The Time Mercenaries

Book 92: Gateway Essentials

by Philip E. High

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera; Time Travel

Synopsis

Aggression is out of date. After one war scare too many the human has suppressed it aggressive instincts by genetic manipulation. Make love, not war. Now mankind is faced with an enemy so superior, so ruthless, that it is fight or be wiped out - and humans can no longer fight; they cannot even order their robots to fight. Violence is decadent. Only a museum exhibit from a thousand years ago - a Royal Navy submarine complete with commander and crew, their belligerent natures intact - can hope to save the planet from an enemy to whom living space is all-important and human life entirely superfluous.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 160

Sample

THE SUBMARINE crept through the water with the stealth of her kind but without high drama. This was routine, a normal return after a normal exercise in peacetime.

It was a late December afternoon, with the coming night forming shadows between the wave crests and a few snowflakes drifting down from the dark sky.

Beneath the water, Randall said, ‘Up periscope,’ and sighed, pressing his face to the rubber covered eyepieces as the instrument rose.

Happy days! Home for Christmas! Wonderful – if you had a tolerable home. He was pleased for the men, of course, but for his own part he would rather have remained at sea.

Before the periscope broke surface, however, his thoughts were interrupted. Above the normal noises of the vessel was another sound which would have been meaningless to the inexperienced but to Randall spelled danger. In wartime he had heard that sound too often and, on many occasions, for far too long.

As the periscope finally broke surface, he swung the instrument desperately, searching for the cause of the sound. The area should be navigationally clear and kept clear on Admiralty orders but …

‘Dive, dive, dive!’ He heard his own voice shouting the order, felt his palm come down on the klaxon but he was aware of a curious feeling of detachment, as if someone else had given the order.

A destroyer! There shouldn’t be a destroyer within fifty miles! He had caught only a brief glimpse of the sharp grey bows hurling back the sea in twin white crests but she had been pushing it close to forty-five knots. Worse, she had been coming straight at them.

They could all hear it now – Get this blasted tub down! – faces shiny and tense, eyes fixed and unmoving.

Sound! The express train sound of a destroyer racing through the water.

They were not going down fast enough. Unless a miracle occurred, the destroyer was going to ram them. The sharp grey bows would come slicing through rivet and bulkhead with a tortured crumpling sound.

Randall was aware that he was hunched, rigid and braced for impact. There was no escape now: the destroyer was right on top of them and the noise of the racing screws seemed to fill the entire vessel.

It seemed to Randall that suddenly the world exploded. Somewhere there was an appalling crash; the vessel lurched and seemed to be flung upward. There were a series of vivid lightnings, nausea and a descending curtain of blackness.

He was never sure if he quite lost consciousness but the darkness seemed to vanish almost at once and brightness was hurting his eyes.

He stared into the light and slowly vague outlines began to emerge. Surely that was the periscope?

Everything seemed to flicker again and then he found himself staring into the white, strained face of First Lieutenant Cooper.

Cooper’s lips were drawn back, exposing his teeth, and sweat ran in little runnels from his temples to his neck.

‘She missed us!’ It was almost a prayer.

‘Only just.’ Coldness seemed to blow across Randall’s damp face. ‘Check the entire ship for damage, Number One.’

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice seemed to blend with, and be carried away by, the rapidly receding sound of the destroyer’s screws.

He was back within less than two minutes.

“No report of damage from any compartment, sir. A couple of circuits in the electrical system blew out but they can be replaced from stores.’ He hesitated. ‘Four men passed out, sir. I had them put in the sick bay and sedated. The S.B.A. could find no broken bones or signs of internal injury, sir.’

‘Good work, Number One.’

‘Sir.’ Cooper’s voice was hesitant and slightly hoarse. ‘It was kind of odd, wasn’t it? I mean, I thought – I had the impression that we were actually rammed.’

Randall met the other’s eyes. ‘So did I.’

Cooper blinked at him. ‘Any explanation, sir?’

