“Affirmative, Chief,” a woman’s voice returned. “He’s on the firing range with Commander Furlong.”
Crap, it had to be Quint. Taylor frowned up at the decades-old water stain running down the side of his Clubhouse.
“Shall I have the doctor come find you?” the voice asked.
“Nah, that’s okay. I’m headed there now. I’ll find him. Van Zant out.” Taylor killed the call and motioned for Lisa to follow.
“Where are we headed?” she asked.
“To find you an escort,” Taylor said. “Kudos to you for gettin’ by security on your own. If you’re to stay here, though, and not get booted out on your ass, you’re gonna need campus credentials.”
After passing the Clubhouse, Taylor cut right past the engineering hangars, then proceeded ahead to the open-air firing range on the backside of the property. There, he spotted Paul on one of the far lanes.
“Hey, Chief, what’s—” The doctor did a double-take upon seeing Lisa.
“Paul,” Taylor said. “You remember Lisa Kouvaris from the Times?”
“Um, of course.” Paul checked his pistol was safed, then laid it aside and extended a hand. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am.”
“Doctor,” Lisa greeted.
Taylor looked around. “Where’s Quint?”
“He ran back to storage to score us some more targets,” Paul said. “We’ve been out here an hour, and we’re pretty much out.”
Lisa inspected the stack of tattered paper on the bench beside the doctor. “I thought most merc outfits used virtual sims these days for all their training.”
“Most do,” Taylor said. “The ones who can afford to build proper training rooms, that is.”
Lisa wrinkled her nose.
“We’re working up to it,” Paul added.
“Chief!” a deep voice bellowed from across the lawn.
The group turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man with a shaved head and neatly trimmed goatee marching toward him. He wore dark jeans with combat boots and a sleeveless black t-shirt, exposing his brawny arms covered in tattoos.
“Quint,” Taylor said. “How goes the session?”
Quint presented a paper target with a man’s silhouette, its face and chest peppered with tight clusters of holes. “Aces, baby. Aces.”
A sheepish Paul didn’t bother showing his target.
“Who’s our guest?” Quint smiled at the reporter.
And here we go. “Quint, I’d like you to meet Lisa Kouvaris.” Taylor raised a hand to gesture an introduction. “She’s gonna be spending some time with us.”
“Is that a fact?” Quint’s grin widened.
“Lisa, this is Commander Quinton L. Furlong,” Taylor said. “He’s presently the commanding officer for Atlantic Company, one of two such trooper units employed by Swamp Eagle Security. The other is Riverside Company, as led by Commander Smith. You’ll meet her shortly.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Commander Furlong,” Lisa said.
“Please.” Quint gave an exaggerated bow then took her hand in his. “Call me Quint.”
You’re such a jerk, Paul said to Taylor via look.
Taylor stifled a cough with his fist. “Ms. Kouvaris is a reporter with the Jacksonville Times Union.”
Quint dropped the woman’s hand. “A reporter?”
“That’s right,” Taylor said. “She’s here to write a story on the Eagles’ one-year anniversary of bein’ back in business.”
Quint’s brown eyes narrowed. “Huh. Well then, welcome aboard.”
Lisa seemed to ponder something as the commander returned to his targets. “Wait a second. You’re Quint Furlong, the Fury of Fulton County.”
Quint gave a mutter but not much else.
“You were a five-time All Star for the Atlanta Braves,” Lisa continued. “First base, if memory serves. You won Rookie of the Year by an almost unanimous vote, then went on to claim three Silver Slugger Awards, two Gold Gloves, and a runner-up for league MVP. Most think you’d have won it the next season, too, had you not been banned from the game on gambling charges.”
“Okay, first off, they were allegations, not charges. Secondly, they were total horse shit.” Quint spun back to face his accuser. “Hear this, and hear it good, lady. I never once bet on baseball. Understand? Basketball, martial arts, stock cars, sure. I even placed a few wagers on the old NFL before it finally went under. But I never—never—bet on baseball. I loved the game way too much to dishonor it like that.”
Lisa raised her palms as an uneasy silence fell over the group.
