Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2)

by Burger, Jeffrey

  “Acceptable sacrifices,” waved the Admiral.

  Steele's ire rose to a level he found difficult to contain. “Accept... accept...” He had to take a deep breath and slow down to get it out. “Acceptable sacrifices? Seriously? Whose? Your pilots? My pilots? Because I sure don't see your fat ass at risk, sitting up there on your ivory bridge, you lunatic fuck...”

  “Steele..!” Kelarez shot the Captain an angry look over the video comm.

  The Admiral's brow furrowed, his head tilted slightly to one side, suddenly calm. “Mr. Steele, you will surrender yourself to your next in command, you are under arrest for insubordination to a superior officer. I will take command of your ship...”

  “What?” laughed Jack. “You can have my ship when you can waddle you loony ass over here and take it from me...”

  “Admiral!” Vice Admiral Kelarez cut in rather abruptly, “Captain Steele and his ship is under my command. If you have an issue with that, I suggest you discuss it with UFW Directorate. You have no claim here.”

  “Kelarek, you can also consider yourself insubordinate...”

  Jack stepped closer toward the screen, “Listen here, you crazy fuck, I'm not a psychologist, but I know crazy when I see it, and you are certifiably nuts. I feel sorry for your pilots and crew... having to put up with such an unbalanced, unhinged, lunatic. ”

  “Listen here, Captain...”

  “Not done yet, Pottsdorn,” continued Jack. “You ought to thank your stars you haven't been shot, blown up, poisoned, thrown out of an airlock, locked up for insanity, or at least relieved of your duties. Because I can't believe you have any friends over there...”

  Taking a sudden change in direction of character, the Admiral appeared indignant, “I will be notifying the Directorate, Mr. Steele, of this rancorous behavior...”

  Steele held up his hand, “Yeah, you do that, Skippy. Now, as much as I've enjoyed our little nonsensical chat here, I've had my fill of full-blown batshit crazy for the day. We have a mission on Veloria to get to and you're wasting my time... I'm done with you.”

  Taking a one-hundred-eighty degree flip toward sanity, even Pottsdorn's facial expression changed, like he was suddenly a different person. “Oh that reminds me, Captain, I have something for you. But you also have something for me...”

  Jack raised one eyebrow, his arms wide in perplexity, looking over at Kelarez and Gantarro on the screen. “What just happened?” he whispered, as if the Admiral wasn't there. Seeing no answers but shrugs and blank stares, he turned back. “And what might that be Admiral?”

  “Well, we passed through Velora Prime, but since you were late for the rendezvous, we decided to look for you, and make sure no ill had befallen you. We have some equipment for the Velorian mission to be transferred to their government...” He picked up an e-Pad, reading off the list. “Two Vulcans, four Lancias and four Cyclones. With a supply of parts, of course.”

  “Of course.” Jack rubbed his face in frustration. “And you needed something from me..?”

  “Ah, yes. You have one of my pilots, a Duncan Taylor. I'd like him returned.”

  “The one you abandoned near Geo Zee?”

  “That's the one,” he added happily, almost beaming.

  My God, how many personalities are in there? Jack took a deep breath, hoping to confuse him with logic. “I'd love to sir, but he's been officially transferred to the Freedom by the UFW Directorate on Tanzia... You know how they are... all the reports and such. It takes a little time and we definitely don't want to mess up their records. Tell you what, you send in the requests they need and when we get the confirmation, we'll be sure to catch up with you and get him back to you. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.” A momentary look passed over the Admiral's face, “You think I'm crazy, don't you..?” He said it slowly, in a creepy moment of self realization.

  “Yes I do,” said Jack calmly, unmoving and expressionless.

  “Oh, OK.” he replied cheerily. “We'll get that equipment ready to transfer over, if you'd like to send some people over to pick them up.”

  “Will do,” replied Jack. Admiral Pottsdorn's square winked out, the battleship Captain's following closely, having never spoken a word.

  Jack looked around the bridge at the crew fighting to stifle their laughter, looking back at Kelarez and Gantarro on the big screen. “Seriously, you've got to be kidding me... What the hell was that?”

