■ ■ ■
Armed with Pulsar carbines, the UFW Space Marines waited at the door in full combat armor for the go signal. Sergeant Draza Mac checked their gear as he walked through the group, “This is not an assault, boys, let's not shoot anybody unless we have to...” there was some lighthearted grumbling and gaffes. “We're here to scoop up the Admiral. So let's, stay on mission. Got it?!”
“AahWoo!” they replied in unison, a five-hundred year old UFW Space Marine battle cry, an ingrained tradition based on the attack call used by the Jalezian Timber Wolf.
“This is a highly volatile and hostile situation, that's why we're going in with the heavy armor. I know it's slow and heavy, but we're not going very far...”
■ ■ ■
Mercedes Huang liked to think of herself as an enlightened person; worldly, traveled, knowledgeable, intelligent, privy to some of the most important secrets and technology her government had to protect. But as unprepared as she was to absorb what she was seeing, failing to fully comprehend that the ship she was looking at was indeed a real alien UFO, she was equally unprepared for the appearance of Space Marines... vastly different from what she saw on the videos Doug showed her at the Barn... The Barn, they had left it just a couple hours ago, it seemed like a week...
Emerging from the black opening in the side of the ship, figures emerged, tromping heavily down the ramp, fully armored like bipedal tanks, no human features of any kind visible through the gold visors to indicate what they might be. Were they robots? Androids? “AahWoo!” they chanted, dropping to the grass, eight of them spreading out in a tactical combat formation, strange looking weapons in their hands. The whole thing looking like something out of a Hollywood movie... fantastical, surreal, dreamlike.
Her blood ran cold with the realization it was all too real, all too frightening. Although she didn't realize it, she was shaking like a leaf, flooded with adrenalin, wanting to run, filled with dread, speechless, nearly frozen with fear. Two of the mechanical men tromped over to them and she tried to scoot back, her breath halting, her heart hammering. But she found her wrist locked in a vice-like grip. Looking down she realized Steele was looking up at her, clutching her arm, “It's OK,” was all he said. It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he said it... warm, calm, relaxed.
“Litter! We need a litter!” called one of the two Marines over his shoulder.
“No time,” said the other, handing his long gun to his partner. He dropped to a knee, “How are you doing Admiral?” His voice was mechanical through the armor's external speaker.
“Better now, Sergeant Mac.”
Draza Mac eyed the body laying in the grass behind Mercedes, “Looks like your handiwork...”
“My gun, her shooting...”
Mercedes' eyes darted from one to the other, curiously listening to the exchange, only understanding Steele.
“Let's get you to the infirmary, sir.” Draza Mac slid his armored arms as gently as possible under Steele's body, lifting him almost effortlessly, the suit's power assist doing most of the work. Mercedes Huang rose with them, still clutched by the wrist in Steele's grasp, still holding the IV bag. “What about her?” asked the Sergeant.
“She comes with...”
Thunder rolled in the clear blue sky prompting Draza Mac to look up, “Time to go,” he commented, “we have company coming...” The Sergeant caught movement from past the armless corpse laying in the grass, just below the rise in the rolling green, spinning his body to protect the Admiral with his armor, the rattle of a silenced submachine gun cut short by a return volley from several Pulsar carbines, the blue-white beams lancing out, electricity crackling, the security team hitting the target several times.
“Target is down...”
Steele lost his grip and Mercedes tumbled to the ground in Draza Mac's violent maneuver. She lay crumpled where she fell, motionless, the IV bag still clutched in her hand. “Lou, you fucking asshole...” she gurgled, spitting blood, her world going black.
■ ■ ■
After yesterday's startling news report, both Chase and Dan had been at a loss of what to say or do. Could it have been a hoax of some kind? A government false flag operation? To what end? It was stunning. If Jack were indeed back, what was he doing? It didn't make a whole lot of sense. But they did come to the conclusion that Steele may have had something to do with the events at Area 51 and Dugway. It seemed as likely an explanation as anything else they could come up with.
