Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2)

by Burger, Jeffrey

“I'm sure we can,” the Gogol replied. “You know what I want; my freedom, a ship and no less than a half-a-million credits. That little troll, Setzel never paid us. And that price is reasonable,” he said, wagging a long index finger in Jack's direction. “We normally split unclaimed pay of lost members of our group... that means I'm entitled to three-million credits since I'm the only surviving member. But, considering our business wasn't with you, I'm not going to hold you to that. It wouldn't be quite fair.”

  He's so calm, so confident. Jack fought back a grin, maintaining his poker face. “We haven't proof yet that you're the only survivor of your squadron... But we truly appreciate your wanting to be fair, that is very admirable and something I greatly respect. And considering the UFW is not involved in this investigation, we enjoy a level of flexibility we wouldn't normally have...”

  “However...”

  “However,” continued Jack, “since you are familiar with the condition this planet has been left in, its lack of resources and technology or equipment, your request for a ship is impossible to fill. There is simply nothing available.”

  “I had nothing to do with the planet,” objected the Gogol, calmly, “we were tasked with protecting the ore freighters in and out...”

  “Not saying you did, Greg...”

  “I'll take Setzel's ship. It's hidden here on the base...”

  Hmm, he knows more than I thought, mused Steele.

  “It won't be any use of to you,” waved the Gogol, casually. “It's just a mining research vessel.”

  Did he really not know? Or was he bluffing? “It's no longer here, Greg. It's been confiscated by the UFW and has left the planet on its way to the UFW facility in Phi Lanka, to be re-purposed,” lied Steele.

  “That is unfortunate.”

  Not even a twitch... Jack was watching him for tells, little involuntary responses that would give away more than his verbal responses. There were none that he could see. Man, he's good.

  “Well then,” said the Gogol, folding his arms across his chest impatiently, “we will have to make adjustments to the offer. I am going to have to insist on the full amount of three-million credits and free passage off the planet on the first suitable ship coming into port. Of course, I would appreciate favorable accommodations here, until that occurs.” He looked at Jack squarely, “I expect I can trust you at your word?”

  Wow, he's got balls... but I can't give it to him too easily... “Agreeable,” Jack countered, “at one-point-five-million...”

  There was a knock on the interrogation room door a moment before it swung open, an out of breath soldier sticking his head in, firing a quick salute. “Captain, we've been looking all over for you... the tower has a really strange signal...”

  Jack patted himself down, realizing his earpiece was tucked in a side pocket of his fatigues. “Crap,” he muttered, slipping in on his ear and powering it up. “What kind of signal?”

  “Didn't hear it myself, the tower says it a series of clicks or pops or something...”

  Pappy's Morse Code protocol. “Have they recorded it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Find my pilot, Lieutenant Maria Arroyo, and have her meet me in the tower, I'll be on my way in a second...”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier slashed a hurried salute and disappeared, the door closing behind him with a clatter.

  The Gogol's eyes narrowed and it was the first time Jack saw any expression on his face. Was it concern? A bit of distress? Didn't matter, it was now or never. Steele locked eyes and leaned on the stainless table with his right hand in a fist, knuckles down. “Playtime's over Greg,” he said firmly, coldly. “We're out of time on this issue. Tell you what, I'm feeling generous... Two-million, final deal. That offer expires when my ass goes out that door, and you spend the rest of your life in an eight-by-ten concrete box, with shit for food until you die. What's it gonna be?”

  The Gogol's eyes had fallen away, mesmerized by the gold medallion that had swung free from Steele's open fatigue tunic, swinging on its gold chain. On it, Saint Michael the Archangel, patron saint of policemen, firemen and the military, slayed the devil... but that's not the side the Gogol pilot was staring at. The side facing him had a skull and crossbones, laying atop, but bracketed by an open, spread architect's compasses from above, its points overlaying an architect's square from below. The green man's eyes, wide, left it slowly and rose to meet Jack's again. “Agreed...” he said softly, swallowing hard.

