Here is the first chapter of the series. Although I already have a few chapters already composed, I will be in the process of some proofreading and editing to get a feel of the sequences and hopefullly weed out the errors. Please let me know what you think.
Kelp trawler blows up at sea…
In the early morning of nineteen hundred hours on Frost 36:15 A.E., a kelp harvesting vessel, the Falstaff, was found burning out at sea, twenty-four kilometers, south from Vectus Navel Base. COG personnel, along with a survey vessel was dispatched that same morning to investigate what appeared, as a KR pilot described it, to be a patch of rising smoke coming off the water surface. A KR flight simulation was in progress earlier that morning, when the smoke sight was first discovered.
The ten-man crew of this twenty-six year old trawler was found floating in a safety boat out to sea, away from the burning ship. They were rescued and relocated safely by a COG chopper to be taken to Vectus hospital where they will be treated for possible injuries, however, sources say the crew is doing well, despite abandoning their burning ship.
As of now, the COG cannot confirm nor deny that this was a deliberate attack, however the salvage team believes that foul play may be the culprit, but will not disclose any more details until upon further investigation of Falstaff's remnants, which will be relocated to the naval port later today.
-Retreat Times-
Chapter 1: Recovering Falstaff
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting,
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing,
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Schism
Tool
The next day…
The evening sun hung low over the sea, spraying the sky in a brilliance of colors, glistening over the rolling waves making their way to the shore. If it wasn't for the immediate deployment of a salvage team, the Gears of Epsilon and Sigma may have enjoyed watching the sunset from the base mess hall that sat along the beach front, eating freshly boiled crawfish, lobster, and hushpuppies.
Instead, they spent majority of the hot, dreary day, trying to salvage what was left of the kelp trawler, and reconstructing the random remnants of her hull. The light sea breeze made the intense heat bearable, as the crew of the survey ship, Dionysus, and several Gear squadrons, worked around the clock, searching for ship fragments and bringing them to port.
After dragging most of her contents to dock at the Vectus Naval Base, the squadrons spent five hours, trying to somewhat re-assemble the hull, hoping to piece together as to what really happened to the vessel. What started as a supposed APC training operation the day before, ended into a search and rescue, and then going back out to search some more, rotating shifts between searching and loading, until all that was left to be found was brought back for investigation.
Needless to say, it was a long, exhausting day, with most of the Gears calling it a night, after putting only half of the pieces they managed to find, together. The rest of the metal fragments to her bow were thrown into one big heap so they could load it all at once to be taken to the scrap yard.
The only few among them that were still going over contingencies was Baird and Bjork, who spent the latter part of the evening, disputing over what caused the actual discharge, after drinking coffee non-stop for over an hour.
"I'm telling ya, D, it had to be goretain…" Bjork ranted, pointing to the scorch marks along the outside of the hull, near what they believed to be the ignition point.
The massive hole in the bent up metal was the size of a car, which led to one of three possibilities of what could have caused such an explosion that not only blew a hole in the hull but also eradicated a good third of the bow. The red scorching along the inside of the hull suggested a substance called crimson coalite, named after it's signature crimson dye when burned, but it had to have some catalyst to aid in igniting it. Such a catalyst not only had to be transportable but also small enough to go unnoticed to the usual maintenance that the crew routinely inspects the trawler before they went out to sea.
"…and I'm telling ya, Spades…goretain isn't the best choice for a catalyst. It smells like vomit and you would need a lot of it to make a dent like this…and it would need a pretty powerful electrical flux to ignite it."
"Alright, so…hypothetically speaking, what if this was triggered by an engine flux?"
"…but it wasn't near the engine."
"Exactly…so they have had to rig it with a line for the flux to travel to some timer to ignite the component…and if it wasn't goretain, then perhaps they used telethain…"
"Ok, maybe…but that would take a lot of time and I'll be frank; most people don't have the slightest I.Q. sense to set up something that complicated…and where would they get the telethain anyway, the fucking stop n' rob on at your local street corner?"
"Pfft…probably from that storage house that was looted and burnt down the other week. There may have been some there…"
"Wait…we had a looting at one of the storage houses?"
"Shea…they ransacked that bitch in one night…stole all the toilet paper, man…"
"Son of a…" Baird gripes while flaying his arms in the air, "…so we're going to be wiping our asses with phonebooks, again…and I'm just now hearing about this?"
"Shit D, everyone knew about it. Where in the hell were you?"
Baird didn't bother to answer, but kept his attention to the punctured, melted metal around the exit wound of the Falstaff, trying to make sense of the bright red scorching, mixed with the melted infrastructure on the other side of the hull; well, at least we agree that it wasn't a torpedo.
Knowing that Baird was intentionally ignoring him, Bjork decided to up the ante while taking off his gloves and tossing them on the wood floor next to Falstaff's salvaged remnants.
"Lemme guess, you were messing around in the Sovereign weren't you…"
"Ok, what the hell are you insinuating now, Spades?"