For the time being, working on the dirt bikes seemed the only thing to do at this point, having taken quite a beating from their last ride. The wide canopy attached to the side of the motor home gave a shady place to work, the dry desert breeze waffling the fabric above them while they worked.
“Man I can't even sweat,” complained Dan Murphy, rag in hand. “It dries as soon as I perspire.”
“Reminds me of the sandbox,” mumbled Chase.
Reclined in the hammock, Jesse watched Dan try to clean the dust off the various nooks and crannies of his dirt bike, “You're wasting your time, Dan...”
Dan threw his hands up, “I know I know. I'm bored, I don't know what else to do... we haven't heard a peep from the Commandery...”
“Chase!” Karen trotted up from their cabin, his laptop under her arm. She dropped to her knees beside him; laying the laptop on the seat of the dirt bike he was working on and opening its screen. “There's a message for you here on the comms board, posted at three in the morning last night... From Starwalker & WonderDog...”
“Who? Starwalker & Wonderdog...” they said together. They stared at each other for a moment, his eyes widening.
Chase Holt flicked his attention to Dan then back to Karen, “Noooo, it couldn't be... Could it? No, it has to be a coincidence...” His hands greasy he pointed at the laptop, “Open the message.”
“I can't, it's passworded...”
“Nobody does that on our comms board,” he frowned, grabbing up a rag and wiping his hands on the towel to clean them off. He typed in several different attempts, failing all. “Starwalker & Wonderdog...” he said slowly, “I wonder if it's this simple...” typing in; Jack & Fritz. The message popped open on the screen. “Son of a bitch, it is him...”
“What does it say?” asked Karen, leaning in.
“Say's he's looking for his mom and dad; he'll stop by in the morning to say hi...” He went from kneeling to sitting in the sand, staring at the screen, “His parents live in Chicago...”
“Yesterday's news...” breathed Karen.
“Yeah,” he mumbled in a trance, imagining his house wrapped in crime tape. Where would Steele go from there?
Dancing Rain came running out of the cabin waving her arms, “Hurry, you need to see this..!”
■ ■ ■
“Good morning, I'm John Griff...”
“And I'm Amy Halloran.”
“And this is a Channel 4, Breaking News Special...” continued the news anchor. John Griff looked intensely into the camera, “We're interrupting your regularly scheduled program to bring you this very important breaking news. A little over twenty-four hours ago we brought you coverage of the sudden deadly violence that broke out on the north side of Chicago and this very strange unidentified flying craft at the scene...” The screen split, the video coverage playing on one half of the screen. “Well today that same craft is seen here, in the Fort Myers area, along the Gulf of Mexico.” The video on the split screen played nearly live coverage, edited with elements from viewer contributions.
The camera switched to Amy Halloran. “It started early this morning with a high speed vehicle chase through the neighborhoods of Cape Coral, originating at this home; owned by a man named Chase Holt.” The split screen showed the house, then the route the chase took. “Authorities pursued the vehicle, later found to belong to this man; Jack Steele, of Fort Myers Beach.” The video showed a picture of the wrecked and burning Cobra on the bridge, a DMV picture of Jack appeared on the screen.
An
chorman John Griff continued, “Authorities used force to stop the vehicle here as it came down the bridge into Fort Myers, the driver exiting the crashed vehicle and running onto the municipal golf course...”
“A very dangerous situation, John.”
“Yes it is Amy. It was there, over the golf course, that the mysterious flying craft appeared again, exchanging fire with authorities...”
The video and news broadcast continued, the footage from the news chopper continuing to roll, playing back all the events including its own near-disaster. The spectacular appearance of the much larger ship sat everyone in the cabin back, dumfounded. Except for Dan Murphy, he'd seen it before. He'd lived it before. He picked up the television remote and muted the sound. “That's not the same ship... As the one on the beach, I mean.”
Chase raised an eyebrow, “How can you tell?”
“It's... different. The shape. And this one's even black in the daylight... the other one was more of a dark gray or dark silver.”
“What does this all mean?” asked Karen.
