Chapters one & two from Josiah Trenchard Part One: The Might of Fortitude

This is the whole of the first and second chapters from my first novella "Josiah Trenchard Part One: The Might of Fortitude".

It is available now on Amazon.

Apologies for the formatting, this is the best I can do on Goodreads. All of my books are correctly formatted as per Amazon's guidelines.

I hope that you enjoy it!



Chapter 1 "Mars"

Bullets whined through the air like angry mosquitoes and the ground heaved as a massive explosion tore the Tarmac road into shreds. The sound of the explosion was deafening; even the rasping lungs of the two soldiers who were running for cover shook and rattled with the deep resonant boom. The air that they desperately tried to suck in smelled of sulphur and builder’s dust and the purple sky gave everything a sickly, pinkish hue. The ruined landscape of Mars’ largest city, Belatu-Cadros, was as close as they had ever come to the depths of hell itself.

The two troopers ducked behind the crumbling corner of a demolished building and covered their heads with their arms until the hail of dust and debris had subsided. When the explosion had spent itself, the younger of the two looked to his comrade and grinned, pushing up the protective visor of his black helmet to reveal clean eyes on a dirty face.

‘What’s pissed these guys off so much anyway!’ he called above the constant sound of gunfire, clearing his throat loudly and spitting thick, black mucus to the ground.

The older of the two soldiers squared his broad shoulders and grinned back at his comrade, snapping his visor up. ‘For god’s sake Trench, don’t you ever watch the news?’

A stray bullet pinged off the masonry above their heads and the two soldiers instinctively ducked. In the distance, someone was screaming. The sound ceased abruptly after a short burst of gunfire.

‘Politics bores the fuck out of me Bird,’ Trench replied, still grinning. ‘I don’t care why these fuckers are pissed at the government; I’m just here to make sure that they stop shooting at poor munters like me!’

A United Worlds attack gun-ship roared overhead, its deafening jet engines rattled the buildings as it passed slowly over and caused a thick dust to rain down. The gun-ship hovered for a moment in the purple sky while the gunners hanging out of the side strafed a nearby building with their mini-guns, decimating the structure and silencing the sporadic gunfire that was coming from the Insurgents within. As relative silence fell, the gun-ship sped off over the massive chimneys of the distant atmosphere processing plant and then dwindled slowly into a tiny dot against the vast extinct volcano of Olympus Mons.

‘Whatever the reason they started this,’ began Bird, ‘we have to find out where they’re getting their weapons from, and that means interrogating the Insurgent leaders.’

There was another erratic burst of rifle fire from a nearby building.

‘Come on Trench,’ shouted Bird above the din, waving his arm in the direction that he intended them to go. ‘Let’s move it. This low gravity is making me sick to my stomach. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can get back up to the ship for a shower and some scran!’

‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Trench eagerly.

The two soldiers snapped down their visors once more and dashed across a dangerous stretch of open ground, their black uniforms covered with dirt and thick orange dust. They reached the door to a large, officious looking building, and booted it open before carefully entering; rifles raised and torch beams dancing through the hazy air.

Bird lowered his rifle and let it hang from the strap while Trench covered the room. It was a large entrance lobby, deserted and covered with dust. Bird studied the display on his portable G.P.S. unit and once satisfied, raised his wrist towards his mouth and pressed the communicator switch on his bracelet cuff-link radio.

‘Lieutenant Bird to mobile command H.Q. Come in, over,’ he called.

There was a burst of static before the reply came through.

‘Mobile command H.Q. here. What is your status, over?’

Lieutenant Bird spoke calmly and clearly into the radio. ‘We have suffered heavy losses to our squad. Only Sub-Lieutenant Trenchard and I have reached the target building. What are your instructions, over?’

There was a pause while H.Q. passed the information up the chain of command.

After what seemed like an eternity, the very short reply came through ‘Backup unavailable at this time. Proceed as planned, over.’

Another gun-ship roared overhead, the vibrations from its engines dislodging a heavy rain of dust. Lieutenant Bird gave Trench a worried look. ‘Instructions confirmed, wilco. Lieutenant Bird out!’