  Jack was unsure what to make of the odd change in demeanor, but straightened and relaxed, the medallion slipping back into his collar line. “Fine. Good.”

  “Wait,” said the Gogol, reaching forward, grabbing at the Captain's sleeve. The human across the table eyed him back, stoically, shifting ever so slightly to a defensive stance.

  “You are an Ancient? An Architect?” asked the green man.

  “Me?” blurted Jack. “No... What makes you think that?” He glanced over at Boney who was working to restrain a grin.

  “That is the mark of the Ancients, the Great Ones...” With a long arm he reached across the table, half rising, to cautiously lift the medallion out of hiding so he could examine it again. The Captain remained guarded but motionless. “The tools of the Builders,” he breathed, looking at the Square and Compasses. “I've seen them, but I've never known a man to carry one...”

  Steele raised an eyebrow, “So you think I'm an Ancient because I'm wearing this symbol?”

  “It is forbidden for anyone else to wear it. It is the mark of the Grand Architects of the Universe – the Ancients. They are said to have created the Heavens, the planets and stars... the gates, everything that has lived, born, grows, draws a breath... everything that there ever was, is, or will be... So you are one of them..?” His voice was full of hope and awe.

  Taken aback, Steele was unsure if this was simply a ploy for the Gogol to pull himself out of his current predicament. “I'm what's called a Freemason,” replied Jack.

  “A Mason. A builder, right?”

  “Well yes, but a speculative...”

  “Please, take me with you... I beg of you.”

  “What...?” Steele blinked at this bizarre turnabout. “No, I...”

  “Please, keep the money. I ask for nothing but knowledge. I want to know more, I wish to study with you...”

  Jack shot Boney a quizzical look and the Prime Minister could see the confusion in the Captain's face. “I thought you knew...” he shrugged.

  “Knew what..?”

  “What those symbols stood for, what they represented...”

  “It's the symbolism for the working tools of the Freemasons,” said Steele bluntly.

  “And here,” offered Boney, “it is the sign of the Ancients. A benevolent culture of beings that, as Greg has pointed out, is responsible for much of, if not all of what exists. The fine line to separate what is real, from what is merely legend is blurry, but considerable proof has been found to indicate almost everything we've heard is true...”

  “Is it possible that they're all related?” asked the Gogol, rejoining the conversation. “That your Freemasons and the Ancient Architects are one in the same?”

  Jack opened his mouth and nothing came out, his mind racing ahead, trying to sort through the ideas and concepts that the civilizations and societies spread across the cosmos might be more closely related than he could have ever imagined. His thoughts were interrupted by the chime in his earpiece. “Jack, Maria. I'm in the tower. My Morse code is a little rusty, but I think the shit's about to hit the fan...”

  “So it is Morse code?”

  “Yep, coming from the task force... and it doesn't sound good.”

  “On my way, meet me at the Invader...” his comm beeped off. “OK, keep him on ice,” he pointed at the green man, “we'll have to finish this later...”

  “On ice?” asked the Peacekeeper Lieutenant.

  “Stick him in a cell until I get back...” said Jack, yanking the door open.

  “Wait,
” called the Gogol pilot, “One more thing I should tell you...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  VELORA PRIME : DAVID AND GOLIATH

  Admiral Kelarez stood mid-pace in the Archer's ready room, considering all the possibilities and trying his damnedest to tactically think several steps ahead. Positioned at extreme angles to the gate from Cariloon, the Task Force sat poised, at the limits of their effective ranges, to hit anything coming into Velora Prime. Any ship coming through that gate would find it extremely difficult to target more than one of the UFW ships at any given time, which would be compounded by trying to avoid fire from four angles... not including the Freedom's fighter patrols.

  With a considerable range advantage, the Archer, Bowman and Freedom were all further out than Commander Renae Ribundell's, UFW77. But being a corvette, the 77 had a substantial speed and maneuverability advantage over the heavier cruisers, enabling it to hit and run. Being as light as she was, the 77 couldn't take a much of a punch, but she could dance.

