Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

by Drew Brown

Published by TwinStar Media at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Drew Brown

All rights reserved

http://www.TwinStarOnline.com

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, or any historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Last Day

The First Day

The Second Day

About the Author

Prologue

I guess you wanna know a little ’bout me.

Which, as it happens, is a good thing, ’cause I, sure as Hell is hot, don’t wanna sit here talking ’bout you.

My name’s William Ashby, but you can just call me Budd. I was a chopper-jockey with the U.S. Marine Corps, but now I’m retired. Well, not actually retired, more like discharged. But that’s another story - of cheap booze, an uppity Colonel, and a broken jaw. And, yes, that is the right order, sir.

Nowadays, I’m just a civilian pilot, earning a crust with all the other schmucks. But I’m not one of those namby-pamby flyboys in their big passenger jets. I fly proper planes, you know, the ones that don’t have a giant computer to do all the thinking. The ones where bits fall off and you’re expected to keep going.

Okay, so it ain’t rocket science. But it’s a good, honest job. And I don’t do too badly with the ladies in the flyer bars, either. Well, I’ll admit - but just between us - that most of my recent conquests have lived on the far side of Wrinkly-Bottom, if you know what I mean. But I kinda like the more mature woman. Especially with the wonders of modern medicine. You know, the cut’n’tuck’n’stretch kind.

Not that I’m one to talk; over the years even these chiseled good looks have worn a bit rough around the edges.

In a good way, though. Makes me look more rugged.

But let’s get back to business. For the last few months I’ve been working for this research company, TimeTech Solutions. All I did was fly shipments and personnel between London and a crummy base on a rock the pesky Russians called Ostrov something-or-other - hell, I can’t pronounce the word. The name translates to Hope Island which, for those of you not holding an atlas and a magnifying glass, is located in the freezing waters of the Arctic Circle.

Hope Island. The name couldn’t be more ironic. The only hoping I ever did when I was there concerned getting off it again.

I didn’t have a clue what TimeTech did, but they kept me busy, ferrying around the sky like a wet-behind-the-ears delivery boy. I even picked up cartons of newspapers for the science nerds to read. My boss was intimidated by his boss’ shadow, the coffee from the machines was always cold, most of the other pilots excelled at slacking off, and I spent half my time in the wind and snow, shuffling around with my fingers crossed that the engines wouldn’t freeze.

Sure, if I try hard enough, I could think of some good points.

Nah, it’d take me all day. I should’ve jacked it in and got a new job, but I was far too lazy. People have always told me that my laid-back attitude is a curse - parents, teachers, ex-wives, lovers, bosses - you know the score. But, hey, at least I’ve never had an ulcer.

So, I reckon I know what you’re asking yourself.

How did this all start?

Am I right?

You’re trying to work out how a guy like me ended up stuck in a place like this, having somehow survived the end of the world.

Well, let me tell you, brother, I’ve been thinking ’bout that myself.

And you’re in luck, ’cause I really do know where it all started. I’m probably the only one left alive on this God-forsaken planet who does.

What’s more, I was there.

Right in the stinking-mouthed, bad-complexioned thick of it.

Ain’t that something? The first exam I’ll ever get top marks on is “Armageddon 101!” My old lecturers would be so proud.

If they weren’t already dead.

Anyway, from what I heard, it started the same way as most problems do. With an accountant…

THE LAST DAY

A faint light appeared through the darkness. It shone briefly before vanishing, obscured behind the low clouds and swirling, snow-filled air. Then came snatches of engine noise over the howling winds. The mechanical din grew steadily until, at last, the small twin-engine aircraft broke out of the gloom with its nose pitched-up, ready to land.

The Beechcraft King Air 350LR aimed for the narrow strip of compacted gravel, which was topped loosely with fresh snow and would have been impossible to distinguish from the rest of the white, snow-covered wilderness were it not for the red and green lights that adorned its edges. The tires of the purpose-built King Air were layered with tiny spikes for extra grip, and when the wheels touched down puffs of white powder shot up from the runway. The aircraft jostled from one side to the other as it reduced in speed, the rudder on the T-shaped tail edging from side to side as the pilot battled to keep the plane straight.

Despite these difficulties, and the treacherous side-winds, the pilot managed to stabilize the aircraft and taxi it towards the doors of a green, snow-peaked hangar. Beyond the metal-paneled structure were other buildings of various sizes. Red lanterns on waist-high poles marked the shortest routes between them.

When the King Air neared the hangar, the large green doors started to open, sliding apart. The aircraft rolled inside before halting on the concrete ground. Around the aircraft came a surge of activity as green-overall wearing mechanics approached, some with toolboxes and one in the cab of a fuel truck.