Trench pulled a sour face. ‘They still want us to go in without any backup?’ he said incredulously.

Lieutenant Bird nodded grimly. ‘Looks like, yeah,’ he replied.

‘I swear,’ said Trench angrily as he activated the laser target pointer on the top of his rifle, ‘that if I get out of this alive, I’m going to stick my boot so far up the Captain’s arse that he will be able to taste the dog shit that I just trod in!’

Lieutenant Bird grinned and switched his own laser pointer on, the pencil thin beam of red light showing up clearly in the dusty atmosphere. ‘Lead on mate,’ he ordered.



Bird and Trench worked their way slowly and ever deeper into the structure. The room that they were looking for would be right at the heart, in the most protected underground bunker. They rounded a corner and found an inert body lying on the cold concrete floor, covered with blood. The young woman, barely a teenager, was dressed in the uniform of the local militia. Her hand still grasped her pistol and her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

‘Another one!’ exclaimed Trench.

Lieutenant Bird knelt by the body to check for a pulse. The body was still warm, but quite dead.

‘Just like the others,’ said Bird softly. ‘Throat slit and left to bleed to death. It’s a very clean cut too.’

‘Special forces?’ asked Trench with a furrowed brow.

Bird thought for a moment. The wound was very long and precise. ‘No,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘This is more like an execution.’ Then he prised the pistol from the dead girl’s grip and examined it thoughtfully. ‘This pistol is Navy issue,’ he said with a scowl. ‘It’s an older model than ours, but it’s definitely military. Someone’s definitely supplying them with illegal arms.’

‘If the Insurgents are using those weapons on us, then who the hell is getting all Ninja on them?’ hissed Trench.

‘I don’t know,’ said Bird quietly, dropping the pistol and staring thoughtfully into the distant gloom ahead.

Trench gestured to the bloody boot prints that led off down the corridor in front of them. ‘Whoever it was has fucking small feet!’ he observed.

‘…and they’re ahead of us,’ said Bird, a dark, foreboding expression falling across his face.

The two soldiers instinctively dropped into a walking crouch and carefully made their way along the corridor, aiming their rifles ahead of them.




They found three more bodies along the route before finally arriving at the entrance to a control room, full of computers and other electronic paraphernalia. Carefully, they edged around the door, which was hanging off its hinges, blasted into pieces by an explosive charge.

The scene inside was carnage. Bodies lay everywhere, the command staff of the Martian Insurgents. Every single one of them was slashed and drained of blood, which pooled on the floor, resembling used engine oil in the dim red light of the bunker. In the very centre of the room, a slim figure dressed head-to-toe in black was finishing off the last of the unfortunate command staff with what looked like a short sword. The figure expertly slashed the terrified man from shoulder to gut, spilling his blood and internal organs onto the cold concrete floor. The man crumpled and lay twitching on the floor next to the disfigured bodies of his fallen comrades.

Trench and Bird inched gently into the room, the tiny red dots from their rifles aimed steadily at the black figure’s head and chest. The figure looked down and studied the red dot on its chest for a moment, cocking its head to one side inquisitively, before looking straight up into Bird’s eyes as if daring him to fire.

‘Don’t move!’ shouted Lieutenant Bird. ‘You are under arrest by order of the United Worlds peacekeeping force under section…’

The figure suddenly leapt, more quickly than it would seem a human was capable of doing. Bird and Trench reacted a moment too slowly and strafed the room with case-less rounds, attempting to keep up with the figure that leapt and dodged their every volley. With a sudden rush, the figure swung off a roof girder and lunged at Trench, catching him with its sword across his neck and chest. He dropped his rifle, clutching at his throat with his gloved hand in an attempt to stop the warm flow of blood that poured from the gash. Then he fell to the floor gasping for air.

Lieutenant Bird angrily attempted to zero in on the black-clad figure and managed to skim a bullet across its thigh. The figure howled with pain and anger. It brought the sword down hard in a wide arc that sliced cleanly through the metal barrel of Bird’s rifle. At the same time, the figure leapt feet first at Bird’s stomach. Bird’s broad frame crumpled like a squashed beer can and he whacked his head violently on the sharp edge of a console. Despite his helmet, he fell to the floor unconscious.

