Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2)

by Burger, Jeffrey

  “You could just say it's craptastic, then, huh?”

  Mike sighed, “You could, if you wanted to irritate the hell outta me...”

  “Well, we could say,” started Brian, “that this whole discussion just went down the shitter...”

  Mike pursed his lips, “Seriously. Stop it. Or I swear to God, I'll shoot your bird.”

  “I love you too...” snickered Brian, shifting his eyes back to the right screen.

  Mike reached forward and pinged the ident one more time. “You're closest to the edge; can you nose out and see if you can pick up a ship type?”

  “Copy,” replied Brian. He rotated the selector on his throttle for thrusters only and nudged it forward, creeping through the cloud of rock and gravel, creating a sound like hail that made him cringe. As he neared the edge he zeroed the throttle and coasted to a stop, watching the sensor screen calculate the information. It drew a schematic outline without any description data. “Dammit,” he hissed, flipping through the other sensor types, letting each one make a full sweep before returning to LIDAR, providing him the best results. “No description, but I get a line scheme.” He flipped from one target to the other. “Looks like - my best guess, a carrier and a battleship. I'm counting twenty-four dots that I'm assuming are fighters.”

  Mike didn't like the sound of that. And he didn't like the chatter between the two younger pilots breaking his concentration. “Button it up, guys.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. Question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Lieutenant Carter, can you tell where the bridge structure is on the one that looks like a carrier?”

  Brian tapped the buttons on the CMFD and chose the larger of the two forms. “If I'm seeing this right, the bow has a wide notch in it and the bridge would be centered, on the rear one-third of the upper structure...”

  “Lieutenant Warren, I believe that it's an Oijin Class carrier, an older design - nearly a hundred years old. But she'll hold over seventy fighters and support craft...”

  Mike let out a low whistle.

  ■ ■ ■

  “Admiral, we're getting another ping, sir.”

  The Admiral didn't look up from his command screens. “Stay dark.” He looked over toward the tactical stations. “Anything on scans?”

  “Negative, sir. And we're fully extended.”

  “Find them!” The Admiral looked to his left, “What do you think Captain?”

  “Could be an auto beacon, sir. I don't like it.”

  “They could also be eyes-on,” added the Admiral. “Though I don't know from where, there's nothing out here. But if that's the case, let's give them something to see. Let's launch another flight.”

  “Aye, sir. Shall we go to red alert?”

  “Let's hold off on that,” replied the Admiral, “I think we're OK at yellow.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “Freedom to Red Two.”

  Jack recognized Walt's voice. “Red Two, go ahead Commander.”

  “Captain, we've gotten an update from Blue Flight...”

  “Don't be shy, Commander. Spit it out.”

  “They've defined two ships, a battle ship and what they believe is an Oijin Class carrier. If they're correct on the ID, the carrier is an older design but quite capable. She'll carry over seventy fighters and support craft. Currently, Blue Flight counts thirty-six bogies escorting the pair...”

  Whoa. Steele flashed back to the size of the carrier they ran into in the Calo Alto system when they were searching for the salvage field at Geo Zee. Reaching through his open visor he pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers, his mind racing ahead. “Alright... Freedom Squadron, all stop.” He pulled his throttle back to zero, coasting. “Freedom, launch White Flight, have them rendezvous with us.”

  “Copy, Captain. White launching now.” The mic stayed open, producing a gentle hiss. “You thinking of engaging?”

  “Not unless we have to. If we have to, we'll hit and run, delay them here. Please advise the Vice Admiral, I'm recommending that the task force move back to the gate to Irujen and wait for us there. My expectation is, they'll follow us through the gate. We can arrange to have a little welcome party ready for them when they come out into Irujen with their shields down.”

  “Understood, Captain.”

  “Two extra missile frigates and about five-hundred tuned combat drones,” commented Pappy, “pure evil genius, Skipper.”

  “Thank's Pappy. Let's hope Kelarez sees it that way.”

  “White One, Red One, approaching your six...”