“So.” Paul adjusted his glasses. “Now that we have that bit of awkwardness is behind us, what can we do for you, Chief?”
“Quint, you’re with me.” Taylor aimed a thumb at the Clubhouse. “Smitty’s back with a proposal, and we got church in five minutes.”
“Ayew.” Quint ducked out of the conversation as if his pants were on fire.
“Paul,” Taylor shifted. “I need you to show Ms. Kouvaris here to admin and get her some access credentials. After that, I’d like you to show her around the campus.”
“Wait, me?” Paul did another double-take. “But I was about to—”
“Thanks, brother.” Taylor patted his doctor’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”
* * *
As one of only three structures on the entire Eagles campus with functional air conditioning, the Clubhouse was something of a multipurpose facility, serving as one part command center, one part domicile, and one part hangout spot for the crew. Parts one and three were housed in the old tower control room upstairs. The apartment where Taylor slept most of his nights on a secondhand bunk from a thrift shop was housed on the ground level.
Taylor and Quint entered the structure through the side, then climbed the stairwell to the control room on level two. From there, they crossed the open floor—past the bar, the Tri-V, the shag couch, and the dart boards—then headed for the lounge turned conference room where Billy waited with the others.
“Welcome back.” The XO rose from his chair at the long wooden table with the company crest carved into its center. “How was Ron Carnegie today?”
“Feelin’ charitable, as it happens,” Taylor said.
“Really?” Billy cocked his head. “How so?”
“We’ll get to that.” Taylor greeted the rest of his senior staff on his way down the table. In addition to Billy and Quint, that consisted of Commander Dinah Smith, or Smitty, and the Eagles’ lead engineer, Keeto. The former wore the same hunter-green BDUs and ex-military aura as the XO. The latter wore nothing at all. That was typical of most Athal, since their insectoid bodies possessed more than enough fur to do the trick.
“Okie dokie.” Taylor found his seat at the head of the table. “Church is officially in session. Smitty, what do we got?”
The blonde commander in her early-thirties swiped at her slate to access an image, which she then mirrored to the Tri-V beside the Long Branch Light sign across the room. It depicted a three-dimensional portrait of a Zuparti male adorned in elegant gold robing.
“What am I lookin’ at?” Taylor asked.
“A bloody sweet opportunity, that’s what.” The Australian native laid her slate down and clasped her fingers. “Meet Ushavo. He’s the prince elect of the Ytara, a small clan of Zuparti residing on the northernmost continent of Sakall.”
“Sakall.” Taylor remembered the name from his earlier training session. “That’s the Union trade world almost all the way out to the galaxy’s Fourth Arm, ain’t it?”
“Correct,” Smitty said.
Quint whistled. “Talk about a hike. That’s gotta be, what? Six, seven transitions from Earth?”
“At least.” Keeto’s species had multiple rows of teeth. This gave their speech an inherent hiss. “A voyage to Sakall would require us to cross two full arms of the galaxy. By my calculations, that’s a minimum of eight weeks hyperspace transit time—each way.”
Taylor stroked his whisker
s. “That’s one helluva deep space run.”
“It’s a helluva lot of supplies, too,” Billy added. “A job like this would suck up nearly all our current resources, especially if we’re looking to deploy both companies, which I’m assuming we’d have to.”
Taylor nodded.
“The Ytara are presently locked in a mineral dispute with the neighboring clan to the east,” Smitty said. “The prince is concerned his rivals could attack while he and his family make their annual pilgrimage to the Zuparti holy land next month.”
“So the prince wants security,” Taylor said.
“Precisely.” Smitty toggled something on her slate. A second later, the Tri-V image shifted from their client’s portrait to a topographical map of Sakall.
Damn, that’s a lot of mountains.
“The prince estimates the pilgrimage will take roughly two weeks total.” Smitty pointed to a section of the map. “That’s five days through this range, plus a four-day stay in the valley, then five days back to his province.”
Quint put up a hand. “Hold on a second. Are you saying this whole trip requires zero off-world travel once we get to Sakall?”