Trench couldn’t speak. The blood was filling his convulsing windpipe, bubbling and popping like a bowl of Rice Krispies. He was losing his grasp on his throat as well as on consciousness. The black-clad figure dropped onto its haunches beside Trench’s face and calmly wiped the blood off its sword on his uniform, before sliding it expertly into a sheath tied to its back.

As Trench slid into the numbness of unconsciousness, the figure brought its face, hidden under a stretchy black mask, close to Trench’s ear and whispered. The voice was soft, feminine, and had the slight hint of a chocolaty Japanese accent. ‘You’re lucky…’ she said as she pulled Trench’s dog tags out from beneath his uniform and studied them. ‘…Sub-Lieutenant Josiah Trenchard. My orders weren’t to kill United Worlds troopers. Catch you next time?’

Then the figure reached over and activated the inbuilt distress beacon that was part of Trenchard’s bracelet cuff-link radio, stood up, and raced away down the darkened corridor. The last thought that went through Trench’s oxygen starved mind before everything went black was… that bitch has a really nice arse!




Chapter 2 "A Man of War"

The heavy metal hatch screeched slowly open and Commander Josiah Trenchard stomped angrily down the creaking ramp. He stopped at the base and threw his heavy harness to the scuffed tread plate floor with a resounding clunk. He’d had a really hard day. He had a pounding headache, and was keen to get out of his sweaty, blood-stained uniform as quickly as was humanly possible. He looked down at his black sleeves, spattered with blood and bone fragments from troopers in his platoon; people he knew well, good friends. They would be coming back from that crappy little ice-moon below in a bag. That was if they could find all the bits!

He scratched irritably at the long scar on his neck that was just visible as it disappeared underneath his crumpled uniform. It always itched when he was sweaty and stressed. The underwater tunnels that he’d been fighting in had been hot as hell and humid to match. He was desperate for a shower but he had a job to do first. He needed to get this over with.

‘O.K., bring them down,’ he shouted impatiently to the waiting troopers inside the sturdy little craft, an edge of sadness and weariness creeping into his voice.

One by one, twelve dishevelled prisoners, brow beaten and manacled together, were ushered down the ramp by the battle weary United Worlds troopers. Trenchard studied the prisoners closely as he pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out from his inside jacket pocket, lit one and took a long, satisfying drag. Hardly anyone smoked these days, but Trenchard had an addictive personality. Whether it was booze, coffee or nicotine, Trenchard usually required them in large quantities. He was getting some dirty scowls from the nearby Techs, but they could all fuck off! They hadn’t just been into battle. He needed this cigarette more than he needed air right now. He let the smoke linger inside his lungs for a long moment, savouring the head rush, before blowing the smoke out of his mouth to one side. Then he ran his grubby, yellow stained fingers across his greasy, shaved scalp and thought back on the day’s events as he took another long satisfying drag.

A stocky man strode over and stood by Trenchard. His insignia identified him as Trenchard’s Lieutenant Commander. He too was glaring angrily at the prisoners and then he spoke quietly to Trenchard through gritted teeth.

‘This should have been a straight forward mission, damn it boss! I’ve just about had enough of the bloody Insurgents stirring things up. What the fuck do they want with one of Jupiter’s moons anyway? I mean, Europa for fucks sake! It’s in the arse end of nowhere. There’s nothing of value here!’

Trenchard grunted in agreement. ‘I think these fuckers just like to cause mischief wherever they can,’ he replied.

Not much had changed since the Martian rebellion four years ago, Trenchard thought to himself, scratching reflectively at his scar again. It was a solid reminder of the uprising in Belatu-Cadros. That was where the Insurgents had first learned to fight, learned to make bombs, and learned to kill!

‘The Insurgent leaders must have persuaded the colonists on Europa to declare independence somehow. If there’s one thing that the United Worlds government hates, then it’s pokey little back water colonies trying to avoid paying their taxes by suddenly getting all holier than thou!’ Trenchard groused.

