Wings of Steele - Destination Unknown (Book 1)

by Burger, Jeffrey

  Maria held him. "Oh God, oh God, I knew you were hurt... that was your blood!"

  Jack held up his hand and Maria stopped ranting. "Just bruised..." he opened his shirt slowly, his ribs were pink and purple. "Bruised I think...” he inhaled slowly, “I hope."

  "What do you mean, you hope?" inquired Maria, confused.

  "Bruised, as opposed to broken." Jack said calmly, trying to control his breathing and reduce the pain.

  Maria looked a little sheepish. "Oh."

  Jack carefully peeled off the torn shirt, wincing. Maria helped him to his feet, handing him a fresh shirt from his bag. After washing with a towel and some cold water from their cooler, he gingerly slid into the clean shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. The cold water felt good on his tender ribs, making it easier to breathe. Maria pinned his wings above his left pocket. Steele looked down at the young beauty standing before him, whose life had been changed so suddenly and completely. What seemed so incredible to him was that she had retained so much composure. This is truly a remarkable woman, he thought to himself. "Can you read a radar unit?"

  "Yes... I can fly too," she replied.

  "Ok..." Jack guided her to the navigators table and flipped the power on for the unit. "Can you run this one?"

  "Sure can..." she replied without hesitation, "are we looking for anything special?"

  Jack ran his hand through his dark hair. "Any possible pursuit, or any other conflicting flight traffic, 'cause when we come up off the deck, we're going to suddenly pop up on somebody’s scope somewhere, and we may have some unwanted company."

  "No problem," Maria said, smiling sweetly and sliding into the navigators seat.

  Damn, Jack thought, I just love that accent. Of course, the rest of the package is nothing to sneeze at either, said his little voice. This time Jack agreed with the voice. He turned and made his way to the cockpit, with Fritz at his heels. Jack winced and exhaled sharply as he stooped to duck under the avionics console getting into the cockpit. Brian looked back over his shoulder from the captains seat. "Need your seat, Skipper..?" he unbuckled to vacate the seat. Steele closed his eyes and shook his head, putting his hand on the copilot's shoulder. He eased himself into the copilot seat, gritting his teeth. Glancing at the gauges the pilot drew a long, deep relaxing breath.

  Jack belted himself in loosely. "Ok, first, lets ease power a bit, she's running a tad hot from all this work. Good evasive work, by the way."

  Brian nodded as he reduced throttle, "Thanks, did the best I could, did a little sweatin' too."

  Jack smiled. "Yeah, welcome to the club."

  "You Ok?"

  Jack nodded, "Yeah, a little bruised, but I'll be fine." Steele eyed the gauges as the oil pressure, head and manifold temperature gauges slowly crept down out of the yellow. "Ok, now, let's get off the deck and grab some sky, gently though...” Nodding, the copilot eased the yoke back and the B25 nosed up towards the scattered clouds.

  Nobody had ever saved Jack's life before, and he wasn't so sure he was comfortable discussing it. He tried to formulate in his mind, how to broach the subject and after several aborted attempts to organize thought and reason, he finally resigned himself to the reality that he would have to just blurt it out. "Listen, um, thanks." Completely uncomfortable, Jack stared at the gauges.

  "For what?" Brian wasn't trying to be difficult, he really hadn't a clue as to what the pilot was referring to.

  "Um, well, for the heavy artillery support." Not speaking, Brian just shook his head. Steele was thoroughly confused. "What... no..." he said flatly.

  The copilot looked over at Jack. "Dude, I couldn't leave the controls..." he said, adjusting the fuel mixture with one hand. "I just moved the plane..." he thumbed over his shoulder, "where she told me to." Brian paused, letting this sink in before proceeding. He watched reality hit home.

  "You mean..."

  "Yeah..." Brian interrupted, as he eased the yoke forward leveling the plane off at four thousand feet. "She loaded the belts into the guns, figured out how they worked and figured out the turret controls... all on her own. 'Cause I was busy up here."

