Chapter 1

Your New Favorite Captain...

Two years after her hometown was devastated by first an over-zealous Allied commander, then a Soviet invasion, and finally a sustained Hurricane brought about by Allied Weather control, Alexa Thomas pondered the crazy direction her life had taken since the few days that had turned her world upside down.

If anyone she had known had survived the city’s destruction, they wouldn’t recognize her now. In her twenties, she still had her pretty, youthful looks and long blue hair. But deep down, she had come so far. The war had changed her in ways she would never understand.

Alexa had ended up killing both Allied and Soviet soldiers in the name of self-defense. She didn’t like to think she was taking any sides in the war, but now war was her craft, and she had long since ceased to have any problem with that.

She was a mercenary. That was why she was here, right now: She had a job to do, and she was going to do that. If the Soviets had contacted her first, likely she would be working for them. If they could afford her rates, that is.

She sat on a worn couch, fluff spewing out at the seams. Someone had given her a mug of coffee. She left it right where it was; she hated coffee. It reminded her of a time when she had been nothing but a lowly waitress, an eternity ago.

Busy Allied soldiers and naval officers hurried around the corridor with assorted files and documents. Every so often a busybody MP would question her. She would show her official pass as a mercenary, and the MPs would stalk off, muttering unflattering comments under their breath.

Eventually the fools in command stopped wasting Alexa’s time. A pretty secretary in French Naval uniform ushered her into the office.

Alexa tried as hard as she could not to be intimidated. Here she was in the monolithic command tower of Europa-1, the Allies’ main European command centre, in a huge office with at least five flag officers at a long table staring down at her, behind them a huge window-wall with a commanding view of the Fortresses’ massed helipads. As she watched, a flight of sleek twin-rotor attack helicopters were coming in to land, several of them obviously battle damaged.

“Don’t worry Miss, you’ll get used to it.” Said a big Swedish Navy Lieutenant, as Alexa was ushered to sit down next to him on a flimsy collapso-chair.

“Shut up, Frederikksen.” The depressed, cynical looking Dutchman next to him grumbled. Frederikksen either didn’t hear him or ignored him.

“Ladies, gentlemen, please try and show some kind of military discipline while in this office.” One of the admirals said, disgusted at the breach of decorum.

“Miss Thomas, sit down please. Please, meet Commander Reen Maartens, Royal Dutch Navy, and Lieutenant Dr Pelle Frederikksen, Royal Swedish Navy. We are waiting for-“

“My time is money.” Alexa cut the admiral off, fixing him with a steel glare. “Don’t keep me waiting admiral, my exploits are legendary, my patience is not.”

The admiral sat down, gaping.

The Dutch Commander mumbled something about ‘damn mercenaries’, but Alexa saw that he took great joy in the way she had dealt with the Admiral. He didn’t like top brass either. Respect due to him then.

“Lets just get on with it, shall we?”

The assembled brass conferred for a few seconds, and then the original admiral continued.

“Very well. You have each been selected for this mission for your particular talents. I think General Reseltine will take it from here. General?”

Reseltine, a US Air Force General, acknowledge the admiral and began in his grizzled voice, with a cigarette hanging half-out of his mouth. 

“You are to escort Ms Thomas here, across the Atlantic” - Commander Maartens shivered at the mention of the ocean – “To the Canadian coast, Halifax, Nova Scotia. You will requisition a British Frigate, HMS Reid for the journey. Ensure that nothing untoward happens to Ms Thomas. Once there, link up with Canadian forces. You have command authorization to requisition transport down into the US. From there, Ms Thomas has already been briefed and, ahem, payment” he said distastefully, because evidently he hated mercenaries too (a fact which Alexa long since ceased caring about) “Has been pre-arranged.”

Everyone knew that the US Eastern seaboard was still a place you wouldn’t go unless you absolutely HAD to – and even then you got someone else to go for you instead, preferably someone you hated or with up to date life insurance. The Atlantic was still being contested. Soviet forces there were often cut off, but were using local supplies and industry very well, thank you, and were still an effective fighting force. But they had received reinforcements recently, veteran personnel, as well as a few state of the art technofixes that were giving US Command nightmares.

Maartens and Frederikksen would think that getting across the Atlantic would be hard enough, Alexa thought. They don’t realise that the true goal of this mission is far more.

Its personal.

Alexa could tell Maartens knew enough not to ask what the goal of Alexa’s mission was. Frederikksen was about to put his hand up, but his Comrade and superior officer told him flatly to shut it.

“Now we are all agreed,” The Admiral began again, “it is time to get technical. You are to rendezvous with the Reid at-”

Everyone turned at the sound of a loud crash and a woman’s scream from the front door, which crashed open. Two figures stumbled through and fell over. The figure on the floor was the pretty French secretary. The other was a dishevelled, sick looking man with a few days growth of stubble. He wore a British Royal Navy uniform, his rank insignia and braiding were put on wrongly, his hat was filthy around the edges and he was plainly blind drunk, reeking of cheap booze, trying to get a grope of the secretary, who was struggling to get away.

He stopped what he was doing and looked up slowly – taking in the top brass, Alexa, the two navy officers and the outstanding view. He smiled weakly, revealing several broken teeth.

“Who the heck is this?” Maartens shouted.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I present Commander Roger Westleigh.” The Admiral sighed. “He is in command of the Reid. At least until we can drum him out of the service. Late again, Westleigh? Get out of my sight!” The Admiral shouted.

“Crap.” Someone said. It was General Reseltine.

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