The massive star-ship that Trenchard was currently based upon, the “Hand of Valour”, had been sent to Europa to deal with the recent uprising. It had arrived in orbit of Europa and Trenchard’s platoon had been blasted towards the small moon, expecting an easy victory. He played back the journey from the Hand of Valour to the surface of Europa in his head, remembering the sudden thrust of acceleration as they blasted off. He recalled the shaking and jostling, as the tiny Space-Air-Water Drop-ship fell through the thin atmosphere of Europa. He could almost feel the sudden jolt of deceleration as the tiny ship plunged into the icy ocean and dived towards the atmosphere processor, deep beneath the ice on the ocean floor. That was where the trouble had really started…

‘I don’t understand it boss,’ said the Lieutenant Commander bitterly. ‘It should have been a piece of piss to gain entry to the atmosphere processor. These guys are supposed to be civilian engineers and technicians. It was a straight-forward op!’

Trenchard nodded. ‘It should have been,’ he agreed, ‘but that was before the fucking Insurgents armed the colonists and taught them how to make I.E.D.’s. They’re spreading their political hatred to as many people as will listen. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. It’s fucking Belatu-Cadros all over again.’

The Lieutenant Commander gave Trenchard a respectful smile and a nod. Every trooper knew about Belatu-Cadros. It was where the war against the terrorists had really begun. In the early days the enemy were only fervent amateurs, and they had done enough damage as it was. Someone had obviously taught the Europan colonists guerrilla tactics. The bastards had started blowing up barrels of oil packed with nails and bolts as the troopers went into the airlocks. Trenchard shuddered as he felt the heat of the explosion in his mind. He could see the troopers falling all around him, feel their fear, and taste the air that was thick with smoke and the tinny smell of blood and burning flesh.

‘How many did we lose?’ asked Trenchard grimly.

‘At least half of the squad,’ replied the Lieutenant Commander, ‘mostly to deep tissue shrapnel wounds.’ He turned and spit onto the ground. ‘Bastards!’

Trenchard looked down at the deep, fresh wound on his own arm as he pulled back his ripped sleeve and scratched at it, wincing in pain, idly plucking out shards of metal from the wound. He would have another scar; another permanent reminder of battle and death. It had been a hard battle; too hard. He was remarkably pissed off!

‘I don’t know about you,’ said Trenchard, ‘but I feel like I want to rip someone’s head off and piss down their neck!’

The Lieutenant Commander grinned. All it would take was one more little push, and Trenchard might just forget that he was supposed to set a good example to the other troopers. The chained prisoners standing in a line in front of him were the ring leaders. Most of them were from other colonies, far away. They were Insurgent agitators, trying to persuade the people of Europa to revolt against the rule of the United Worlds. Well these guys would pay, thought Trenchard grimly.

‘Is that all of them?’ he asked his Lieutenant Commander.

The stocky man nodded and replied, ‘All present and accounted for Sir.’

Something caught Trenchard’s eye. On the other side of the vast hangar bay, other S.A.W. craft were returning from the frozen surface of Europa. Trenchard watched a couple of the missile shaped craft land with a thump and whistle of engines. Through the rectangular hole at the end of the runway, the white moon of Europa hung in the blackness like a well worn billiard ball, criss-crossed with dark scarlet cracks. He would be glad to see the back of that crappy little moon he thought, as he dropped the spent cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out with his blood splashed boot. He walked over to the prisoners and eyeballed them angrily before beginning his well rehearsed tirade.

‘You fuckers picked the wrong people to mess with today,’ he shouted.

In the background, another S.A.W.’s hatch opened and a weary trooper stomped out. He was wearing a scruffy red ribbon tied around his greasy dishevelled hair that he pulled off and wrung the sweat out of before replacing it onto his head. He saw Trenchard tearing shreds out of the prisoners and began to walk over, grinning broadly.

‘In case you hadn’t been watching the I.N.N. news reports recently,’ began Trenchard, ‘President Smith has just brought back the death sentence for terrorists,’ he continued, unaware of the approaching trooper behind him.
The grinning trooper stopped just behind Trenchard with his arms folded, seeming to take great pleasure in the entertainment.