Smitty nodded.
“Why does this guy need a specialized escort for that?” Quint asked. “I mean, from what I can see here, we’re only talking about a few hundred miles. Pack up your family, roll up your fasting kit and your knee-mat thingy, then hop a maglev train and go.”
Smitty shook her head. “Per Zuparti customs, anyone who voyages to the holy land via any means other than on poneevy risks banishment from the afterlife.”
“I thought a Panini was a sandwich,” Quint said.
“A poneevy,” Smitty corrected, “is a species of land animal indigenous to the region. The Ytara have been domesticating them as beasts of burden for centuries.”
Quint slid back in his seat and tugged at his goatee. “Wonderful. So when all is said and done, we get to spend two months cooped up on a dank-ass starship, only to touch down on a distant planet in the butt-crack of the galaxy for a two-week mountain excursion astride a stank-ass alien camel.” He huffed. “I hear Panama City’s nice this time of year. I wonder if the Stormriders are hiring.”
Smitty shot her colleague a sideways look. “On the upside, the prince wants us specifically for this job, and he’s prepared to pay handsomely for our services.”
“How handsomely are we talkin’?” Taylor asked.
“Our usual fee plus an additional thirty percent, with two-thirds paid in advance and the balance coming upon contract fulfillment.”
“Bring on the stank-ass camels!” Quint sat up straight.
“That’s a generous offer, all right,” Billy noted.
Taylor drummed his fingers on the table. “Did this prince of yours say why he wants us so badly?”
Smitty shrugged. “He just said that he’d heard of the Eagles’ reputation in security circles, and he wanted that class of company protecting his family on their journey.”
Taylor stifled a frown. Wonder if he knows these ain’t the same Eagles?
“There is a catch.” Smitty raised a finger. “All of this is set to take place during the Zuparti month of fasting. By their calendar, that’s only two seasons from now—ten weeks, by ours.”
“Wow, that doesn’t give us much margin for error,” Billy said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Keeto agreed.
“Can it be done?” Taylor asked.
Billy rested his chin on his fist. “Traversing that kind of terrain on animals leaves us vulnerable to attack from a lot of different angles, not the least of which is from on high. I’d feel a whole lot better if we had a few scout drones lying around to watch our backs from the sky.”
“What about our Hemming guy?” Taylor asked. “Think he’d hook us up?”
Billy rocked his head from side to side. “We’d have to put in a rush order. That won’t come cheap.”
“We can mod the contract to write in the extra expense.” Taylor shifted in his seat. “What else?”
“Some extra ground ordnance would be nice,” Billy continued, “not to mention a squad or two of CASPers that don’t belong in a museum.”
Gee whiz, Billy, I’ve never heard that one before.
The XO hunched forward onto his elbows. “At the end of the day, all of this is gonna hinge on our ability to find a transport that, A, can leave in the next seventy-two hours, and B, has enough cargo space to tote all of our gear. You’ve gotta know that’s no small order on this sort of timetable.”
Taylor studied the faces of his staff and readied his words. “We don’t need to contract out with another company for transport, not anymore. As of this afternoon, Swamp Eagle Security now has its very own flagship.”
Stunned looks rocketed around the table.
“Are we talking about the wheelbarrow here?” Billy asked.
Taylor shook his head.
Billy blinked then widened his gaze. “Wait…Ron Carnegie gave us a ship?”
“In a manner of speakin’, yeah.” Taylor motioned to Smitty for permission to commandeer her slate. She slid the device over, and Taylor used it to key up the tech specs Ron had sent during the drive back. A moment later, a 3D render of the vessel floated on the Tri-V for all to see.
“Is that a Navarro Model 12 cruiser?” Keeto moved closer to the projection.
“How in the world did Old Man Carnegie come by one of those?” Quint asked.
“He didn’t,” Taylor said. “Terry did.”
Billy’s eyebrows pulled together.
“So this is your brother’s ship?” Smitty asked.
Taylor leaned back and steepled his hands.
“How is this possible?” Billy asked. “I thought the bank seized all of Terry’s assets after the accident.”
