate. Forty-three hours left in hyperspace.
“You know,” said Torey McDonald, “there is a branch of theoretical physics which proposes that if you continually check the time, it will actually effect the slowing down of the whole space-time continuum?”
Charlie lowered the slate and gave her a derisive look. “And did you know that I have the power to have you shot at dawn for taking the mickey out of your commanding officer?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not in the regs. Stacey is pretty read up on the regs, with her father being a lawyer and all that. I could ask her to check for me. You know—” Torey smirked, “—just to make sure my execution is legal and such like.”
Charlie flung his hands up in surrender. “OK, OK. I will cease the clock watching.”
Torey swung her legs off the bench she had propped them on while she read the latest maintenance check on her platoon’s CASPers. The troopers had unpacked their suits from their shipping crates and were now running system checks to ensure they were at peak performance for what was to come.
“For what it’s worth, sir, I think you are doing the right thing. Let’s get home and kick some alien ass.” Torey didn’t wait for Charlie to reply, instead, she spun on her heel and headed to the CASPers’ maintenance area.
Torey may have been the platoon commander, but like every other CASPer trooper, she insisted on doing her own maintenance and final checks; after all, it was her life in the balance if something went wrong with her suit.
Charlie watched her go, wondering if, like him, Torey had someone waiting at home. That person was the real but unspoken reason for Charlie to push so hard to get back home.
* * *
As the transit clock on the bridge of the Glambring reached zero, the very fabric of space became a distorted, shifting thing, allowing the frigate to slip from hyperspace back to normal space.
“Transit complete, sir.”
“Very well,” said Captain Kothoo. “Comms, ensure we are transmitting the correct IFF codes.”
Kothoo was acutely aware that New Warsaw was probably the best defended system he had ever visited. If the missiles, ships, mines, and heavy particle weapons all currently trained on his small frigate received an incorrect Identification Friend or Foe code, it would bring the Glambring’s homecoming to a short, spectacular end.
“Codes entered and verified, sir.”
“Prime Base acknowledges receipt of our IFF code and welcomes us home. We are cleared for a priority approach by Traffic Control and Commander Cromwell requests that Colonel Sinclair make himself available to meet with her on docking.”
Kothoo resisted the urge to turn in his seat and look at Tim Buchanan now sitting in the chair previously allocated to Alastair Sinclair on the Glambring’s bridge. “Please relay that Captain Buchanan will attend the commander on completion of our docking.”
* * *
The Glambring settled gently into its docking cradle on Prime Base. No sooner had the mooring clamps locked and the boarding tube been connected, than a Human major, dressed in the uniform of the Winged Hussars’ marines, arrived to escort Buchanan to his meeting with Commander Alexis Cromwell.
Making their way through the vast station, Tim noted the mix of uniforms representing various Earth-based mercenary companies that now called the station home.
Neither Tim nor the marine major engaged in small talk, and Tim was happy with this. He was sure the major was a pleasant enough guy, but Tim’s mind was more on the upcoming meeting with Alexis Cromwell. Tim had never met her in person; Alastair had handled all the dealings with the Four Horsemen. Now such meetings would fall on Tim. He wasn’t sure he was ready.
His escort led Tim to a door on either side of which stood Winged Hussars marines, complete with laser carbines. Tim’s escort knocked on the door once before opening it, then he stepped back and—catching Tim by surprise—flung up a perfect parade ground salute. By the time Tim realized the salute was for him, he was halfway past and his return salute was nowhere near as precise.
“Captain Buchanan, I presume,” said a cool, soprano voice.
Tim paused, eying the woman who held out her hand in greeting. Alexis Cromwell was striking. Around Tim’s age, she possessed blue eyes like shards of diamonds, set in a face accentuated by her white hair.
Remembering that Alexis’ hand hung midair, Tim grasped and shook it firmly and received an equally firm shake in return. Alexis indicated a chair, and Tim sat while Alexis returned to her seat on the opposite side of her desk.
“I was sorry to hear about Colonel Sinclair. Please accept the condolences of the Winged Hussars, and I am sure the other companies here.”
“Thank you. I will pass your words on to my troopers who will very much appreciate them.” Tim squashed the thought that at present he could only be sure there were three Scorpions still alive in the entire galaxy.
“It would seem that I and the commander of the Scorpions are fated to meet only after the worst of times. Alastair Sinclair sat in that very chair a little over a month ago, where I expressed my condolences for the loss of so many of your family members. And now—” Alexis gave a sad smile. “Here we are, again.”
“It’s part and parcel of being a mercenary, Commander Cromwell. Sometimes we don’t get to go home.”
“An unfortunate truth, Captain Buchanan,” Alexis agreed. “Now to business. I have briefly read over Doctor Wong’s preliminary report and I, and the other Horsemen, are encouraged by her findings. If the Dusman reactors are even half as powerful as the good doctor believes, then we should have no problems powering as many Raknar as we can get our hands on.”