‘Section forty two allows me to execute terrorists! I’d quite happily carry out the sentence right here,’ Trenchard threatened, dramatically drawing his pistol from its holster and clicking a round into the barrel.

‘Smith’s wrong!’ said one of the prisoners in a trembling, but determined voice. ‘You are wrong! We want freedom to self rule, not martial law forced on us by thugs like you!’

Trenchard narrowed his eyes and walked closer to the prisoner, who was defiantly staring at him with unbridled hatred in his eyes. Trenchard finally snapped. He’d had enough. He pressed the pistol hard to the man’s forehead. The man did a good job of putting on a brave face, but Trenchard could see the terror welling in his eyes.

‘Do you think that blowing up booby traps packed with sharp metal is the answer?’ he growled. ‘Do you think that it’s honourable or even fair? You might not like the United Worlds but at least we keep the peace. You lot would be kicking ten tons of shit out of each other if it wasn’t for us! Would you prefer that? Don’t you realise that we’re protecting you useless bunch of fuckwits?’

The prisoner’s face reddened, but he remained tight lipped.

‘Unfortunately, unlike you criminals, “thugs like me” have to follow the rules.’ Trenchard pulled back the pistol, disarmed the mechanism and slid it safely back into its holster. It had left a perfect red imprint of the barrel on the man’s forehead. ‘But mark my words. If any of you terrorist arseholes put so much as one bollock out of line, I will put you down like a fucking rabid dog! Understood?’

The prisoners remained solemnly silent.
Trenchard placed his hands behind his back and tried to relax his aching shoulders. ‘Take them away,’ he ordered, exhausted.

As the prisoners shuffled dejectedly away towards the holding cells to await transport back to Earth for trial, Trenchard became aware of childish sniggering behind him. He turned around to find the trooper with the bright red head band, leaning lazily on the butt of his rifle and chuckling with obvious glee.

‘Very impressive Trench,’ said the man in a broad Geordie accent. ‘You made them fuckers shit their pants all right!’

Trenchard scowled at the grinning trooper. ‘Haven’t you got something better to do Dasilva?’ he growled.

Lieutenant Commander Dasilva grinned and winked. ‘Whey aye, but I couldn’t miss the show man. It was champion!’

Trenchard looked around to make sure that the prisoners were out of ear shot, and then broke into a broad grin himself. ‘Piss off Eddie! Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight face with you pratting around behind me?’

‘Aye well, you seemed to manage all right enough,’ said Dasilva with a grin, then his face dropped, suddenly serious. ‘Did you lose many?’

Trenchard grimaced. ‘Twelve… you?’

‘Most of the squad,’ replied Dasilva, ‘just four of our lot made it back, and Commander Fisher took some shrapnel in his hand.’

‘Shit!’ said Trenchard as helpfully as he could. ‘How’s he taking it?’

‘Fisher?’ said Dasilva, ‘Ahh, he’ll be all right. The man’s as tough as old boots, got footballs for knackers! He’s more upset about losing good troopers. That prick reporter on the news is going to have a field day with this!’

Trenchard took another cigarette from its packet and offered one to Dasilva, who refused.

‘I just have this creeping feeling that maybe…’ said Trenchard in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. He tailed off, deep in thought. ‘This sort of thing used to be sorted out peacefully by the politicians. The United Worlds is supposed to be a democracy Ed. We’re meant to uphold the law and protect the people. Recently, things have been… different. High Command didn’t even give them a chance to negotiate this time; we just waded straight in feet first. This mission wasn’t honourable.’ Trenchard narrowed his eyes. ‘Know what I mean?’

Dasilva looked around nervously. ‘Yeah, I know mate,’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘But keep it to yourself man, or Ciaputa will have you up on a subordination charge.’

Trenchard’s shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply. ‘Oh… I don’t know Ed. I’m probably just tired, but this doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s not what I signed up for.’

Dasilva gave a quick nod of affirmation. ‘You can’t do anything about it mate, other than vote that is. Smith and Chang are running things right now and they’re talking tough! Pretty soon there’ll be another election and the government will change again. Someone else will be in charge and they’ll try diplomacy again instead of the hard line. Trust me, you’ll see.’