  The Revenge was tracking two enemy destroyers through the starless, silver, jump tunnel from Cariloon to Velora Prime, but was under strict orders not to engage in any way. The size of the Pirate force was unknown, the two destroyers being the only ships that could be confirmed. And as urgently as Vice Admiral Kelarez wanted details and more fluid communications, he allowed Commander Smiley to use the short, cryptic, code style, he called Morse, that the Admiral hoped would pass as static space noise to anyone listening outside the Task Force.

  Large fleets were not the Pirate norm, they preferred to hunt on their own, a tactic based on greed, rather than cooperation and teamwork. But Kelarez was beginning to see the obvious paradigm shift in their tactics, having read engagement reports and profiles filtering in over the last several months, of small flotillas working in unison, using coordinated attacks on shipping lanes, near stations, and even direct confrontation with UFW Naval ships. The latter only seemed to occur when they had sufficient force to ensure a victory, but never pursued retreating UFW ships, seemingly satisfied with having driven them from the area.

  With sparse details from the surface of Veloria and the foraging Revenge, the Admiral was unsure how to calculate the importance of the planet or the system to the Pirates, and whether this would be an engagement to drive the UFW out of the system, or if it would escalate into something more serious. He was fairly confident that in his present position and level of preparedness, that the Task Force could destroy, cripple or drive out a significantly larger force... but he'd feel much better if he had his favorite wild-card in his ship where he belonged, rather than MIA on the surface of the planet behind them.

  Dammit Steele, where in the hellion are you? Kelerez laid down his e-Pad and stepped away from the holographic chart table and resumed pacing the length of the extensive hologram, staring at the close-up of the Velora Prime System. The deployment of his ships around the gate from Cariloon flickered at him, their blue dots glittering like sapphires around the white markers showing the rim of the gate. He paused momentarily to watch the Freedom's squadron dots patrol around...

  ■ ■ ■

  “Two destroyers on the edge of the sensor sweep, sir...”

  Commander Brian Carter paged his left screen to the sensor readouts and confirmed the information. “Thank you, Ms. Raulya. I want us to be within firing range by the time they hit the gate to Velora Prime, Mr. Ragnaar.”

  “We shouldn't fire in jump-transit, sir... it's liable to dump us out into null-space.”

  “Not unless we have to,” waved Brian, “but I want to be able to nail these two before they can enter the fight.”

  “Understood.” The navigator turned to his left, “Mr. Tusker, seventy-five percent, let's close the gap.”

  Tusker nodded, “Accelerating.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The FreeRanger DD214 accelerated through the Balyenne gate, heading back toward Zender's Trek, having safely deposited Commander Hitada and his crew at Raefer Station, where they would await pickup or be assigned a new ship.

  Sitting in the First Officer's seat, Ensign Grinah glanced over at Commander T. B. Yafuscko, “A million ITC's isn't too bad...”

  Tibby shrugged, “Better than nothing.”

  “Nice of you not to take all he had,” she commented. It was an honest compliment without condescension.

  Tibby leaned back in his command chair, “Nah, I couldn't take it all, they need something to live on... they could be there for a while.” He absentmindedly flipped through information screens on his command chair. “We got lucky. Izzy was able to speed up the delivery of the 214 - or we would have been stuck on that station for at least a couple of weeks. The FreeRanger Council picked up our tab, in the private sector they have to pay their own way. Depending on how long it takes for their company to pick them up, they could burn through a lot of credits. I wouldn't want anyone starving...”

  “You're a good man, T. B. Yafuscko.”

  He smiled at Grinah, “Yeah, well, let's hope the crew still thinks so when payday rolls around...”

  ■ ■ ■

  With the planet of Veloria being a giant question mark in regards to overall stability, Admiral Kelarez had felt it best for the Freedom to hold on to the fighters destined for delivery to her non-existent military... and Commander Paul Smiley was happy to have them... And subject them to some gentle use while under his care.