"You dump one sweet thing, just to go get your hands dirty with some floozy, carrying seventy-six, millimeter gun turrets…"
Baird rolls his eyes, knowing exactly what Bjork was hinting at, especially since it wasn't the first time Bjork has rubbed his face in it; damnit Cole…this is all your fault!
"C'mon, gimme a break…that poor old bird was in dire need of some TLC…and I'm saying that pretty lightly," Baird grumbles as Bjork replies,
"Pfft, so that's what we're calling it now…maintenance?"
"…and just to set the record straight, she dropped ship and left me with this sappy, good-bye note, and USB card filled with who knows how much classified intel she hacked from the COG mainframe," Baird reiterated while holding out a piece of folded paper in his hand for Bjork to see. Bjork let out a slight chuckle while Baird shoved the paper back into his pack strapped to his utility belt.
"Yea, yea, and did you ever open the encryption on all of that?"
"I'm…" Baird stuttered for a moment before answering, knowing that he came close to acknowledging that he wasn't able to quite yet break some of the coding; or at least for now, "…it's pending."
"Ah, why don't ya just say it…you've been spending more time with your new flame, fondling her slick, metal ass…"
"Hey, leave Sovereign out of this. At least she doesn't bark at me when she's on the rag…"
"Yea, well I guess I wouldn't wanna piss off a chick who can wield an arsenal assembly of torpedoes and warheads either."
"I dunno Spades. I swear I can imagine some days when that rotten hag, Gettner looks as if she's gonna burn a hole in my ass with her lazer vision...and don't even get me started with Mataki."
"Ah c'mon, admit it…you just miss pissing off that little black-headed tart from the bowels of Port Farrall's icy tomb…"
Baird only let out a groan in return as he knelt down to his hands and knees, trying to get a closer look at small puncture into what appeared to be part of the anchor hawsepipe. Bjork let out a slight snicker, knowing Baird's telltale signs all too well whenever he mentioned something that was either too personal for Baird to talk about, or it was something he was trying frantically to repress. In either case, Bjork let his mind wander on the thought process he was already treading in, until something came to the forefront, breaking through like a wrecking ball.
"Ah shit…" Bjork sputtered out as stood up, shaking his dark, scruffy hair, letting the sweat he accumulated earlier in the day, scatter in all directions "…that's it!"
"That's what?"
"Celetium…"
"Yea, so? What about…" Baird caught himself before he put the pieces together, shortly after Bjork uttered the catalyst. Scooting back onto his knees again, Baird shifted his goggles back onto his forehead; damn…
"It's light, it's cheap, and it's accessible…" Bjork started as Baird jumps right in,
"…and a small amount of it can pack quite a bang…that may explain all these small little dentures that are riddled all over the damn hull; shit, I bet those assholes that raided the storage house, weren't after our fuel or toiletries…" Baird growls, kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier; damnit, how did I overlook that?
"Ah, damn…that storage warehouse had over five tons of that shit!" Bjork recants while pulling his goggles down to his neck.
"How much did they take?" Baird asks, trying to get a head count of how much of the catalyst is out there at some lunatic's disposal.
"The whole place burnt down to the ground…nobody could tell ya how much the jerk-offs took…"
"…so it would be safe to assume they took all of it, right?"
"Most of it, but not all of it. Those barrels are pretty heavy man…it takes at least three men to move it from the storage to a Packhorse."
Baird scratches the back of his head, going over the possible scenario as he adjusted his goggles while Bjork knelt back down, glaring at the arrangement of what was left of Falstaff's hull.
"Ok, so they ransack the warehouse, take what they could…say three, maybe four barrels?" Baird contemplates while Bjork reiterated,
"Let's say they did take four barrels, so they have to at least be a four man crew…"
"They take this shit to their makeshift lab, pack it into some container small enough to stuff under a compartment, and set it off with some timer…"
"Which means they had to have boarded the Falstaff either the night before, or early that morning…"
"…and then blow the Falstaff all to hell, a few hours later," Baird stood baffled, trying to make the logic fit the puzzle, "…all that…just to blow up a fucking kelp trawler?"
The moment of silence between the two became an awkward sign of deliberation, going over the theories that just so happens to fit the facts, only coming to the same conclusion, each time; so why blow up a kelp trawler?
Still in the moment of deep thought of trying to piece it all together before looking at the bigger picture, the sound of footsteps could be heard from the other side of the dock. Both looked up and noticed Colonel Hoffman walking up towards the beginning of Falstaff's reconstructed, port side hull, laid out on the platform. Captain Michaelson was following close behind, meandering the car size shrapnel along with Hoffman as the two continued to exchange words that seemed almost an array of objectives that neither really wanted to follow through.
"Shit on a fucking stick…this makes number three in just two weeks!" Baird and Bjork could hear Michaelson blurt out, glaring at Falstaff's frayed remnants.
Hoffman stood idle for a moment as he too glared at the salvaged metal debris, with some speculations already coming to mind, but didn't have the evidence to back it up. Generally speaking, Pirates had little interest in blowing up trawlers; they usually ransacked the vessels of their supplies and didn't waste the time, or munitions to sink them.