Trenchard nodded knowingly. ‘I hope you’re right. I could do with a fuckin’ big drink,’ he sighed, stretching and clicking the bones of his neck.

‘With a bit of luck,’ said Dasilva, ‘we’ll all be back at base on Cairn soon and we should all be due some leave after that mess down there,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards Europa. ‘Fancy a pint in Mike’s and then a curry?’

Mike’s Bar was the local haunt for the troopers at their home base on Cairn. The thought of its sticky floor and sticky beer was very tempting. Trenchard was about to reply when the dull, toneless voice of the ship’s Guardian computer echoed over the tannoy system.

‘COMMANDER TRENCHARD, REPORT TO COMMODORE CIAPUTA ON THE BRIDGE IMMEDIATELY.’

Dasilva looked up and listened to the message with a puzzled expression. ‘What does that frigid old bitch want?’ he asked with more than a hint of bile.

Trenchard shrugged. ‘God only knows, but it can’t be good. I’ll see you later.’

With that, Trenchard picked up his heavy harness from the floor and trudged off towards the bridge, past the tail fin of the S.A.W. where the Navy’s proud slogan of “Honour, Strength and Unity!” was painted in bold white letters. It was a motto by which Trenchard had tried to live his life. Recently, it was becoming harder to adhere to.

As he left, Dasilva shouted cockily after him, ‘Keep your hands in your pockets mate, or she’ll freeze your bollocks off!’





The bridge was a dome that was built onto the outside of one of the massive rugby ball shaped habitation pods, that rotated continually around the hull of the Hand of Valour on giant metal spokes to provide gravity. The domed floor of the bridge faced space-side, with the main hull and engine core of the ship above the crew’s heads. An iris shaped hatch in the ceiling slid apart gracefully with the sound of grating metal and Trenchard was lowered down on a circular platform towards the deck below.

He waited respectfully at attention for a moment as he studied the bridge watchstanders busying themselves at various control stations set around the curved walls of the room. At the front of the bridge was a large reinforced rectangular window that gave a view of space ahead. Clustered around a large tactical hologram in the centre of the room were several high ranking officers.

Trenchard coughed politely and a female officer in her late forties who was wearing a bright scarlet immaculate uniform, seemed to notice him for the first time. By the look on her face, his presence seemed to annoy her somewhat.

‘Ahh, there you are Trenchard,’ said Commodore Constantine Ciaputa in a clipped, tight voice that sounded like the lid of a heavy wooden box snapping shut.

Ciaputa handed a tablet screen that she was holding to an aide who rushed over from one side. She shooed the aide away irritably and the young officer dropped his head and respectfully stepped away again.

‘You sent for me Sir?’ enquired Trenchard as politely as he could muster. He was tired, dirty and aching. He was in no mood for a telling off from his boss. Ciaputa was the worst kind of officer. She had worked her way up the ranks by doing as little as possible and brown-nosing her superiors. Trenchard severely doubted whether she had ever seen any combat action at all.

‘Yes Commander, I did,’ replied Ciaputa with a curled lip. ‘At ease.’

Trenchard relaxed his shoulders and placed his hands behind his back, widening his stance.

Ciaputa studied Trenchard as if he were something that she had found crawling around under a rotten tree stump. Then she seemed to come to some kind of internal decision. ‘I’ve had word from Admiral Fife at High Command. A new position has become available and you have been selected.’

‘Sir?’ said Trenchard with a raised eyebrow. He didn’t like the sound of this. He was comfortable aboard the Hand of Valour. The quarters were quite big compared to some of the smaller ships in the fleet. He had respect here. He had worked hard to get where he was and didn’t want to leave so soon. Had he done something wrong? Ciaputa seemed to be taking pleasure from Trenchard’s disquiet. She smiled a greasy smile as she continued.

‘The prototype Wolverine class vessel has just come into operation. Four of the hunter-killers are being sent into the Asteroid Belt on a seek-and-destroy mission. One of the Wolverines, the “Might of Fortitude”, is short of an X.O. It seems that the Captain of the vessel has specifically requested you to be his executive officer... although god only knows why?’