‘Frankly, no, but I think I can dream up something moderately convincing.’ He switched on the intercom and unhooked the mike. ‘Now hear this – now hear this. Captain speaking.’ He paused briefly. ‘As you are all probably aware, we are very lucky to be alive. Only a few moments ago we narrowly escaped being rammed by one of our own destroyers. I may add here that this vessel had no right being in these waters and when we get into port I shall hand in a very strongly worded report. I have no doubt whatever that there will be a full inquiry.

‘In the meantime, I am sure that many of you had the impression that a collision actually occurred, but this is not an uncommon reaction in times of extreme tension. On many occasions during the war, in depth charge attacks, I was quite sure we had been holed and was amazed to find later that we had sustained no damage whatever.

‘In our own case, the illusion was heightened by the failure and subsequent blowing-out of some of the electrical circuits. The failure of the lighting system for a brief period and a great deal of sparking and flashing no doubt convinced a large number of already over-tense minds that a collision had actually occurred. As you have all observed, we sustained no damage at all.

‘Let us not be smug, however; we escaped serious damage by a miracle and it behoves us to pause and give inward thanks for our escape.’

He paused for an appropriate period and managed with some effort to instil some slight amusement into his voice.

‘I am sure, in view of the emotional strain you have all undergone, rum all around would not pass unappreciated.’

He snapped off the intercom. ‘Blow tanks. Up periscope.’

A minute later he said, ‘Half ahead together,’ then ‘Think I’ll take a look around aloft.’

Once in the conning tower, he leaned on the rail and drew the cold winter air deep into his lungs. It had been a dream, hadn’t it?

He looked across the dark choppy water and, slightly to port, the warning beam from the Wendell lightship stabbed toward him like an accusing finger and was gone.

Dead ahead, a cluster of lights pin-cushioned the horizon: Seaforth, major port and their naval base, not far now.

Lieutenant Cooper joined him in the conning tower. ‘All shipshape below, Skipper.’ He cleared his throat nervously. ‘You gave a pretty convincing explanation, sir.’

Randall looked at him sideways. ‘Did it convince you, Number One?’

Cooper thought about it. ‘I’m working on it,’ he said honestly. ‘Factually, rationally, I go all the way, of course, but it seemed so damned real at the time, I could have sworn on oath that we were rammed.’

Randall found his pipe and thrust it unlighted between his teeth. ‘Obviously we were not, but it might be interesting to compare our experiences later. How about the Long Bar on Slade Street, preferably over a brandy?’

‘This is better.’ Cooper sipped the brandy gratefully and stretched his long thin legs under the small table. ‘Lights, people, music – It makes one feel human again, sir.’

‘Quite.’ Randall removed his peaked cap. ‘Well, Number One, let’s get down to cases. I take it that you thought you heard the impact.’

Cooper looked relieved. ‘Well, yes, sir, I’m almost ready to swear–’He stopped.

‘Something the matter?’

‘I –’ Cooper lifted the brandy glass and put it down again a little unsteadily. ‘Must be the lights, sir, but for the moment you looked – you still look – so damned young.’

‘Really, Number One! I am forty-six, greying at the temples and my hair is thinning rapidly.’

‘Perhaps – perhaps you’d better take a look in the mirror behind the bar, sir.’

Randall looked puzzled. ‘Very well, it’s my round anyway. Drink up and I’ll get these glasses back.’ He took them and walked towards the bar.

‘Two double brandies, please.’ He caught a glimpse of himself in the long, brightly lighted mirror and one of the glasses slipped through his fingers and broke on the floor.

His hair was thick, dark and slightly wavy. His face was still lean and brown but the flesh was firmer and a lot of wrinkles had disappeared from around his eyes. Somehow, somewhere, at least from his appearance, he had dropped sixteen years. He was thirty again.

He heard himself say, ‘Sorry, I’ll pay for the glass – yes, yes, I am quite all right, thank you. Two double brandies, please.’

He returned to his table on legs which felt as if they had developed new and treacherous joints at the knees.