Swift action from the tool-monkeys was never a good sign. Not for me, anyway…

The pilot eyed the commotion as he gathered his things. He walked down the aisle of the empty passenger section and pulled the lever to open the hatch at the rear of the aircraft. He was immediately grateful for the blue ski-jacket that he wore. The hangar doors were already closed, but the temperature inside the massive void had plunged below zero while they’d been open.

Standing below the hatch was a man with a large smile. “Good flight, Budd?” he called up. Anthony Pope was an African-American, born in San Francisco, and had a heartfelt laugh and a happy demeanor. He was wearing a grey jumper and padded pants. He’d spoken over the top of a clipboard, but his eyes remained on his paperwork as he scribbled away with a pen.

“Same as usual, Tony,” the pilot answered. William, or Budd, Ashby was six feet, one inch tall, with a strong but not overly muscular build. He swept back his hair and scratched at his stubble-covered chin. There was a hint of grey mixed in its dark hue.

“That bad, hey?” Tony replied. He tucked his pen behind his ear and tore off the top piece of paper. He held it up for Budd to take. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna like this, but both Josh and Benny are down with stomach cramps, I’ve got a meetin’ with the pen-pushers and one of the science buffoons just requisitioned a flight with immediate effect. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to do it.”

“Oh, come on. They can’t both be on the sick. They’re yankin’ your chain. Gimme a break, yeah? And there’s no way I should be flying in this weather, especially not solo. There’s a storm coming.”

“You know the contract, Budd. The ground crew is refueling you now and then you’re scheduled for takeoff. That’s your flight plan,” Tony said. “Why don’t you get some coffee while you’re waiting? Again, I’m sorry about this, but you can rest when you get there; I cleared it with the boss that you don’t have to turn straight back around.”

“Oh, thanks a lot,” Budd said, his words trailing into a sarcastic chuckle.

Tony was a good guy, but far too much of a stickler. If the science geeks wanted an emergency flight, I’d have let ’em fly it themselves. Then they’d know what an emergency really was…

“Well, I’ve gotta get goin’,” Tony said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Remember, we’ve got some downtime in New York next weekend. I got our places booked on the Learjet, flyin’ from Heathrow. When was the last time you partied with a couple of nice American women?”

“You’re buying,” Budd said as Tony walked away. He closed the hatch to keep the aircraft’s warmth inside and then returned to the cockpit. “Both got stomach cramps, my ass,” he said as he took his seat.

“All right, chief, what the hell is all the urgency for? I should be soaping up in a lukewarm shower right ’bout now,” Budd said once the King Air had escaped the bad weather over Hope Island and was flying above the somewhat calmer waters of the sea. He adjusted the position of his headset and microphone.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t understand,” the scientist answered in a curt, well-educated English accent. He was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat and leafing through documents in a manilla folder.

I could only think of one word to describe this particular brainiac. Work-obsessed geek. Okay, that’s three words…

“Try me.”

The scientist sighed and rolled his eyes up into their lids. “If I do, will you then let me work in peace?”

“No need to be a jerk, I’m just making conversation. You can always go and sit back where you’re meant to be. I’m sure we’ve got sick bags somewhere,” Budd said, thumbing towards the empty passenger compartment.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I did not mean to be rude. It’s simply that I’m under a lot of pressure. But I will explain to you what I can. Leaving aside the science, someone wants to cut our budget, and that could prove very, very dangerous.”

“Oh, you’re getting screwed for money. I know that feeling, pal. I’m a divorcee.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” the scientist replied sympathetically.

“Don’t worry; these things happen. And I can’t really complain: two of the proceedings were my fault. At least, that’s what my lawyer told me.”

The scientist looked puzzled, but although his lips started to form a word, a question, he resisted the urge to delve further. Instead, he lowered his head and turned his attention back to his folder.

“The name’s William Ashby,” the pilot continued. He thrust his right hand under the scientist’s nose. “But you can call me Budd. My friends do.”

The scientist fumbled with his papers, preventing them from slipping away. He then shook the offered hand. “Charles Deacon.”

“Glad to meet you, Charlie. If you don’t mind me saying, you look pretty young to be a head honcho.”

The scientist forced a smile. “I guess that, at twenty-four, I am. My lecturer at Oxford used to work with Professor Samson, who’s the leader of my project, and he forwarded him one of my dissertations. A week later, I received a job offer. That was three years ago.”

“Wow, it must’ve been some dissertation. What was it on?”

“The theoretical possibility of time-travel.”

“Time-travel? You mean like that car did, in that movie?”