Taylor recounted Ron’s story of the Navarro’s less-than-above-board purchase, and how it had come to be docked in a Steeldriver storage hangar.
“I’ll be damned…” Billy trailed off, clearly immersed in thought.
“What of these modifications you spoke of?” Keeto pointed to the image. “Do we know of their nature, or what systems were altered?”
Taylor shook his head. “As of now, y’all know everything I do. All other questions will have to wait until tomorrow when we take possession.”
“She got a name?” Smitty asked. “This new flagship of ours?”
Taylor took in a breath, eyes flicking back to his XO. “She does, actually. She’s the Earth Mercenary Ship Ryley Osyrys.”
Billy’s head snapped around. “You’re joking.”
Taylor shielded a snicker with his palm.
“That sneaky little ball-busting punk,” Billy muttered, a twinge of embarrassment reddening his cheeks.
“I don’t get it,” Smitty said. “What’s a Ryley Osyrys?”
“Ryley Osyrys ain’t a what,” Taylor said. “It’s a person. As for who he was or his significance to the Van Zant family…well, I’ll leave that for the XO to explain, if and when he elects to do so.”
Billy’s disdainful look said that wasn’t happening anytime soon.
“All right, so it’s settled,” Taylor said. “We take the contract and get this prince fella to his holy land, then back home to his constituents.”
Heads bobbed around the table.
“Good deal.” Taylor checked his watch and found the hour well past six. “Smitty, send a message to our new client and tell him we accept his terms if he’ll accept the modification. After that, I want you to coordinate with Quint first thing tomorrow to get our new recruits up to speed on Eagle operations.”
“Ayew,” Smitty said.
“Oh, and speakin’ of recruits.” Taylor returned to his XO. “Billy, I want you to be on the lookout for two more by the names of Bowyer and Stan. We met earlier over in the Junction, and they said they’d be in touch in the mornin’.”
“Bowyer and Stan?” Billy tilted his head. “As in Blackjack and Mississippi?”
&nb
sp; “The very same,” Taylor said. “I want them brought up to speed as soon as they’re on campus. I figure we can use their experience right about now.”
Billy raised a shoulder. “Okay, but that won’t leave me any time to go see the Elephant Man.”
Taylor’s expression twisted into a smirk. “What do we need to talk to him for?”
“This is the first time we’ll be taking our own ship through the stargate,” Billy said. “She’ll need to be registered first with the guilds. Under normal circumstances, we’d do that through the Commerce Guild, who’d then pass those credentials on to the Cartography Guild for gate access. In this case, however, given our time crunch, it’s probably best that we notify the gate master ourselves to expedite the process.”
“I’ll handle that,” Smitty said. “I’ve met the master before. I know how to handle him.”
Taylor stayed her with a hand. “I need both of my company commanders here, workin’ with our new batch of troopers. I’ll deal with the Elephant Man myself.”
Billy lowered his voice. “Chief, you don’t have to do this. One of us can—”
“I’ll be fine,” Taylor said with all the reassurance he could muster. “After all, this had to happen at some point, right? Best to get it out of the way now.”
No one answered that.
“Y’all good on your assignments?” Taylor asked.
Everyone nodded.
“Good.” Taylor rose from his seat. “Then let’s get to it.”
* * * * *
Chapter 5: Facing Giants
Rising from his bunk at oh-five-thirty the next morning, Taylor hauled himself upright on the first alarm, then managed the ten-step zombie walk to his shower without incident. He’d slept like crap the night before, despite all precautions. He’d downed an herbal tea. He’d gone to bed early. He’d even taken a shot of whiskey around midnight when the other stuff hadn’t worked.
Still no dice. Taylor hadn’t been surprised. Not on this day. Not with what he had to do.
Once out of the shower, Taylor slicked his hair back with his fingers, then pulled on his usual wardrobe of jeans, boots, and a flannel overshirt. After that, he retrieved his personal carry weapon, a nickel-plated JX-45 compact, from its lockbox and keyed the weapon into active-safe mode.
Free Bird Rising Page 5