  "Holy shit..." said Jack slowly, his voice trailing off. He felt a sudden chill run up his spine. There was definitely more to this girl than meets the eye... a lot more! He wondered if he would ever really know how much... or, if he really wanted to know.

  The pilot felt like he was caught in someone else’s dream, he rubbed his face with both hands. He wanted, no, needed to think of a new subject. "So, where are we headed?"

  Brian explained the route and the destination of Bogota. Jack pulled on his lower lip. "Hmmm..." He pulled their charts out of the pouch, folding them across his lap. "Hmmm... good route basically, but it takes us to a destination too close to our original plans. Bogota is also quite large and'll probably be well informed. We need a more back-water place with little connection... aaahhh here we go, on the east coast..." he said pointing on the map, "Georgetown...” He checked it with a protractor and line. “Take a heading of one-seventy-seven...” He glanced at the fuel gauges, and checked his math with a calculator.” We should have plenty of fuel to make it, no sweat. And let's go up to about ten-thousand."

  "Got it.” Brian adjusted course and eased the nose up again. “What next?"

  "I'm really not sure, I think we ought to try to get word to Stephen, we definitely need distance between that airport and us... as quickly as possible. We need time to effect damage control... and I'm not really sure how to do that yet. It's a U.S. Territory, so I would expect FBI involvement - maybe CIA since we're outside of the country now...” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. Those weren't cops... at least not most of them. They were cartel.”

  "How could you tell?" asked Brian.

  “Hard to say... gut feeling maybe, something I saw that I'm not remembering. I don't know for sure... what I do know, is that's not how the story will break.” Jack slid the charts and protractor back into its pouch. ”We'll be gun and drug runners who mercilessly slaughtered an entire platoon of gentle, noble policemen doing their job of protecting the innocent public.”

  “You're right, that does sound bad...”

  "Don't remind me." Jack ran his hand through his hair, deep in thought. His dad was a cop, his uncle was a cop, and he had been a cop. He grew up knowing cops were the good guys. And even when they weren't, as was the case here, killing a cop was close to blasphemy. This didn't sit well with Jack's conscience, even though he knew deep inside, he had done no wrong. Jack looked up and scanned the skies around them after a long stare at the gauges. A long unblinking stare, the kind of wide-eyed blank stare that a man in all engrossing thought succumbed to. Looking but not seeing. The dry sting in his eyes brought him back to the living.

  "Watcha thinkin about?" queried the copilot, tapping on the glass of one of the gauges.

  "Everything... nothing..." Jack's voice trailed off. He scratched his mustache and ran his hand through his hair. This statement was not altogether true, however, because like most men after experiencing a crisis, Jack was reviewing the events in his mind, over and over again, hoping to glean another speck of information, in order to help solve the predicament they were now in. To his intense dismay, there were no answers there, only questions. Things like; Paulo had told the police the plane contained drugs and guns. Of course, there were no drugs, but what about the guns... a good guess? Coincidence? What about the drum of Methyl ethyl ketone. He hadn't noticed any painting equipment around the hangar. What was really in those crates? He hadn't time to look. And why was it so important for Maria to leave with them? He could see no real danger there if she had stayed. There was probably a logical explanation for all of these, but not knowing truly irritated him. The pilot wanted to forget about it for a while.


  Jack noted that while his ribs had turned an interesting shade of purple they didn't hurt quite as much as they had earlier.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WASHINGTON DC: CIA OFFICE

  A woman’s voice, crisp with professionalism spoke through the intercom, "I'm sorry to bother you sir, but there's a messenger here with an important communiqué for your eyes only." The man behind the large mahogany desk leaned forward from the overstuffed leather chair, put down the official papers he was reading and reached over to the comm-phone on the desk. "Thanks, Maggie, send him in."

  Obviously no ordinary messenger, a young man in a suit and tie, entered the office, sealed manila envelope in hand.

  "This came for you only minutes ago, sir..." he said, handing over the envelope, "I got it here as soon as I could..." The young man's voice trailed off, he always felt uncomfortable in this office, too close to the top he decided.