“Speaking of which, Commander, have we gotten word on the progress of Captain Sinclair’s mission?” asked Tim.
“No, not as yet. But, rest assured, as soon as I have additional information you will be informed.” Alexis stood, and Tim guessed the meeting was over. Alexis walked around the desk to the door which opened as she approached. Standing outside was the same marine major who had escorted Tim from the Glambring to Alexis’ office.
“If you need anything at all, Captain, please contact Major Williams here, or, if he is unavailable, contact my office directly.” Alexis held out her hand again, and Tim shook it. As the door closed behind him, Tim wondered what was next for the Scorpions. Oren Blair had already discussed with him the process of rebuilding the company, and it would keep him occupied while he waited for Jamie’s return. Hopefully, before too long, he would also discover the fate of Charlie and the missing platoons.
* * *
Behind her closed office door, Alexis Cromwell marveled at the incredible piece of engineering the Scorpions had secured.
On its own it would not win the war against General Peepo and the Mercenary Guild, but it remained a key part, although a part that came at a high cost.
As Buchanan had crudely put it, not everyone comes home.
Never a truer word was spoken.
* * * * *
Chapter Nineteen
Homecoming
Tla’koz re-entered normal space. Almost immediately, half a dozen fire control radars from the host of warships orbiting Earth swept the ship.
“I do not like this, Human,” moaned the Zuparti captain. “What if they demand to board us and you are discovered. They will imprison or—” The captain’s weasel-like features scrunched as if he had eaten something disagreeable. “Kill me.”
Charlie Sinclair sat to the right of the frightened captain, already dressed in his haptic suit. “Calm down. Stick to the plan, and we will be out of your hair in minutes.”
“Not soon enough for my liking,” the Zuparti added. “I shouldn’t have agreed to your contract terms.”
“Well, you did. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with it, just like we planned.” Charlie stood to leave, but not bef
ore he overheard the captain speaking to Earth Traffic Control.
“Traffic Control, this is the Tla’koz, en route to Kiev. We are experiencing pressure fluctuations in Cargo Pod 5. Request permission to enter low Earth orbit earlier than planned, in case of further malfunctions.”
There was a pause, then a bored voice replied. “Permission granted Tla’koz.”
Stage One complete, thought Charlie. Hopefully Stage Two will go just as smoothly. Charlie left the bridge. With the gravity decks retracted, the entire ship was in zero gravity, forcing Charlie to pull himself hand over hand along the freighter’s central corridor.
Finally, reaching Cargo Pod 5, Charlie met Sergeant Angus Deacon who, after Charlie had deftly sailed past him, closed and secured both the outer and inner pod doors.
Standing in two neat rows were the twenty-four CASPers of First and Second Platoon, Gamma Company, Sinclair’s Scorpions. Sealed up and ready.
Charlie used the CASPers as improvised handholds as he pulled himself along to reach his personal suit.
Bringing his knees to his chest, he spun around and extended his legs to drop them vertically into the suit. Wasting no time, he buckled up and connected his pinplants.
Information flowed between the CASPer’s onboard computer and his brain.
In a section of his consciousness he noted the icon for Sergeant Deacon’s suit changing from white, unsealed, to green, combat ready. With a short command, the canopy of his own suit lowered and sealed.
Everything depended on the Zuparti captain holding his nerve.
Back on the bridge, the captain was doing anything but holding his nerve.
He checked the ships’ position relative to Earth and its exact height. The Human, Sinclair, had been very specific about the height. The freighter had already slowed considerably to enter Earth’s upper atmosphere, and, as they dropped lower and lower, the increasingly thick atmosphere buffeted the ship.
The altitude readout reached the specified number—136,000 feet.
In Cargo Pod 5, a small row of explosive charges flashed and ripped open the exterior skin of the pod, exposing the interior to open space.
On the bridge, the Zuparti captain cleared his throat and opened the channel to Traffic Control.
“Traffic Control, this is the Tla’koz. Be aware, we have suffered explosive decompression in Cargo Pod 5, there are no injuries onboard; however, debris may affect other ships in the area. We will pass insurance information should anyone report damage.”
Back in the cargo bay, Charlie’s exterior camera captured the brilliance of the dark blue and green waters of the Irish Sea, bordered by the darker green land masses of the north coast of Ireland and the west coast of Scotland. He would be home soon.
“Drop! Drop! Drop!” He called over the platoon net, as he released his magnetic boot clamps and dropped like a lovesick stone for the ground below. The nine-hundred-pound suit quickly reached supersonic speeds.
Lower still he dropped until, at last, his target came into sight, and his jumpjets began firing, slowing his descent. At 22½ miles long and nearly two miles wide, Loch Ness stood out among the green hills and glens of northeast Scotland. Charlie slowed further as the computer continued firing the jets on its established landing program.
