Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2)

by Burger, Jeffrey

  ■ ■ ■

  The adrenalin had burned him out and exhausted its supply. Steele lay on the ground gasping for air, his limbs made of lead, shaking, exhausted, his lungs searing with pain, dully aware of the fury of the fight going on around the beach. He lay crumpled on the sand, his mind reeling, working to comprehend what stood before him, covered in blood, fangs bared, tongue lolling, a spike of fear running cold up his back, but there was no more high-octane left, he was on empty. He was done. This was it.

  “Jack...”

  “Fritz?” he panted, a spark of recognition, “where'd you come from...”

  The dog whirled, standing over his friend, snarling, his hair hackled, a ridge down the middle of his back, his face and chest matted with Volken blood, facing down an angry, wounded beast, advancing slowly, painfully, stumbling its mass to face the fearless Shepherd who refused to let him pass. Fritz opened his mouth wide gurgling a snarl, his teeth clacking.

  The Volken swiped, his claws extended, Fritz dipped underneath and danced to the side, moving back to block it's path, preventing access to his friend, clacking his teeth in the Volken's face.

  Jack fumbled with the snap of his shoulder holster, his uncoordinated wooden fingers fighting his commands. Dammit! The Volken swiped again, stepping in, connecting with Fritz, batting him out of the way like a rag doll, the Shepherd hit the ground with a thud, rolling across the sand, bloody red stripes across his ribcage.

  The 1911 slid heavily out of the shoulder holster and Jack saw Fritz get up slowly out of the corner of his eye. The Volken stepped over the feet of his long sought-after prey, shadowing his body, preparing to claim the prize he'd hunted and hungered for. Fritz snarled as he gathered himself, blood running out of the gashes across his ribs, steadying his footing, preparing to re-engage the Volken, clacking his teeth. He would defend Jack as long as he drew breath...

  The Volken paused and glanced at the dog, considering him with one good eye, scrutinizing him, pink foaming drool dripping from his mouth and nose. Steele tucked his elbow into his side for support and angled the 1911's muzzle upward, his muscles unsteady, fatigued. His hand shook. When he clicked the safety off, the Volken looked back, disregarding the dog, locking eyes with the man, his reward. Time seemed to slow as Steele pulled the trigger, the first charged particle round entering under the animal's chin, exiting through the top of his muzzle, bone exploding outward. Steele squeezed several more times, not counting, a spray of rounds blowing the skull apart like a watermelon. The Volken toppled over heavily, a great open cranial cavity where the brain used to be, blood slopping across the sand. The 1911 flopped to his stomach still clutched limply in a hand unable to support it any longer.

  Fritz lay down next to Jack, resting his head on his human's shoulder.

  “You OK, Fritz?”

  “Need nap.”

  “Me too, kiddo. Me too...” the clouds in the sky began to blur.

  ■ ■ ■

  “They're over here!” hollered Hutthorn, waving, “Over here!” Approaching from the old fisherman's place further south on the beach, he coasted his skimmer to a stop, throwing off his harness and hopping down to the sand near the prostrate duo, greeted by the gruesome spectacle of the mostly-headless Volken. His son stood in his seat, studying the tree line with scanners, adjusting the zoom for a better view.

  The Invader crabbed sideways across the beach, simultaneously keeping the chin turret sweeping the forest edge for any signs of additional Volkens. It paralleled the movements of Lisa and the Marines as they pounded across the sand. Any additional monsters would have to make it past the ship's twin boron autocannons to get to the ground team, an extreme unlikelihood.

  A mournful wail carried across the beach from somewhere in the forest, answered by another much farther away. Crouching on the sand next to the unconscious pilot and dog, Hutthorn glanced up at his son still standing in the vehicle, “What do you see, boy?”

  “Nothing, Pop. Those are a long way off...”

  “You know how fast they travel, keep watching. How's our passenger doing?”

  His son glanced over at the Gogol pilot strapped to the rollbar of the neighbor's skimmer. “Same as when we left.”