  “Copy White One,” confirmed Paul Smiley. “Take the right flank. Yellow Flight, take the left flank. Line formation, everybody. Wide spacing. Shields, guns and idents off, let's stay neutral on their sensors for as long as possible.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Set to thrusters, Mike Warren nudged his throttle forward, moving cautiously through the gravel and rocks, the hail sound setting his teeth on edge. “Easy, Blue Flight, take it really slow.” The four Cyclones emerged from their concealment, no worse for the wear except maybe for a little needed paintwork. He looked out over his wing, the Chief is not going to be happy about that.

  “What's the plan?” asked Brian.

  “Tail them, try to stay off their sensors. Hit and run if we have to.”

  Brian rolled his eyes. “OK... It occurs to me, these folks don't seem to be in any great hurry... Does that worry you at all?”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” replied Mike. “I haven't decided if it worries me or not. But it sure is curious.

  “They're running below forty-percent cruise, Lieutenant,” volunteered one of the younger pilots.

  “I suppose if I had seventy-something fighters at my command, I probably wouldn't be in any great hurry either,” observed Mike. “OK, Blue Flight, engines on, ten percent. Time to play follow the leader. Single file, on me. Stay close.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The seaman at the tactical station was looking at something on his screen he'd never seen before. “Admiral, we have, well, a row of bogies dead ahead on the edge of the sensor grid...”

  “Identify,” replied the Admiral.

  “No information yet sir. There's twelve of them. They're in a straight line across our path, directly between us and the Irujen gate. They appear to be stationary.”

  “Send our on-station flights to investigate.”

  “All three flights, sir?” asked the Captain.

  “All three.”

  “Aye, sir.” The FTLO keyed his mic and sent the orders to the escorting fighters to investigate the strange formation of objects ahead. The bridge crew watched on the big screen as thirty-six tails of light streaked away in formation.

  “Tactical, time to contact?”

  “Ten minutes to engagement range, Admiral.”

  Time ticked away slowly on the bridge of the carrier, the fifteen-plus members of the bridge crew busily manning their stations, stewards coming and going. “Tea, Admiral?”

  “What? Oh, yes, thank you.” He took the mug and held it while the porter poured.

  “Tea, Captain?”

  He waved her off. “None for me...”

  ■ ■ ■

  Time ticked off slowly and the Captain began to regret not taking the tea offered, his mouth dry.

  “Admiral, I'm getting chatter between the flights...”

  “Let's hear it.”

  The FTLO switched the fighter communications to a bridge audio feed.

  “Raefer One, I'm being painted, I'm being painted..!”

  “Easy, Raefer Three, stay in formation...”

  “Grendel Six is being painted...”

  “Raefer Ten is being painted...”

  “Raefer One, what are they? I'm not even getting a profile!”

  “Easy Raefer twelve, we need to get closer...”

  “This is Grendel Four, I'm locked! I'm locked!”

  “Admiral!” shouted the comm officer, “We've just intercepted a message... Blue
Flight, go!”

  “That's it?”

  “That's all there is,” reported the comm officer.

  “Admiral, we're being painted!”

  “What? From where!? Go to red alert, go to red alert!” he thundered.

  ■ ■ ■

  Jack recognized the schematic on his sensor screen and felt a bit relieved. “They're flying Warthogs, ladies. We're faster and more maneuverable but they can take a beating, so hit them solid. They can also deliver a wallop so stay moving. Ready, Pappy?”

  “Ready, Skipper.”

  “Let's do it then. All Freedom flights, hit and run. On my mark... three, two, one, mark!” In unison, every Freedom pilot activated shields, weapons and ident signals. “Lock em and pop em guys... Tally Ho!”

  ■ ■ ■

  Hanging in the ion wash and energy wake of the larger of the two ships, Blue Flight caught up quickly, undetected by maintaining a minimal signature. On Steele's command they initiated their shields, weapons and idents, unfolding their closely stacked single file line to a V formation. Laser targeting and quickly locking onto the carrier's stern, Mike touched his targeting screen, moving the reticule over the port engine. “Blue Flight, we've got big momma locked...”