Dan pointed at the laptop, “I think it means you'd better answer Steele's message.” He hit the mute button again returning the sound to the end of the news bulletin.
The anchorman looked into the camera, “At a news conference in Washington just a few minutes ago, the President was asked by reporters about the significance of the appearance of these strange craft. He was quoted as saying; This is the first I'm hearing about it, you guys know as much as I do.”
“He doesn't seem to know much, does he, John...”
“No he doesn't, Amy.”
■ ■ ■
“This would be a whole lot easier if I could shoot them...” breathed Lisa, looking out over the open water of the Gulf of Mexico.
“Only if you are forced to protect yourself or the Revenge,” TESS reminded her.
“I know, I know...” She leaned the Reaper over gently, angling in on the two flights of four F-22s approaching from Tyndall, on their flank, the ARC system active. About two thousand feet of altitude separated the two flights and she intended to pass between and ahead of them. Reaching forward, her gloved fingers pipped on her ordnance stores screen, making some selections, “Three should be enough to make an impression...” she mused, flagging the items for atmospheric use. She adjusted throttle, dropping the Reaper to below Mach 1, allowing the ship's skin to cool, reducing the chance of it being visible. Flying with shields didn't allow the skin to heat up, but then again you were fully visible. She never found out why the ARC system and shields couldn't be used together, she wasn't about to experiment on her own, either.
The flights had all switched channels for security, their previous selection compromised, but TESS had been able to locate the new frequency. Lisa had been listening in and what she heard was disturbing. All flights had been cleared to attack and shoot down either the Reaper or the Revenge by any means necessary. Collateral damage was anticipated and acceptable.
Four more fighter aircraft appeared on Lisa's sensor sweep as they left the ground from Naval Air Station Key West, an AWACS from MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa and four more from Homestead Air Force Base.
Lisa switched to her UFW frequency, “Reaper One to Revenge... status?”
“Recovering the Admiral now, R1. Stand by...”
“Can you step it up, Revenge? It's starting to look like a convention up here and my dance card is overflowing...”
She quickly switched back to the USAF frequency, clicking her mic, “Currahee!” she shouted, thumbing the decoy release with her left thumb as she passed in front of the flights of F-22s.
The free-flight drones she configured and armed, appeared seemingly out of thin air, fired from dispensing racks through launch tubes in the Reaper's belly, momentarily disturbing the reflective camouflage. Rocket-propelled with oscillating fins, they flew erratically, flashing visible and IR strobes with low grade lasers, an assortment of jamming electronics cycling on and off, confusing and disrupting targeting systems.
Hearing the reactions on their radio chatter she realized the ploy had the desired effect, the markers on her screen separating into pairs and breaking in various directions. She throttled up, climbing straight up, rolling over and button-hooking back toward the Fort Myers area.
“Revenge to R1, extraction complete. Repeat, extraction complete. Heading to exit route. Proceed to rendezvous, best course.”
“Copy that.” The exit route, coordinates in the center of the Gulf... Draw a line from Tampa to Tampico, Mexico, and another from New Orleans to Merida in the Yucatan. The intersecting point was the exit coordinate.
All civilian air traffic either diverted, canceled or forced to land, her sensors were empty of clutter allowing Lisa to concentrate on what mattered; aircraft with the capability to shoot her down. And covering the Revenge, of course. This is where someone in the rear seat would be helpful. Two sets of eyes on the sensors were better than one...
■ ■ ■
Yellow Jacket Three and Four were the remaining element of Captain Luke Speek's original flight of F-22s, he and his wingman in Yellow Jacket One and Two having had to return to Tyndall without avionics.
Having experienced the hijack of their military channels twice already, Three and Four had gone dark, and they were hunting. Rotating radio frequencies and brief, cryptic messages, simple microphone clicks and sign language, Captain Alan Scott communicated to his wingman he was getting a radar profile as they flew at supercruise, just below Mach 2. Descending, trading superior altitude for speed, they closed gradually, the computer working on a lock and missile firing solution. Captain Scott had no illusions of getting close enough for guns, the thing was too fast for that. But he fully expected the AIM-120 AMRAAM's Mach 4 speed would be sufficient to catch it if they were close enough. He couldn't think of anything that could outrun it, except maybe an SR-71 Blackbird. The problem was, he needed to close to a distance that would allow the AMRAAM to catch the target before it ran out of fuel, the outside range being just under sixty miles.