  Carrying less gear and weight than the Marines, Lisa made it first, dropping into a slide like Jack was home plate, setting her carbine alongside her legs. She forced herself not to look at the gore of the Volken laying off to one side, the sand thick with the animal's blood. “Jack, Jack...” she urged, “Fritz?” The dog's eyes fluttered open momentarily, recognizing her face, his tail thumped against the sand weakly. But Jack was unresponsive.

  “He looks extremely dehydrated,” commented Hutthorn, lifting the pilot's eyelids peering into his eyes. “Hmm, one's not real, huh? Well, he needs fluids.” The farmer straightened, looking up at Nevin's skimmer as it coasted to a stop. “Hey Nevie, you got any of your wife's wonderfully delicious, magic juice?”

  “Sure do...”

  ■ ■ ■

  “Keep sipping,” prodded Lisa, “believe me, it will make a difference.”

  “What is this...?” he slurred.

  “Pattahoolia juice.”

  “Sure it is...” Jack blinked slowly, looking around the interior of the crowded Invader, his eyes focusing in and out. “Lisa?”

  “I'm right here...”

  “I found you...” he smiled crookedly, somewhat incoherent.

  She glanced around at the Marines, then back to her brother, “Yeah, OK, we'll go with that story.” There were chuckles from several of the Marines. “Keep drinking,” she prompted.

  “I saw Fritz, where's Fritz?” His eyes rolled around like they were loose in his head.

  “He's over here, Captain,” offered Corporal Dunnom. “He's a little banged up like you, but he'll be OK.”

  Jack could see the dog's sleeping form lying across the laps of the Marines sitting on the floor, their backs against the ship's hull. “Where are we headed?” he mumbled, examining the temporary inflatable cast on his arm, realizing he was no longer in his flight suit.

  “Back to base, sir,” replied Dunnom.

  Jack nodded, leaning his head back against the headrest, relieved. “Good, I'll be glad to get back to the Freedom...”

  “No, sir,” countered the Corporal. “We're headed back to ASP to get you some medical attention.”

  “ASP?”

  “Air and Space Port. Sir.”

  Steele straightened in his seat, some clarity returning. “Screw that, we've got a perfectly good medical bay on the Freedom...” He began to rise, “Who's flying? Hey! Take us to...” His head swam and he lost his stability, his legs giving out, plopping him back into his seat. “Whoa... that's not good.”

  Maria glanced at Dooby, who was sitting in the tactical seat. “Go back and fill the Skipper in, will you please? Before he blows a gasket.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “Major, Freedom's Invader is inbound; she's about fifteen minutes out. Looks like they'll be needing the Med bay.”

  The officer looked up from the e-Pad on his desk to the communications vidscreen on the wall, the Lieutenant in the control tower looking back at him “Fine, let the doctor know. Any communications from our rescue teams?”

  “No, sir. All comms beyond planetary curvature are dark...”

  “What!? Why?”

  “The Freedom is off-station, sir.”

  The Major was perplexed and his frustration showed in his voice. “So we have no communications - on or off planet?”

  “That is correct, sir. It seems the entire task force has moved and the Freedom with it.”

  “Why didn't they notify us? This is unacceptable!” he added, thumping his desk with his fist.

  The Lieutenant shook his head without responding, he had no idea what kind of reply the Major expected, or would appease him.

  “Never trust the Navy, Lieutenant... never. They're only good for getting the Army from point A to point B...”

  “Uh,
yes, sir,” replied the tower officer, with disinterest.

  ■ ■ ■

  Dooby dropped back into the Invader's tactical seat with a sigh. “Skipper's definitely not happy,” he said, harnessing himself in.

  Maria smirked, “Yeah, I didn't expect him to be overjoyed...”

  “He's kind of pissed that there was no communication from them before their departure. I think he feels a little abandoned.”

  Maria sighed heavily, “I don't blame him. I've learned not to expect too much consideration from the upper command structure. They rarely consider the people at the bottom... and right now, we're way down at the bottom.”

  The signal ping caught Dooby's attention. “Signal coming in... It's from the surface...” he added, puzzled.