‘Thank you Sir,’ said Trenchard. It was astounding how Ciaputa could congratulate and belittle in the same breath.

‘The Breath of Vengeance is going to meet us when we dock at Cairn. You will transfer over to her immediately upon arrival. I’m afraid your leave is cancelled as the mission has been brought forwards and you are required straight away. That is all.’

And with that, Ciaputa turned back towards the glowing green tactical hologram. She snapped her fingers at the aide, who rushed back over and handed her the tablet screen once more.

Obviously the audience was over. For a moment, Trenchard didn’t move. He was still shocked by the sudden re-deployment.

Ciaputa glanced irritably back at Trenchard over her shoulder, seemingly annoyed that he was still here. ‘Dismissed,’ she said sharply and then turned back to her work.

Trenchard stepped back onto the elevator platform and left the bridge in an even worse temper than before. No leave, he thought angrily! Why the hell did the Captain of the Might of Fortitude need him so damn urgently anyway? The Wolverines were a little bigger than the old Hunter class, but they were still cramped fucking sewage pipes compared to the Hand of Valour. This day had started shitty and had just gotten worse and worse!





Deep below the rocky surface of the desolate planetoid Cairn was a blast shielded, circular bunker. Its twelve foot thick concrete walls were resin bonded and electronically shielded. The “War Room” could withstand any attack from orbit and all attempts at espionage. The room resembled a cave or basement. It had a clammy, dank feel and the atmosphere was oppressive and the lighting subdued.

The man in the centre of the room was clearly agitated; he paced back and forth with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and a tight lipped expression on his stony face. He wore the bright red uniform with four diagonal black stripes of an Admiral and he looked as if he had the worries of the whole navy bearing down upon his shoulders.

Suddenly the reinforced titanium blast door screeched open and another figure walked casually into the room. This second man was tall and broad shouldered. His face too was stern and had the polished ebony finish of an Afro-Caribbean lineage. His uniform was also bright scarlet but had a single downward pointing black V that ran from his shoulders towards his stomach. There was only one man in the whole fleet who had the privilege to wear that uniform; Admiral of the Fleet Adisa.

Adisa came to a halt in front of the first man, who had stopped pacing and was staring into Adisa’s eyes as if his life depended upon it.

“Well?” asked Adisa in a deep resonating voice, emphasised by the acoustics of the War Room.

The other man spoke in what could only be described as a dour Scottish accent.
‘The Breath of Vengeance is preparing to leave Sir. The Wolverines will be launched on schedule,” he said. ‘I will personally be overseeing the mission.’

‘And is your man aboard?’

The Scottish man nodded curtly. ‘He will transfer over in a couple of days once the Hand of Valour returns to Cairn. He’ll be meeting the Captain of the Might of Fortitude as planned.’

Adisa paused and screwed up his mouth, deep in thought.

‘This had better work Fife,’ he said. ‘We’re placing a great deal of trust in this man of yours. I checked his record. He’s not exactly an exemplary officer!’

Fife took a deep intake of breath before answering.

‘His mission reports are exemplary. He was fundamental in our victory in Belatu-Cadros on Mars, and on Horizon.’

‘Admitted,’ replied Adisa. ‘He also has seven reports for insubordination, four aboard the Hand of Valour, and several other disciplinary matters on his record. He smokes, he drinks…’

‘He fights hard!’ snapped Fife, cutting off Adisa in mid-sentence.

Fife was probably the only Admiral in High Command who would have dared to interrupt Adisa. Taking a deep breath, Adisa narrowed his eyes and fumed quietly for a moment with tightly drawn lips.

‘He might not be the most… conventional officer in the navy, but he’s a fighter! Don’t worry Sir. If anyone can pull this off, he can…’ said Fife firmly.

‘You had better be right!’ Adisa growled.








You can buy this book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Josiah-Trenchar...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Josiah-Trench...

Also available are Part 2: Morgenstern, Part 3: Berserkergang, Part 4: Onamuji and coming soon is Part 5: Belatu-Cadros...

Jonathon Fletcher