At twenty-four miles a solid growl in Scott's headset matched the diamond appearing over the target box floating on his HUD, the word SHOOT blinking at him. Come to daddy, bitch... “Fox Three, Fox Three...” His gloved thumb squeezed the firing button on his flight stick, the center bay doors on the belly of the jet opening, the AVEL, AMRAAM Vertical Ejection Launcher, flinging an AIM-120 clear of the fuselage, the doors closing again, the whole process taking less than two seconds, it's solid rocket engine lighting, streaking away, accelerating to Mach 4.
A matching missile left his wingman's F-22, closely pacing his own and he watched them close in on the target. The chase was on and he throttled to full afterburner, his wingman hanging tightly on his wing. Captain Scott selected another missile from his weapons stores...
“Scott, I have visual...”
As they closed, it appeared so suddenly, just a spec at this distance, Alan Scott momentarily dismissed it. “I see it...” As his thumb hovered over the fire button there was a blue flicker then a giant comet tail as the thing appeared to take an instant ninety degree deviation straight upward. “She's going vertical...”
Scott pulled, grunting through the intense Gs, his wingman falling back but staying with him. “It's fucking accelerating,” he grunted, the nose of his F-22 pointing straight up. “Mach 3... Mach 4... Mach 5... Mach 6... Jesus, it's gone...” He pulled the Raptor on its back at fifty-five-thousand feet, brought it level and rolled it upright looking up through the canopy, his eyes searching for something. Anything. Throttling back he dropped one wing in a gentle sweeping turn heading back toward Florida.
Having lost their target lock and no new target to engage, the two AIM-20 Slammers ran out of fuel, their solid rocket engines shutting down, the missiles falling into the Gulf of Mexico and sinking in about seven-thousand feet of water.
“Yellow Jacket Three and Four, returning to base... we lost it.”
“Tyndall Control, understoo
d. AWACS reports departure of craft velocity as hypersonic at nearly Mach 10. Can you confirm?”
“It was above Mach 6 when we lost it, Tyndall Control... Going vertical.” He blinked hard and shook his head in disbelief, “Never seen anything like it,” he breathed. “I need a beer...”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
UFW REVENGE, EARTH ORBIT : SPIES LIKE US
The docking arms locked the Reaper in place with a metallic kachunk, the seal between the Reaper and Revenge complete, a series of lights above Lisa Steele winking green one-by-one. The belly access doors split open and she pulled her canopy release, the canopy glass motoring backwards as she wrestled with her helmet. Hands reached in from above, clearing her belts and umbilical cords.
“Welcome back, Ensign...”
“Yeah, yeah,” she chattered, tossing her helmet up, “how's my brother?”
“Brother?”
“The Admiral, the Admiral, How is he?” she insisted, climbing up and out of the cockpit with a helping hand from the puzzled crewman.
“Oh...”
“Oh? What oh?” she interrupted.
“Oh, I didn't know he was... your brother?”
“Are you new around here?”
“Not really ma'am... I just never met him...” Seeing her agitation he acquiesced to her nervous pressure, “I heard he was fine,” he added, trying to calm her, “he should be in recovery...”
Lisa sprinted off, heading for the infirmary, tromping to a stop and looking over her shoulder, “What about the woman? The one who came in with him?”
The crewman shook his head, “I'm not sure ma'am, but I don't think she made it...”
Lisa didn't wait for the elevator, dashing up the stairs two decks, running into Maria in the corridor.
“Hold on, Hold on...” Maria physically caught her, hauling her in to a stop. “He's OK...” she insisted, placing herself in front of Lisa, forcing her to focus eye-to-eye. “He's fine... look at me, he's fine.”
Wings of Steele: Revenge and Retribution Page 48