  “Really?” she frowned. “On screen.”

  “Aye, audio only...”

  “Freedom, this is Sergeant Wellenir, Shuttle One, our communications have been dark for over an hour, what's going on?”

  “Sorry Lieutenant,” replied Maria, “The Freedom had to break station, they are out of relay position and they don't seem to be replying to any direct communications...”

  “What the hell is going on? And who are you?”

  “This is Invader One, off the Freedom, we are returning to ASP with recovered personnel. Can we relay a message for you? I'm guessing as soon as we descend for approach, we're going to lose you.”

  “Yes ma'am, uploading a video file now, please make sure it reaches the Major.”

  “Will do, Sergeant. Might I suggest taking your shuttle up to altitude to transmit and receive if you need to communicate? It might allow you to defeat the planet's curvature... Just a suggestion.”

  “Thank you ma'am, that's a good idea...”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  VELORIA, AIR & SPACE PORT : PIECES OF THE PUZZLE

  Prime Minister Nitram Marconus let himself into the exam room as the base surgeon excused himself. “So, Pattahoolia juice, eh?”

  Jack smiled, happy to see another familiar face as Lisa helped him on with his shirt, his left arm in a short cast. “Boney! Good to see you...” He stuck out his hand and they shook.

  “Your grip is good, you're doing better than I expected...”

  “Something about that juice,” offered Jack. “The surgeon said most of my problem was severe dehydration.” He shrugged his shoulder holster and hybrid 1911 back on. “Of course, a broken arm, mild concussion and lack of food might have had something to do with it...” he added sheepishly.

  Boney nodded, “My grandparents came here when my mother was just a child, and for as long as I can remember, the Pattahoolia tree was always a source of remarkable healing remedies. My mother told me stories of how my grandmother used it for curing all sorts of things. I remembered that and applied it when I became a doctor. With some research of the old ways, I used it with many of my patients. Almost every element of the tree can be used for something extraordinary... the flowers, the fruit, the leaves, bark, roots...”

  Lisa lifted her shirt unabashedly to reveal her ribs, the bruises visibly lightened since just that morning. “Helen, that's the farmer's wife,” she explained, “put some cream from the flowers on my bruises this morning. They look and feel much better.”

  Boney dropped to one knee and examined the bruises, “Did he do any scans?” he asked, referring to the base surgeon. Gently he turned her body to see the ones that wrapped around, over one-another.

  “Yeah, I cracked three on that side. Hurts when I breathe, but I thought it was from all the bruises. He said they were unionized?”

  Boney chuckled, “A union fracture. It means they're still lined up properly, there's no separation. It's possible they may not be fractured all the way through, I'd have to see the scans to know for sure.” He shook his head and stood back up. “You both are very lucky to be alive...”

  “Tell me something I don't know,” snorted Jack, with playful sarcasm, “I should be dead three times over.”

  “He was almost Volken lunch,” chided Lisa, “I saved his ass,” she added, pointing at him. “He owes me...”

  They walked out of the exam room and through the base's medical center, headed for the administration offices. “Well, you and a squad of Marines,” replied Jack, smirking slyly. “And ranchers. And an Invader...”

  “That reminds me,” she said cheerfully, “I have something for you...”

  “Really? What..?”

  Lisa wound up and slugged him in the right arm, above his bicep in the deltoid, a sharp shot that made him sidestep, bumping into Boney. “Hey! What the hell?” he snapped, attempting to rub his shoulder with the clumsy cast.

  “You promised,” she began. “Never ejected before, you said. You promised we wouldn't have to do that. You made me eject... fucker,” she added under her breath. “I was all by myself out there...” she waved.

  “We were missing a wing,” he pleaded, still trying unsuccessfully to rub his arm. “It kinda needs that to fly. It was either jump, or crash...”

  “But you promised...”

  “Sorry kiddo,” he shrugged apologetically, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Sometimes shit happens.”

  “That was a lot of shit...” she breathed.