  “Shake it off, Mr. Steele...”

  “A halfway decent therapist could make a lifelong study of that guy.” He rubbed his forehead, “Think we can trust him? I don't get a good feeling about this...”

  “They don't make them any crazier,” sighed Kelarez. “But he's nuts, not stupid. Just get some people over there for that equipment, and let's get the hellion out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “Listen Dayle, I want two of your guys on each shuttle. Full armor, fully loaded. We're sending ten pilots over to pick up birds, I want ten back.”

  “Copy that, Captain...”

  “There's also a stock of parts they'll pack into the shuttles. Keep the shuttle pilots in the cockpit and don't let them leave the craft. Let their people do the loading.”

  “Got it. You worried about something, Skipper?”

  “I don't trust the Admiral, Dayle...”

  “'I've heard he's totally bonkers.”

  Jack ran his fingers through his hair, “You've heard right. I think he's been out here too long, Dayle, he's absolutely certifiable. Belongs in a rubber room.” Jack eyed the pilots in flight gear headed across the deck to the waiting shuttle. “Against my better judgment I'm letting Duncan Taylor go over to fly one of the birds back because he used to fly off the Conquest. He's got a brother over there he hopes to see. They abandoned him in a crippled fighter and the old man expressed an interest in getting him back. So keep an eye on him. Crazy as he is, the old man might try something stupid.”

  The Marine placed his hand on Jack's shoulder, “Don't worry, Skipper. We'll take care of the kids.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FT. MYERS BEACH, FLORIDA: INNOCENCE LOST

  Chase Holt's female Shepherd, Allie, ran back and forth on the sand at the water's edge, playing an odd game of tag involving a soggy tennis ball with Kyle and Lynette's Black Lab, Pete. Allie was built like a runner, Pete was built like a tank. Using her agility she ran circles around him and over him, rubbing the squishy tennis ball on him as a taunt. The one time they connected, she ended up sprawling across the sand and into the water, legs akimbo. Pete scooped the ball up and she bounced to her feet and came right back again.

  Sitting in the sand, Chase, Kyle and Lynette laughed, watching the two dogs slosh and play in the gentle rolling waves coming in off the Gulf. “We've got another day or two of this, then we'll start seeing rain from that tropical storm they've been tracking...”

  “The one coming from Cuba?” asked Lynette.

  “Yep. Kinda between Cuba and the Cayman Islands at the moment. Sometimes the systems get stronger as they come up into the warmer waters and sometimes they come apart crossing Cuba.” He paused for a moment. “We could use the rain, but I don't need to see any hurricanes this year. I'm hoping Cuba takes it apart.”

  Have you seen any here?” asked Kyle.

  “Not personally,” replied Chase, “I was deployed last time one hit Florida.”

  “Lucky you...”

  “Yeah. Lucky me...” It was pleasant small talk, but that was OK as far as Chase was concerned. Nobody seemed to be interested in talking about the UFO News Special that aired the night before last, though they had all agreed it was thorough and well done. It played twice that night and its compelling messages, video and images drove ratings through the roof. As a measure of protection against censure, the network stations immediately published the news special to their websites and made them open to download and streaming. Within hours it had spread like a proverbial virus to millions of viewers wor
ldwide... unstoppable. In the wake of all that, the MIBs seemed to have withdrawn into the shadows... Chase wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. If you could see them at least you could tell what they were up to. Chase dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone when he heard the ringing, but calling up the screen, he realized it wasn't his. “It's not mine...”

  Kyle fished his phone out of his pocket, staring at the data in the window. “What the hell...?” He held it out showing it to Chase,”MIB?”

  Chase grimaced, “Assholes think they're being funny...”

  Kyle thought about not answering it for a moment, changed his mind and flipped it open, answering it. “Hello...” His voice was cautious, deadpan.

  “You might want to go watch the news, old man...”

  “Don't ever call me that again. Who is this?” He had a feeling he knew who it was.