  "Sit down, Special Agent Cummins," said the man behind the desk with a sweep of his hand. "Coffee?"

  The young CIA agent was surprised by the offer but did not refuse. "Why, yes sir, thank you very much." He sat at the table in the center of the room, surveying the trappings of rank. The walls, paneled in mahogany, were covered with souvenirs of foreign wars, medals, decorations and commendations for every conceivable valor. Behind the desk hung two large flags, the Stars and Stripes and the flag of the CIA. A silk banner strung between them read; John 8:32: "Ye shall know the truth and it shall set you free."

  The man behind the desk spoke into the comm before leaving and walking out to the conference table in the middle of the room, "Maggie, coffee for two please." Before he reached the table, Maggie entered with coffee service for two. She poured the fresh, steaming coffee into two white mugs emblazoned with the seal of the President of The United States. "No interruptions, Maggie," said the Director of South American Operations. "Yes, Mr. Miles," said the girl as she left the office.

  Stephen Miles could not bear to review bad news without a good cup of coffee. "Ok, let's see what this is all about." The CIA man of twenty odd years tore open the envelope after a sip of smooth Colombian bean. Cup in hand, he read the confidential report. “Holy shit," he said, staring at the paper trying to read between the lines. He took a sip from the cup as he stood. "Ok Cummins, you were there when this thing came in, weren't you?" Stephen's back was turned to the agent as he slid the document into the shredder, the pieces falling into a confidential burn-bag underneath.

  "Yes sir, I was."

  "What other information came in," said the veteran, sitting back down at the table. "That..." he said, pointing at the document going through the shredder, "was pitifully brief."

  The young agent took a sip from his cup. "Yes sir. The details are still coming in..." Stephen nodded, "but there wasn't much more than that. At this point, quite a bit is supposition, like our Latin Island operation has been compromised. That the B25 aircraft owned by Miles Aviation, has disappeared with its cargo and crew..." The young agent had suddenly made the name connection but tried not to hesitate. He sipped briefly from his cup before going on, "Our Latin operative is believed missing too." Stephen Miles rubbed his face, he hated involving civilians in operations because when things went wrong it always made damage control so much more complicated. Agent Cummins continued, "There was also some communication traffic about a number of San Juan Police Officers killed - but that is unconfirmed and may be totally unrelated."

  Stephen groaned, rubbing his temples, this was getting more complicated by the minute. "Maggie!"

  Stephen's aide poked her head in the door, "Yes sir?"

  "Get Bob Wolf on the phone, tell him I want a plane, not one of mine and not one of the Company's. Tell him to rent one, a Lear maybe, something fast, but we need complete anonymity..." he stood up, "and I need it yesterday, got it?"

  "Got it," she replied, attempting to leave.

  "Oh, and tell Kevin to bring the car around. He and Mr. Cummins here, will be going along."

  "Yes sir." She disappeared.

  "Cummins, go home and pack. Pack light. Call Maggie, she'll have your directions for the plane... don't be late."

  The young man rose, straightening his jacket, "Yes sir."

  The Director stood at the window looking out over the city, his back to the agent as he left the office. He had fixed his share of fuck-ups in his career, he'd fix this one too. Dammit, he wanted that plane back. And in one piece. Which means he had to find it before anyone else did, no small task in an area littered with islands. And if he hit the South American Continent, shit, he didn't even want to think about that. His only hope was, that kid Steele... a skilled pilot, resourceful too. To find that plane, meant thinking like a civilian, a civilian on the run, with police and combat survival experience. An extremely dangerous combination, he decided.

  Maggie knocked then entered. "Sir, Kevin is waiting."

  Stephen downed his coffee, "Thanks," he muttered, grabbing his jacket and setting the coffee mug on the table. "Call you later." He handed her the sealed burn-bag of shredded documents, “Burn this for me, will you...?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  US AIRCRAFT CARRIER, SHENANDOAH: BERMUDA TRIANGLE

  The Ensign walked down the seemingly endless hallway, lined with officer's quarters, looking for one in particular. He found it and knocked on the open doorway. The occupant was comfortably reclining, fully clothed, on his bunk. He looked up from the book he was reading. The lines on his face and the sparkle of silver in his sandy blond hair gained him the nickname "Pappy" by some of the other pilots.