  ■ ■ ■

  The video file forwarded to the Major from Sergeant Wellenir at Mine 02, showed about ten minutes of rescue, shot in segments, showing stages of progress clearing the main entrance to gain access to the shaft and to the men trapped inside. The final two minute segment showed miners emerging from the opening created by the Army Engineers, climbing across the rubble, some on their own, some with help from their fellow miners, some with assistance of the engineers.

  The content reminded Jack of the horrific black & white films he saw of World War II prisoner of war camps, the Stalags, freed by the Allies when the Nazi's retreated.

  Jack, Lisa, Boney and the Major watched the last two minutes over again, watching the men trickle out of the opening, shielding their eyes from the afternoon sun, some frail, some more alive than others. Grubby, dirty, malnourished. All of them with the hollow, distant eyes of a soul forgotten, wasted, desperately clinging to the bit of humanity that remained.

  And yet they smiled. At each other, at the sky, the sun, at their miraculous survival, the thought of seeing their families once again, at the soldiers who'd come to pull them out of the hell they'd been condemned to. Shaking hands, hugging, breathing the free air of free men. Freedom, you could see the relief in their faces.

  “My God,” breathed Boney, barely a whisper, astonished and horrified. These were his people, his citizens. He was beside himself with anguish.

  Lisa stared unblinkingly, silently, in disbelief. Could this possibly be real?

  Steele's bottom lip quivered, his jaw clenched in anger, eyes burning with tears, stomach knotted. He literally shook with rage. He wanted whoever was responsible for this heinous, unspeakable act of horror... In front of him. Now. So he could tear his still-beating heart out through his chest. “Major...” his voice was calm, measured, seething. “Load my bird up with medical supplies. And I'll be needing your medical staff...”

  The Major only glanced briefly at the Captain whose dark eyes were boring holes into the vidscreen. “Of course, Captain.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Wearing newly issued Army uniforms and full gear, Jack and Lisa paused at the bottom of the Invader's boarding ramp next to Boney. “You stay here, Lisa. You'll be safe here with the Prime Minister...”

  She grabbed his sleeve. “No way...”

  “We're already overloaded, kiddo...”

  She pointed her finger in his face, “Get this straight, big brother, I'm not letting you out of my fucking sight. Got it?”

  Seeing the determination in her eyes, he cracked a cockeyed smirk and nodded. “OK, I get it.” With a curt nod to Boney, he swung his arm over her shoulder as they strode up the Invader's boarding ramp. “Find a lap to sit in,” he said casually as he made h
is way through the overcrowded interior, headed for the cockpit. “You Marines ready?”

  “AahWoo!” they barked.

  “Close it up!” he called out. Knowing Fritz would sleep soundly for some time in the infirmary recovering from the surgery to close up the gashes in his side; Jack felt safe leaving him behind.

  With Jack silently thumbing over his shoulder, Dooby took the hint and relinquished his place at tactical for the Captain, sitting on the cockpit floor between the seats. Steele buckled in, glancing over at Maria sitting in the pilot's seat, “Fire it up, lady, let's get this show on the road...”

  Looking nonchalantly over her shoulder at the packed interior, she pressed the ignition button, lighting the engines, having already completed her pre-flight. “We're a tad over capacity, Jack,” she commented sardonically, initiating the anti-grav system. “Think it'll get off the ground?”

  “You want me to fly it?” he asked, inputting the destination coordinates into the navigation system.

  “No, no,” she countered, “I got it. I was being facetious.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, “But then again, you knew that didn't you.” It wasn't a question and she wasn't expecting a reply, taxiing the Invader to the main runway, the lights of the field coming on as darkness fell, the stars making their appearance.

  “Course laid in.” He reached forward, flipping a short row of switches, “twilight beacons on...” The landscape came alive with color and light, the stars still visible. “You'll need full anti-grav, full flaps and about half power...”

  “Just what I was thinking,” she replied, adjusting the flaps and leading edges, spinning the anti-grav up to full power, which would normally lift the ship into the sky all on its own. It could only hover at about ten feet. “Y'know, I was just thinking, I hope we have enough room to land...”

  “We'll be lighter on fuel. Hit it.”