First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (34 page)

Position: Kingsford Spaceport, Cimmeria.  

Status: Armed and abandoned. 

Nathan stared into the empty, ramshackle hangar, his mind turning to mush. Yesterday it had housed a serviceable fighter; today, nothing.
What now, genius?

Ning sidled up beside him, speaking in a whisper. “It was a decent plan, Nathan, but what do we do now?”

Nathan had no answer. Then he heard a vehicle approaching.

“Take up defensive positions,” Nathan ordered.

The five Athenians pinned themselves against the wall adjacent to the main entrance. Nathan heard slammed doors and at least one raised voice.

Four Cimmerians entered the hangar, two of them familiar to Nathan. He stole a peek outside. Only an empty ground car greeted him.

“And another thing, Harper,” Eleanor Worrell said, turning to face him. Her next words choked in her throat at the sight of five outlanders with guns pointed at her.

“Holster your weapons,” Nathan said. “Good morning, Eleanor.”

“Good morning, Nathan?”

Taking in the abandoned hangar, he asked the obvious question.

“What’s going on?”

Eleanor’s face soured. “The King decided that, under present circumstances, he would not allow
his
project to be endangered by substandard security. So, he took the second prototype of my Kamora.” She stifled the first curse, but not the second. “Fucker.”

Nathan rubbed at the bump above his right eye.

“Where is it now?”

“Deep within the royal compound. Why?”

“I need to borrow it.”

“You want to borrow…” She shook her head. “Nathan, my friend, if I had control over my creation, I would be happy to let you go for a joy ride. But I don’t, and you’d need an army to get past the security to get to it.”

“Hmm, an army, you say?”

Everyone stared at him.

***

The journey by ground car to their landing boat was made without incident. On hearing Nathan’s crazy plan, Eleanor Worrell joined his group. They boarded the small craft and strapped in. Nathan dropped his backpack, jacket and weapons webbing onto the deck. 

While Ritchie went to the flight deck, Nathan pulled the AG sleeve from a locker and pulled it over his legs, securing it firmly around his shoulders, waist and chest. He dropped into the left seat and started running a hasty preflight check.  

“Remember,” Eleanor said, “this close to the royal exclusion zone, if you get above thirty meters—”

“The Cimmerian military will detect us on sensors and shoot us down,” Nathan finished. “Got it, El. Now buckle in, please.”

She huffed and took her seat.

“Ready?” he asked Ritchie.

“Yes, Sir.”

Nathan engaged thrust engines, turning the LB on a course inland. The journey to the refugee camp took only minutes, unlike their last long, bone-jarring trip. During the short flight, Nathan never exceeded an altitude of ten meters. As soon as her skids hit the ground, he turned and addressed the cabin. 

“Everyone out,” Nathan yelled. “You too, Ritchie.” The CPO opened her mouth to protest. “No arguments, Ritchie, I’m not in the mood.”

“Mister Telford, I was only going to say—”

“I know what you were going to say, and the answer is no. I can fly this jalopy by myself. Now, out.”

Ritchie left the LB, closing the hatch behind her.

Nathan took off, covered the distance back to the spaceport, then began a gradual climb. As he passed through five hundred meters, he slid the boat in a rough heading toward the camp. 

“Now, if they’re on their guard,” Nathan mused, “it should take them a minute to spot me, another minute to get authorization to fire and possibly as much as thirty seconds to lock on to me. Say two minutes? Yeah, close enough.”

Nathan began a steady count down. At the two-minute mark, he turned the craft ballistic. Hopefully those on the ground would assume he was trying to escape into orbit. With subtle adjustments, he nudged the craft closer to the refugee camp. “If they think we’re dead, they’ll stop looking for us.” He checked the elapsed time. “Two minutes, thirty seconds. Come on people get your act togeth—”

His proximity alarm screamed, as did the pain in his back. Two ground-to-air missiles inbound. Pitching the LB over, he feigned evasive maneuvers, taking him closer to the camp. “Okay, that’s quite close enough.” The missiles had acquired lock-on and were no more than twenty seconds from destroying his craft. Nathan engaged the autopilot and ran to the back of the LB. Through the open hatch, he saw twin vapor trails approaching from astern, far closer than he expected. “Shit.” Nathan leapt from the LB, falling toward the earth on his back. He counted to eight before the first missile struck his craft, then the second.