  “It starts in just a couple minutes. Hurry up, pops, you really don't want to miss it...” There was a blip as the connection ended and Kyle paused to stare blankly at the phone. He closed it, looking at Chase, “He said we should watch the news...”

  “What else?”

  “That's it, just watch the news. Oh, and he was a rude prick.”

  Chase stood up, “I have a bad feeling about this...” He whistled loudly, “Come, Allie!”

  Kyle and Lynette followed, calling Pete from the water, the entire group hustling across the sand toward the house.

  Corralling the wet, sandy dogs on the deck with a puppy gate, Kyle, Lynette and Chase made a beeline to the flat screen in the living room, turning it on and going to News Channel Four. Waiting through the end of a commercial, the news broadcast began with a live breaking news event. The news anchor had visible difficulty maintaining his composure, the video behind him showing an accident scene of a vehicle being pulled from the water off a major bridge in the area. “Welcome to the six o'clock news on News Four, I'm Mike Swift. We have live breaking news coverage on a tragic accident this afternoon on the Bay Bridge. We go now to our reporter, Ted Hiller on the scene...”

  “Thank you Mike.” standing in front of the crane retrieving the white van from the water, the reporter fought with his emotions. “It is a sad day for all of us at News Four, today, as we have lost a bright shining star from our midst...” He shrugged off trying to fight the tears and just continued on. “Forty-five minutes ago while returning to our offices, the News Four vehicle you see behind me was involved in an collision that drove it off the bridge and into the water below, claiming the life of our very own Caroline Murphy and her cameraman, Bob Voskus. All efforts were made at resuscitation but proved...” he stopped to regain his composure, unable to complete his sentence. “The other vehicle involved in the collision left the scene and was recovered, abandoned, about four miles from the scene. It is believed to have been stolen some time yesterday.” He pointed to the damaged guardrail section on the other side of the crane. “That is where the News Four vehicle went off the bridge, quite near the tallest part of the bridge, plunging the vehicle fifty feet to the water below. The van settled to the bottom where the water is over thirty feet deep.” He sighed heavily, “It is not yet known whether the impact hitting the water killed Caroline and her cameraman Bob, or if they drown...” Unable to continue, he waved his cameraman off, the broadcast switching back to the studio.

  “Thank you Ted,” said the anchorman, “Truly a sad day for all of us here at News Channel Four...”

  Kyle turned off the TV with the remote angrily clenched in his hand, grinding his teeth... “Those bastards killed her...”

  “How do you know that?” asked Lynette.

  “They wanted to send a message...” added Chase. “They wanted you to know what they were capable of. It was an act of retribution for the embarrassment she caused the agency...”

  “They didn't waste any time. Forty-eight hours after the show aired...” said Kyle. “They stole the other vehicle yesterday... probably took them this long to see the right opportunity. “

  “I'm sorry guys,” winced Chase, “I've gotta run. Her husband, Dan, is a Brother... he's going to need some help. I'll be in touch.”

  ■ ■ ■

  It was as black as ink and the rain came down in sheets, slashing at an angry angle through the light of the hi-beams and driving lamps of the unmarked police car. Off duty and well out of its patrol area, Rainy night in Georgia was playing on the radio and Dan Murphy rubbed his eyes, peering out over the long hood into the gloom, missing a tear that slipped by and ran down his cheek. The wind grabbed and pulled on the car, buffeting it about, but the V8 interceptor refused to yield, pushing its way through the stormy darkness without missing a beat.

  Another tear broke free. It wasn't that the song was that good, but it was reminding him of something he was trying to forget for the moment. Still, he couldn't bring himself to turn the radio off. Or to a new station. It tore at him but he refused to touch the buttons that could make it go away.

  Pain... well at least it was something. Until now he'd been numb. The tears dropped freely now and Murphy did nothing to stop them except an occasional blink to relieve the burning and clear his vision. He glanced over at the passenger seat, half-expecting to see her there. No Caroline. But of course, he knew that.