With an ease that belied many hours of training Charlie touched down on the fine, shingle beach of the loch. Behind him, twenty-three more suits made landfall and moved off into the thick tree line so that, in under a minute, no sign of the Scorpions’ homecoming was visible.
Sweeping around to the north, each platoon formed its own skirmish line and advanced until they reached a narrow stream beyond which lay a small complex of log buildings. The Lodge. The designated bug out location if the Scorpions’ base at Machrihanish on the tip of the Mull of Kintyre was ever compromised.
An hour of observation satisfied Charlie that The Lodge was unoccupied, a fact he found disturbing. Perhaps, his father had decided to evacuate the families to the farm the company maintained in New Zealand instead.
Passing the word to stay back, Charlie stepped into the open. He had taken a couple of steps when a loud, female voice called to him from behind one of the log cabins. Involuntarily, his MAC flipped into position and tracked the source of the voice.
“Easy there, Major, I’m coming out.” A female figure in a tan uniform detached herself from the matching wood color of a cabin. Held in clear view in her left hand was a Gal 12 assault rifle. Charlie zoomed in on the woman’s face, and his suit ran facial recognition. In Charlie’s Tri-V, a Scorpions’ personnel jacket popped up. Tech Sergeant Katrian Quant.
Charlie popped the canopy of his suit so the sergeant could see who she was talking to, but rather than the expected relief, Katrian Quant’s face drained of blood, and her legs turned to jelly.
Charlie assumed the woman was injured, so quickly jumped down from his CASPer and ran to her.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Quant repeated in a low moan.
“What’s wrong, Sergeant? What are you sorry for?”
With tears in her eyes Katrian Quant related her story from the beginning. From the evacuation, to the departure of the Salamanca and the flitter with the families on board. She spoke of the missile attack on the flitter, which had killed everyone on board, while the Salamanca had successfully escaped to points unknown. Quant told of her own journey on foot from Machrihanish across the width of Scotland until she had arrived at The Lodge, where she had waited, praying someone would come and tell her what to do next.
The news of his wife and children broke Charlie Sinclair, and he shed silent tears of despair.
Hours later, as the sun was setting behind the high peaks surrounding Loch Ness, Charlie Sinclair sat with Torey McDonald.
“What are we going to do?” Torey asked him quietly.
“I’m going to find everyone who had a hand in this…and kill them. I’m going to find who ordered it…and kill them. I’m going to find who paid for this…and I will kill them, too.” Charlie paused before saying. “I will have my vengeance.”
Torey watched the setting sun for a moment, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. She stood and breathed in the spectacular landscape, and, without turning, she softly addressed Charlie.
“Count me in. Count us all in.”
# # # # #
About PP Corcoran
Author of the Amazon bestselling Saiph Series, PP Corcoran writes fast-paced military science fiction because he gets to mix his two loves; shoot em ups and science. A 22-year-veteran of the British Army, Paul began his writing career in 2014. After serving all round the world, this native of Scotland now lives in Northern Ireland and writes epic space opera for a living.
* * * * *
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Excerpt from Book One of In Revolution Born:
The Mutineer’s Daughter
___________________
Chris Kennedy & Thomas A. Mays
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback and (Soon) Audio
Excerpt from The Mutineer’s Daughter:
Kenny dozed at his console again.
There he sat—as brazen as ever—strapped down, suited up, jacked in…and completely checked out. One might make allowances for an overworked man falling asleep during a dull routine, watching gauges that didn’t move or indicators that rarely indicated anything of consequence, perhaps even during a
quiet moment during their ship’s long, long deployment.
But Fire Control Tech Third Class Ken Burnside was doing it—yet again—while the ship stood at General Quarters, in an unfriendly star system, while other parts of the fleet engaged the forces of the Terran Union.
Chief Warrant Officer Grade 2 (Combat Systems) Benjamin “Benno” Sanchez shook his helmeted head and narrowed his eyes at the sailor strapped in to his right. He had spoken to the young weapons engineer a number of times before, through countless drills and mock skirmishes, but the youthful idiot never retained the lesson for long.
“Benno, Bosso,” Kenny would plead, “you shouldn’t yell at me. You should have me teach others my wisdom!”
Benno would invariably frown and give his unflattering opinion of Kenny’s wisdom.
“Get it, ya?” Kenny would reply. “I’m a math guy. Probability, right Warrant? The Puller’s just a little ship, on the edge of the formation. We scan, we snipe, we mop up, we patrol. We don’t go in the middle, tube’s blazing, ya? We no tussle with the big Terrans, ya? No damage! No battle! So, something goes wrong, back-ups kick in, buzzer goes off, we mark for fix later. And when’s the only time you or the officers don’t let a man walk ‘round and don’t ask for this, don’t ask for that? When’s the only time a man can catch up on the z’s, eh? One and the same time! So I doze. Buzzer goes off, I wake, make a note, doze again till I can work, ya? Such wisdom!”