Still falling, he rolled onto his stomach and used his pitching arms and body to move closer to the camp. His eyes watered, but he could see the massive escarpment running from the camp all the way to the Royal Palace. 

The ground sped toward him at a blinding pace. Not wanting to be spotted on sensors, he waited, the surface rushing closer and closer, waited, waited, then hit the anti-grav’s activator. The bone-jarring deceleration dug the sleeve into his flesh and muscles, making him grunt. From twenty meters up he saw the refugee camp, less than two clicks away. An adjustment to the harness controls brought him gently back to “earth”.

He set a steady pace that soon brought him inside the cavern with his friends.
Yes
,
they
are
my friends. Only friends would follow me on this fool’s errand
. 

“You cut that a bit fine, didn’t you?” Lucky said.

“Hmmm,” Nathan replied.

“Just can’t keep away from me, can you, Sylvester?” Doctor Doucet said as she stepped onto the loading dock.

“Nothing new there, Corinne.”   

Nathan set his gaze upon the Franc doctor as he strode up the ramp. He drew close to her, speaking in a hushed tone. “Doctor, we need to have a seriously
frank
conversation.”

Her eyebrows arched in apprehension.

***

Nathan navigated through the never-ending tunnels, the old lamp borrowed from Doucet lighting his way. Deeper into the vast mountain range, the growing interference played havoc with devices using any form of energy output. He had been making good time, but the sweat on his brow and his labored breathing called for a break. His companions were ready to drop.

“Take five.”

As one, they slumped to the ground, bone-weary groans echoing around the tunnel.

Nathan sat to one side of the group, alone in his thoughts. The if, if, ifs of his mad endeavor kept intruding.
One if at a time
, he chided himself.

Doc Ning had administered shots to everyone before they left the embassy, but Nathan’s fast pace had worn down his friends. However, with time as their enemy, they had to make contact with…

“Are we there yet?”

Lucky’s trademark comment gleaned a few weary chuckles.

“How much further, do you think?” CC asked.

“I have a strong suspicion we’ll know fairly soon. I’m sorry, but we must keep moving.”

Uncomplaining, they dragged themselves to their feet. The journey continued for another thirty minutes, until the confines of the tunnel opened into an enormous grotto, its high rugged walls disappearing into the darkness. After a dozen paces, the pain between his shoulder blades flared.

He stopped so suddenly that Lucky plowed into the back of him.

“Nathan, wadda ya—”

“Shhh.” Nathan held a finger to his lips so everyone could see him. 

Stepping forward, he placed his lamp on the ground, slowly released his pack and weapons webbing, held it out to his side, and let it drop.

“Disarm, slowly,” he said to his team, “and follow my lead.”

Taking two steps away from his weapons, he dropped to his knees and interlaced his fingers behind his head. Danger hid in the darkness, all around them. Nathan hoped that these were the people he came in search of.

Slowly, grey shapes formed from the pitch black, steadily materializing into a small group of stern-faced, sword-armed Cimmerians.

“Outlanders aren’t welcomed here,” one said, pointing a broad sword at Nathan’s head.

“Ensign Nathan Telford, Monitor Corps.” His name got an immediate and, he hoped, positive response. “Ah, take me to your leader.”

***

By the time Nathan’s group arrived at their destination, all were dead on their feet. They were shunted into a small room, with a table and chairs, and the smell of fresh coffee brewing. Nathan poured the hot, dark liquid into grubby mugs, passed them around, then waited.

Presently an elderly Cimmerian appeared, took in the group, then settled his gaze onto Nathan. 

“You’re a bit off course aren’t you, Telford?”

“No, Gareth, I’m right where I need to be.”

“What do we do with them, General?” a rebel guard asked.

He stroked a tuft of greying fur at the side of his face. “Keep the rest here. Do not harm them unless they give you no choice.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Come with me,” the general said.

“Stay put. And don’t do anything stupid.” Nathan stared at Lucky, who held up his hands in compliance.

He followed Gareth through a maze of tunnels, coming eventually to a heavily guarded doorway. “General” Gareth passed through unhindered, with Nathan on his heels.