‘I see what you mean.’ He sat down, heavily.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought you ought to know.’ Cooper’s attempt to sound normal was heroic but unconvincing. ‘It’s just another thing; despite all the rationalisation I haven’t felt right since – since it happened, sir.’

Randall frowned at him. It was on the tip of his tongue to come back with some sarcastic remark but the words would not come. He had not felt right himself.

They both became aware that someone was standing by them and both looked up together.

‘Captain Randall and Lieutenant Cooper?’ The questioner was well dressed but hatless. The grey hair was parted in the centre and the face was lean, brown and hard.

‘Yes, what can we do for you?’ Randall managed to look both polite and interested.

‘I’m afraid I’m here for sterner purposes than amiable cooperation, Captain.’ He produced a small brown folder from his pocket and held it out for their inspection. ‘The name is Forsythe; as you see, I’m from Naval Intelligence.’

Forsythe conducted the two men into a small but comfortable office a mile or so away.

‘Please sit down.’ He sat down behind the desk and faced them. ‘I take it that you have no idea why you are here?’

‘None at all, sir.’

‘I see.’ He reached down and produced something from the desk drawer. ‘Perhaps, first, you should look at the evening paper. Front page, the headlines should be enough.’

Randall took the paper and felt the muscles in his hands lock painfully.

DESTROYER RAMS SUBMARINESUBMARINE CREW FEARED LOST

The Admiralty announced at 17.50 hours this evening that the destroyer Mentor had collided with the submarine Euphrates at a point approximately four miles due East of Seaforth.

Salvage and recovery vessels are being rushed to the area but little hope is entertained for the crew of the submarine.

Naval divers report that the vessel, badly holed, is now lying on its side at a depth of …

Not trusting himself to speak, Randall handed the paper to Cooper, dully aware of a trickle of sweat crawling down his temple.

Cooper read the headlines, then put the paper on his lap, has hands too unsteady to hold it in front of him.

Forsythe waited politely for him to finish, then he said, ‘Well?’

Randall felt his cheeks burn suddenly. ‘What the hell do you mean – well?’ He fought for self-control. ‘Sorry, sir, but I think an explanation, if any, should come from you. What is this, some sort of security stunt?’

‘Not a stunt, Captain. Call it a transition.’

Randall half rose from his chair, then lowered himself into it again. ‘Are you trying to tell us we’re dead and that this is some sort of afterlife, heaven, hell or what-have-you?’

‘You’re off course, Captain, but close enough to accept an explanation. Briefly, you were rammed, you sank and, because of bad weather, salvage was not attempted for nearly two months. When the weather finally settled, a war-scare intervened and again salvage was abandoned. Actually, Captain Randall, you were beneath the ocean a very long time. So long, in fact, that medical science had taken giant strides and we were able to resuscitate you and nearly all your crew.’

Cooper rose, his face flushed. ‘That’s a biological impossibility! What sort of fool do you take me for?’

Forsythe looked at him without expression and produced a printed sheet of paper. ‘This is a report of conditions in your vessel when it was finally salvaged, conditions which had prevailed over a considerable period. As you will see it is written in simple terms with a minimum of technical and chemical references.’ He handed it to Cooper. ‘Incidentally, I am afraid that later we shall have to call upon you to reduce it to even simpler terms for the benefit of your crew.’

Cooper finished the paper and passed it to Randall. ‘There is still a damn lot which doesn’t fit – sir. Look, we walked through Seaforth, we had a drink in a pub, everything was the same.’

Forsythe looked at him with faint compassion. ‘Our psychologists advised us that an abrupt transition from the past to an incomprehensible future might have dangerous mental repercussions. Acting on their advice, therefore, we are bridging the gap from past to future by easy stages. Seaforth – the Seaforth through which you think you have walked and, incidentally, berthed your vessel – is an illusion created by special techniques for your personal therapy. If this startles you, I am afraid I must startle you even more because you are not on the planet Earth.’

Randall, who had been dividing his attention between the report and the other’s words, looked up. His fac. . .