  “One pass and keep going, Blue Leader,” advised Steele. Throttling forward he locked a leading Warthog fighter, closing in, waiting for that definitive solid tone generally meaning no escape. Having selected one of the four missiles hanging from his wings, his thumb rested on the firing button, his heart racing, his fingers tightening... The lock indicator on the HUD around the target grew spikes on the corners and the tone growled deep and steady, there it is...”Fox T...”

  “Hold fire! Hold fire! DISENGAGE! DISENGAGE!”

  “FRIENDLIES, FRIENDLIES!”

  “I've got FRIENDLY idents!”

  “Break! Break! Break!”

  The calls came in from all around, the fighters from both sides breaking off in every direction as the flights approaching from the carrier lit up on sensor screens with friendly identification signals. The already spectacular backdrop of the white flecked blue atmosphere of New Vanus was instantly transformed into a grand fireworks display, hundreds of floating decoy flares, and winged comets streaking out in all directions, breaking free of the head-on engagement.

  The carrier missed a highly inconvenient encounter with Blue Flight by the narrowest of margins when they aborted their attack run, literally screaming between the giants on full afterburner, the fighters weaving between them like lunatic motorcyclists through traffic, creating their own lane. Shooting out of the gap was like clearing a canyon for open terrain, breathing a sigh of relief without realizing they were collectively holding their breath.

  Having rolled and gone under the melee, Jack centered his flight stick, stopping his spiral. Looking back over his shoulder, having cleared the chaos behind him, he keyed his mic, “All Freedom flights, check in! Check in! Everybody OK?” He circled back towards the Freedom to regroup, while one by one, all the pilots checked in. He flipped over to an open broadcast channel “You Warthog pilots OK over there?”

  “This is Commander Sloane of Raefer Flight, that's an affirmative... Who are you guys?”

  “Captain Jack Steele. We're off the jump carrier, Freedom, Commander.”

  “Jump carrier? Never heard of that type...”

  “It's a new classification the UFW came up with to describe the Freedom. She's considerably smaller than that monster you guys are on...”

  “The Conquest is a tough old gal,” admitted Sloane. “Stop by, I'll buy you a brew and show you around.”

  “I might have to take you up on that, Commander.” The name of the ship sounded vaguely familiar, but Jack brushed it aside for the moment, concentrating on getting his flights back to the Freedom. Buzzing with an overload of adrenalin, it took far more concentration to fly calmly, sedately in a steady, straight line than in a wild dogfight where weaving and dancing across the sky was the norm. It was evident by the loosely spaced formation, heading back to the Freedom.

  ■ ■ ■

  Standing on the deck at the base of the boarding ladder to his Lancia, Steele stripped off his gloves, tugging on the fingers to get them off. Picking his helmet up off the wing-root of the fighter, he stuffed the gloves inside, walking calmly toward the tower. He paused, waiting as a Cyclone from Blue Flight taxied past, its paint looking haggard and rough. He hung his head as he strolled past behind it, meeting Pappy, Mike and Brian at the base of the tower. “What the hell did you guys do to those things?”

  “Sorry, Jack,” apologized Mike. “It's a long story.”

  “It's not that long,” offered Brian, smirking, “we hid in a gravel field...”

  “Gravel field? Is that like hiding in a briar patch?” joked Steele. “Man, your Chief is going kick your ass.” He leaned in on Paul, his voice barely a whisper, “How'd Maria do?”

  “Just fine, she stuck right on Duncan's wing, even through the craziness.”

  “I think that has to be the title of the official report,” snickered Jack, “this event will be officially known forever as, the Craziness...” The three pilots laughed, passing into the tower and the pilot ready room where they would strip themselves of their flight gear and return to uniforms.

  “White flight do OK?”

  “Yep,” replied Paul, pulling on his uniform tunic. “Derrik, Santine and two of the newer guys.”

  “We need to learn their names and stop calling them the newer guys,” observed Jack, “they've been with us for what, a month now?”

  “Well, to be fair,” said Mike, “they're still the FNGs.”