  Combining them with the Freedom's fighters gave him twenty-six front-line UFW fighters. With his present compliment of pilots, he could get almost all of them in flight. Of course, if Steele, Carter, Arroyo and Tusker, weren't out gallivanting around, he'd have all the pilots he needed. Dammit, Jack, where the fucking hell are you? I need your ass in up here in a fighter...

  Pappy let his eyes flick across the instruments and screens of his Vulcan before scanning the darkness around him, seeing only the members of his own flight. He keyed his mic, “White Flight, approaching point Golf, breaking for point Hotel...” When he got the confirmation from the other members of his flight, he gently rolled his Vulcan and took up the new heading, continuing their patrol. All fighter communications were to be local channel only, the patrol patterns and speeds carefully calculated to orchestrate a wide, silent CAP around the Task Force, the flight leaders monitoring Pappy's Air Control channel, the Commander monitoring the Fleet channel.

  They tirelessly circled the Task Force, laying in wait in the darkness of space, like hungry sharks hunting for an unsuspecting victim...

  ■ ■ ■

  Hours on station at red alert were wearing on the entire crew, but no one complained. Commander Walt Edgars was most concerned for the pilots on patrol, restricted to the confines of their cockpits. “Bridge to Flight Control, how are the lads doing on fuel?”

  “Flight Control, we've got them on a conservative pace, sir. We calculate they have several more hours of fuel, with a reserve. We plan on launching our reserve flight when the patrols are estimated to be at fifty percent remaining. At that time, we will rotate in one flight at a time for refueling and relaunch.”

  “Understood.” Walt leaned back, his earpiece chirping the end of the communication. He and everyone else on the bridge was on edge and he desperately wanted to be doing something. Anything. Waiting for something was never one of his favorite things and the butterflies in his stomach were making him fidget. He wasn't hungry but he picked at the sandwich the steward had brought him. Eating was something...

  “GATE! GATE!” shouted the tactical officer, jumping out of her seat, pointing at the big screen, the nose of a destroyer pushing through the veil of color, the gate from Cariloon opening up. A second nose appeared, wide abreast and slightly behind the first.

  “Sit down!” scolded Walt. “Details, please...”

  “Two Miro Class Destroyers, both Pirate, sir. Our turrets are targeting...”

  “Are these the destroyers the Revenge was tracking...?” Walt wondered aloud.

  “Sir, the Archer and Bowman ar
e firing...”

  “Right. Open fire, all guns. Helm, adjust position to bring the rear turrets into play...”

  “Aye, sir, adjusting attitude.” The floor vibrated as the zwump-zwump of the Freedom's main guns fired upon the closest destroyer, echoed by the zwump-zwump of the rear turrets a moment later.

  Having barely cleared the gate, the destroyers took a beating before being able to raise their shields, shedding parts as they transversed the devastating crisscross of fire from the Archer, Bowman and Freedom.

  “Tracking a Valkyrie missile from the UFW77...”

  There was a white-hot flash as the VK*505 anti-ship missile went through the waist of the furthest destroyer, almost passing completely through before detonating, blowing her cleanly in half, a sphere of debris growing outward, flickers of light and fire racing through her hull. A few more weak flickers danced about before she went completely dark, all life snuffed out of her.

  “One down...” someone commented.

  Emergency pods began emerging almost immediately from the second pirate as its shredded hull began to buckle, large gaps appearing as she cracked and weakly blew apart, her forward turret exploding, propelled from the hull, leaving a gaping hole underneath. Escape pods streaked across the darkness.

  “Cease fire,” called Commander Edgars. “Bloody bastards, didn't have a chance. What a waste...”

  “GATE!” called tactical, remembering to remain in her seat. “We've got two more...”

  “Jesus Christ,” breathed Walt, “it's a carrier and a battleship...”

  “Incoming GOD jumps!”

  “What? Where?!”

  “All over... Marking...”

  Red targeting reticules appeared on the big screen, distance and targeting information next to each, waiting for the identification information to fill in. A series of flashes flickered across the darkness as the jump bubbles grew into existence, ships appearing from the swirling globes of color. Four cruisers and two destroyers.