  Caroline was gone. Forever. Back there, buried in Tallahassee near her family. Murphy was having a difficult time coping with the thought that he would never again be able to hold her, touch her soft skin, feel her silky hair, taste her lips, smell her perfumed body, hear her voice, enjoy her wit... The loneliness was all enveloping, like the hostile darkness outside the safe confines of the car... sheer agony, a dull auger boring a hole through his chest. He suddenly felt angry. Angry at her for pursuing a story they all knew was trouble. But he didn't expect them to go this far, he didn't expect trouble to include murder. He thought more along the lines of censorship, misdirection, lies, character defamation... that was usually the government's way. Not murder, at least not with its own citizens. But then again maybe he'd grown blind to it. After all, being a cop meant you were part of the machine - you got used to thinking that the machine does what's best, that what you do, is what's best.

  Caroline was honest, with standards and ethics... something that seemed to be missing in today's media, parroting whatever they were fed. Dan learned through her, how much effect the government had in the broadcast news each day, what you could say, what you couldn't. It seemed the freedom of speech was getting to the point that you could speak it only if the government agreed with the content. She happened to work for one of the few networks that actually wanted to report the news as they saw it, but they still had to do that very carefully. The FCC was after all, the government body that granted a network its license... or could revoke it. Basically putting the government in charge of regulating the freedom of the First Amendment. All in the name of what's best for the greater good.

  Caroline Murphy only wanted to tell a real story, something that wasn't simply local events, crime or national politics... something that left a lasting mark. Even in college, she'd had that vision. Instead, she became the story and it got her killed. Dan Murphy glanced at the gauges and realized he was doing almost a hundred miles an hour. He eased off the pedal and tried to release the death grip he had on the wheel, his knuckles aching. At this time of night, traffic on I-75 South was fairly light and he eyed the passing exit at Archer road to the University of Florida, where they'd met in college. It seemed like everything he saw or thought of, reminded him of her.

  There were hundreds of people at the funeral... friends, family, co-workers, the murderer? Murphy knew what she was working on, hell he answered the call that night. He saw it with his own eyes, his dash cam even recorded it. The Feds were in way over their heads, they should have just left the damn thing alone. It was like poking a tank with a toothpick and expecting something other than what they got, their asses stomped. Just plain dumb. That was the trouble with the Feds; they wanted what they wante
d and would let neither facts nor common sense deter them. Anyone half blind, deaf and stupid could tell the thing wasn't from this planet, why on God's earth would you shoot at it? He concluded it took a very special kind of stupid to decide shooting at it was a good idea.

  He was creeping back up on a hundred again and eased off the pedal, relieved that I-75 was mostly straight. OK, so what chance would a Deputy Sheriff have in finding out who killed Caroline? Well, he had some pretty good contacts and some pretty good ideas. He would probably have to call in every favor and marker owed him, but it would be worth it to track down whoever it was. As a good start, the County Sheriff of Dan's department tossed the feds out of the county, something wonderfully unique to the power of the Sheriff.

  He knew it had to be one of the feds he met that night. Five minutes, thought Murphy. Just five minutes alone so I could tear his heart out through his chest with my bare hands. The speedometer crept past a hundred and he left it there, he wanted to get home and start laying out his plan of attack, where to start, who to call. The feeling grew like a fever and he raced the unmarked cruiser through the pouring rain without fear. "No place to hide..." he muttered, "I'll find you... And then I'm gonna kill you."

  ■ ■ ■

  Kyle and Lynette's Black Lab, Pete, stomped stiffly to the sliding glass doors, his hair hackled, growling deeply, puffing his chest, increasing his formidable bulk. Kyle looked up from his pancakes at the two men in crisp, black suits standing on the deck, looking in. “I ought to let the dog out to bite these two clowns...” he muttered, rising from the table.

  Lynette popped in from the hallway, “What's he growling about? Ahhh,” she added, recognizing agents Mooreland and Whitman. “What on Earth do they want..?”

  “To get their asses kicked,” growled Kyle, tossing his napkin on the table in disgust. He pulled Pete back one-handed, slid the door open and stepped onto the deck, barefoot, closing the door behind him. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set, looking like a predatory animal spying a fresh meal. “So, how does it feel to be a low-life murdering piece of shit...?”