"First things first…I'll get in touch with Trescu…see if he has anything he would like to share with us…"
"Look, I know Trescu walks a tight-ass line, hovering over his derelict platform like a ploy for Prescott's amusement, but you don't think the Gorasni had anything to do with blowing a kelp trawler, do you?"
"Hell, Quentin…at this point, I'm keeping everything in a larger perspective, especially after what he did to that pirate ship. For all we know, the Zephyr could've been roaming nearby…"
Glaring at the two techheads whom spent the last ninety minutes squabbling over conspiracy theories, Hoffman started to make his way over to Baird and Bjork on the other side of the Falstaff's hull.
"Gentlemen…tell me you have something close to an assessment about what happened to this vessel,"
"If close means approximate, then our latest theory is closer to fitting the bill, but it's still in theory…until some other components could be looked into," Bjork acknowledges first, knowing that Baird hated to guess, but for the time being, it was the best they could do in two hours.
"So in other words, Corporal?" Hoffman presses,
"We can tell you it wasn't a missile, or torpedo," Bjork began, occasionally exchanging glances with Baird, and then glaring back to the Falstaff's remains.
Baird could only acknowledge Bjork's sentiment with a nod, as he watched Hoffman scan over the remains, quickly noticing the puncture point was protruding out, instead of in, which backed up Bjork's evaluation.
"So this wasn't an attack from another vessel…"
It was then that Baird couldn't play the mute part anymore. I hate looking like the one who doesn't have a fucking clue.
"We have reason to believe that someone at some point, boarded the Falstaff sometime either the night before, or earlier that morning, and placed a, what we believe, a small cluster of explosives, using celetium as a catalyst on a timer."
"Celetium?" Hoffman sputtered, turning his attention over to Michaelson, whom was just as jaw dropped as the Colonel.
Although celetium was widely used for numerous purposes, majority of its use was for vehicular maintenance, especially with aircraft, including the King Ravens. The old warehouse, before it burnt down into a heap of rubble, was a central storage facility for the substance, where the maintenance crews kept majority of the barrels. It was the perfect location since it was closest to the base airfield.
"…in theory." Baird quickly reiterated, but grudgingly. The only evidence they had to back it up was the red scorch marks on the inside of the hull.
Michaelson looked at his watch to check the time, and then glanced into the night sky. A King Raven could be seen in the distance, hovering across the open sea, which soon meant that curfew was going into effect. Hoffman let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at the sad remains of Falstaff's fat ass, lying sappily on their loading dock.
Keeping his gaze at the remains while occasionally shooing the nocturnal bugs, swarming from the dock lamps above, Hoffman muttered suddenly,
"Corporal Bjork…I want your analysis report on my desk tomorrow before twelve o' hundred hours, based on what you two managed to conjure up to me as of now."
"Sir?" said Bjork, somewhat baffled as to why this was being rushed.
"You got cotton in your ears, son?" Hoffman looked up, glaring at both of them with a cold stare.
"No sir. I'll have that report on your desk, tomorrow by twelve o' hundred hours, sir," Bjork recapped.
"That's better Spades. As soon as your finished, I'm going to need you make a run into Retreat later that afternoon, so I'll need you to get on the squawk with Sergeant Jacquin, ASAP!"
"Uh…yes sir, I'm on it," Bjork gave a casual salute and then knelt down to pick up his gloves, while giving Baird a swift glance and then turns his attention to the tool bag. Redirecting his gaze to Baird, Hoffman's weathered expression turns smug,
"…and Corporal, if it isn't too much to ask, I'm going to need you to take a look at the cables at our signal towers first thing tomorrow."
"You mean all three towers?"
"Just the two that relays our signal to Retreat. I've been getting reports of some interference from their technician, after she investigated their own equipment. It's just routine, trying to troubleshoot and rule out any hardware issues."
"Sigh, understood sir," Baird replies, knowing that his day for the most part, was shot. So much for making plans to go back on the Sovereign…but then again, it beats patrolling.
"In the meantime, I'll be back on the horn with the Feral Consulate, working out the diplomatic kinks…so don't bother coming to me until you got every line checked and accounted for, Corporal."
Well my day just fell into the commode. Wait…Feral Consulate?
"The Feral have a consulate?" Baird blurts out without thinking. Bjork could be heard letting out a slight snicker while gathering his equipment into a duffel bag.
"That's right, Corporal…" Hoffman gloated in the face of the bemused, "…so if you could, let's try to refrain ourselves, and not get her panties rolled up into a little tissy, shall we?"
The sudden revelation dropped a black veil over the vicinity, shutting Baird's mouth for the moment as silence followed, leaving only the noise of the crashing waves against the vessels parked along the dock.
As Michaelson turned to the Colonel, going back over reports from earlier in the day, Baird's mind wandered back into a frozen iceland, as pictures of a botched mission came back to light…only coming out of the frozen wasteland wasn't the only thing that still replayed ceaselessly into his memory.
Fuck, it's going to be one of those days…
Thank you for taking the time to read. Again, feedback is welcome.