In the center of the room was a smooth, dark wooden table, with various chips and marks showing its age. At the head of the table a Cimmerian woman about Gareth’s age examined computer readouts. She set her gaze on Nathan as he approached.

“So, this is Telford?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general said.

Nathan experienced a small discomfort from her unblinking scrutiny. This was an undeniably formidable woman. 

“So, Ensign Telford, what can I do for you?

Good, straight to the point.
Your majesty?

“You have the advantage of me, Ma’am.”

A short quirk of a smile touched her lips. Standing, she offered her hand.

“Felicia Ambrose.”

“Nathan.”

She offered him a seat. Gareth remained standing, to her right hand. Exactly where he belonged, Nathan wagered.

“Ah, Ma’am—”

“Your majesty,” Gareth corrected.

“Pardon?”

“Queen Felicia is the rightful heir to the kingdom of Cimmeria.”

“I bet King Everett wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”

“Everett is a pretender to the throne, stolen from the queen by treachery at the conclusion of our war of independence against the Bretish.”

“General Sobers, I think we can leave the history lesson for another time.” She turned her gaze back to Nathan. “So, what can I do for you, Nathan?”

He had many questions to ask, not the least of which concerned his father. That would have to wait for another time.

“I’m a newcomer to your world. An outlander, as you’d say. But in my short time here I have witnessed poverty, brutality and rule by the sword. A regime of decadence and waste by those who indulge their whims while the people live in poverty. Respectfully, it’s time for a people’s uprising.”

The rightful heir to the Cimmerian throne smiled ruefully. 

“We’re working on that. In a year, perhaps six months, we may be in a position to—”

“No, Your Majesty. Now!”

Gareth moved closer to his monarch, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

For her part, Felicia smiled in an all too knowing way that set Nathan’s teeth on edge.

“Your Majesty, perhaps you haven’t been paying attention to recent events,” Nathan said, “so let me recap. The King Charles Battle Platform has fallen into enemy hands. I suspect the involvement of the Pruessen Empire, but that is speculation at this time. Either way, no matter who has orchestrated this attack, it amounts to the same conclusion: invasion.”

“That sounds like more speculation, Telford.”

“Call me Nathan. And yes, General Sobers, speculation is all I have at the moment. Yet I can’t help wondering who would wish to hijack the KC and attack the Bretish fleet in orbit. An outstanding feat of subversion, to be sure, but to what end? If not invasion, then what? A hit-and-run raid, perhaps? Steal as much trephine crystal as they can and leave?” For the first time something else occurred to him. “And, why stop there? Once they’ve stripped this planet bare, why not finish the job?”

“What do you mean?” Felicia asked.

“You have three major mining sites, all located on the same continent. Three torpedoes with high-yield nuclear warheads could contaminate your only resource for the next millennium. And kill millions of your citizens.”

Nathan reclined his chair, waiting for the full impact of his words to sink in.

The two Cimmerians exchanged a mute conversation.

“Scorched earth?” General Sobers ventured.

“Why not. If they took every bulk freight currently in orbit, loaded them to the brim with ore and nuked the rest, it would result, for them, in a two-way benefit. Firstly, they top up their reserves for their ongoing wars. Secondly, they strike a crippling blow, not only to Cimmeria, but to the entire League of Allied Worlds.”

“Such speculation could be dangerously in error, Nathan.” Felicia appeared to be sitting on a rickety fence. 

“What do you think, Gareth?”

“From a purely tactical standpoint, it’s a sound proposition. But I’d want proof before proceeding.”

“Nathan?”

He took a deep breath. Could they be right? His proposition had only a gut feeling, with the unmistakable stench of Pruessen involvement adhered to it.

“General Sobers is right. I have no proof, apart from the obvious points I’ve raised.” He rubbed his bump. “And please forgive my abruptness. I’m a soldier, not a diplomat.”

“All right, Nathan, I’ll return to my original question. What do you want?”

Nathan smiled at his forthcoming audacity. “I want an attack force, strong enough to breach the security of the royal compound.” Leaning back, he forced a clumsy smile, and shrugged.

Both Cimmerians stared at him as if he was mad.