  Though he was only forty-two years old, he was still years older than most of the other pilots who were barely in their twenties. He had also flown extensive combat sorties in the Gulf War which made him somewhat of a legend with the newer officers. All in all, the Lieutenant Commander kind of enjoyed the attention because it had never been done with any disrespect intended.

  "What can I do for you Ensign?" he said, with his legendary smile, the crinkles around his blue eyes deepening.

  "Sorry to bother you, Pappy, but the Skipper wants you in briefing right away."

  Lieutenant Commander Paul Smiley looked at his watch, "What gives? I'm not due to go up for another hour and a half."

  The Ensign shrugged, "Don't know, sir, but he said right away."

  "Ok... Warren too?"

  "Yes sir..." said the junior officer, "do you know where I might find him?"

  Smiley swung his feet over the edge of the bunk. "Try the forward lounge, he said something about a football game on TV."

  "Thanks, Pappy." The Ensign saluted and disappeared down the hallway, leaving the pilot alone with his thoughts.

  Being called to briefing this far in advance of a scheduled patrol launch meant you weren't going out for just a patrol, there was something out there somewhere. Smiley dropped off his bunk to the deck. His five-foot eleven-inch frame was solid and muscular, remaining so due to the rigors of being a fighter jock. A graduate of the Navy's Top Gun program, he had long since traversed the stage of being a cocky young hot dog to a cool, calculating, tremendously skilled, fighter pilot.

  After donning his flight gear and checking himself in the mirror, he headed off to flight briefing. Lieutenant Commander Smiley met his wingman, Lieutenant JG Mike Mad Dog Warren, in the corridor just outside the briefing room. Mike Warren was a wiry kid from Iowa with curly auburn hair. His freckled face made him look much younger than his twenty-five years and his small town, Midwestern upbringing, made him sound as naive as he looked.

  Still, despite his sedate childhood, his clear, brown eyes sparkled at the thought of flying just about anything. Mike's enthusiasm was evident in his flying. He had a strong aptitude, and the advanced combat maneuvers Paul had taught him
were coming along nicely.

  Pappy inspected Mike's flight gear. "Ready?"

  "Yep."

  "Ok... let's go." They entered together.

  Smiley was surprised to see eight other pilots already there, each one a combat veteran. In fact, the only one without combat was his wingman Mike Warren. This could be... hmmm, hell, he didn't know what to think. He sat down as they all did, when the Air Boss entered the room.

  "Ok gentlemen, find a seat and button up your faces..." he waited until everyone was seated and continued, "We have a situation which dictates we must search for, locate and escort a possible hostile aircraft, so listen up. Does everybody know what a World War Two, B25 Mitchell Bomber, looks like..?" he watched the nodding heads. "Ok fine, it seems late last night or early this morning, the details aren't clear on this, an armed B25 called the Sweet Susie, landed at the San Juan airport and logged some time in at an abandoned hangar. Responding to an anonymous tip, the San Juan Police went out to investigate. They were fired upon and in the ensuing gun battle more than twenty officers were either killed or wounded."

  A low chorus of whispers erupted from the pilots. The Commander never looked up from his report, "Shut up ladies, and listen... In their escape, they dynamited the hangar, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment being stored there. Not to mention all the criminal laws, they also violated numerous civil air traffic laws, endangering countless lives." He paused before going on. "It is also suspected that they have abducted a local woman. These are dangerous, vicious, people. It is reported that they have a load of drugs and guns in a plane capable of defending itself. Our job is to find it and escort it back to the San Juan airport where there are police and military units waiting for it. These people are desperate, and hostage or no, if you locate them and are fired upon, splash 'em... I don't want anyone returning with holes in their aircraft. Understood?"

  "Aye aye, sir..." was the sombre response that rippled through the group.