  “Yeah, I know, but...”

  “Captain Steele to the bridge. Captain Steele to the bridge, please...”

  “Why is Walt paging you...?”

  “Uh oh, what did I do with my earpiece..?” muttered Jack, patting himself down. After checking his locker without success, he finished tucking in his tunic and slung his holster around his waist, transferring the hybrid 1911 from his flight suit to the thigh rig, strapping it securely around his leg. “No idea what happened to it...”

  “Jack's in trouble,” joked Brian, “Uncle Walt is calling him to the Professor's office...”

  “Not as much trouble as you guys are gonna be in for scratching the hell outta those birds.” Jack closed his locker and headed for the exit, “I'm getting out of here before the Chief finds you guys...”

  ■ ■ ■

  The five ships floated motionless against the breathtaking backdrop of New Vanus, a couple fighter patrols roaming the system around them. With fifty-some miles separating the ships, their commanders met on their bridge big screens via a video conference.

  “Mr. Steele, how good to see you again.” There was a touch of sarcasm to the greeting and it took a moment before Jack recognized the vaguely familiar face, his eyes widening. “Ah, you do remember,” added the man.

  Oh, THAT Conquest, thought Jack, staring at the Admiral's collar pips. The ship's name had sounded familiar but it wasn't until now that all the pieces came flying together with a sudden rush. Which bought a vivid flashback to that painful and terrifying encounter in the Calo Alto system, the video playing in his mind of the running battle, the Archer and Bowman pursuing the Freedom... right into the grasp of the carrier Conquest. But by the grace of God, fooling the carrier commander long enough to escape into the massive swirls of the ether storm. Memories of the carrier that continued to hunt them while they hid in the reclamation depot at Geo Zee... Rescuing the abandoned Duncan Taylor, having been left for dead. “Admiral...” he said slowly, shaking off the images.

  “Pottsdorn,” volunteered the Admiral.

  “Of course, Admiral Pottsdorn... congratulations on your promotion, sir...”

  “I'm going to be honest with you, Steele, I don't like you.”

  “Sir, I...”

  “No, not at all,” continued the Admiral. “I don't like what you did in Calo Alto, don't lik
e how you seemed to have weaseled your way into the UFW, how they've awarded you rank, or how they've pardoned the pirate scum you call a crew... don't like it a bit.” He seemed to pause only to take a breath, “And I don't like how you conduct your patrol operations, flying with no ident beacons, skulking around like you've got something to hide. Terribly suspicious. I don't trust you...”

  Steele had been watching the faces of the other ship commanders during the Admiral's rant and no one seemed to be taking him all too seriously, least of all his own battleship Captain. Maybe it was because he wasn't aiming his ridiculous assertions at them. He'd had enough, but it was almost impossible to know where to start.“Sir! May I remind you, that your entire column was running with idents off.” He continued even though the Admiral attempted to interrupt. “I might also remind you that my pilots chirped you an ident ping without receiving a reply.” The battleship commander was now nodding silently. “And they didn't ping the ident once, but three times without a reply, Admiral.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Steele, we had no way of knowing who you were, we anticipated one of those loathsome pirate traps...”

  “Thus the reason for the discreet ident ping...” said Jack with exasperation. He caught Kelarez palming his face and shaking his head.

  “No, Mr. Steele,” countered the Admiral. “We have no idea who might have stolen the ident signal codes...”

  Jack looked at Kelarez on the screen, “What? That's quite possibly one of the dumbest things I've ever heard... How do I respond to that...?”

  “Admiral,” began Vice Admiral Kelarez, our task force always runs with idents broadcasting, though many times our fighters will not if in hostile territory. It is a UFW accepted tactic. And for reasons of security, the codes are updated regularly, you know that...”

  “I will not be preached to, Kelarek...” erupted the Admiral angrily.

  “That's, Vice Admiral Kelarez, Admiral,” he replied angrily. “And it is also an accepted practice to respond to a ping inquiry. Any failure to respond means any incidental damage or casualties as a result, would be on your head and your responsibility.”