The Log of the Gray Wolf (Star Wolf Squadron Book 1)

by Shane VanAulen

  She shook her head and looked to Mike. “Let me give you a piece of free advice: if you hang around with the Gunny, you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble,” she said, sounding somewhere between being serious and it being bad joke.

  In response, he shrugged. “Been there, done that!” he murmured, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Looking hard at him for a moment, the doctor reached out and pulled back Mike’s coat, revealing his gauss pistol in its shoulder holster. “Loaded for bear, aren’t we?”

  “We had a little trouble with a few privateers, and Mister Collins here handled himself quite well,” Gunny interjected, sounding proud.

  Letting his coat fall closed, she looked to the old marine. “So you’re still going through with it?”

  Masters nodded. “We are, and the Wolf is almost ready. In a week we’ll be out of here and back in the war.”

  “All you really care about is this silly war,” she countered, turning her back to prepare a hyper-injection from a medical cabinet.

  Mike wanted to say something, like the Confederation needed every ship and man, or that the place for warrior was in battle, but he just stood there watching the banter between the two. They seemed to have an old relationship, one that he really wasn’t too sure of. He wondered if they were once a couple.

  Looking to the Gunny, he shrugged his shoulders and made a face. Masters put both hands up, palms towards him, indicating for him to be patient. “I’m sorry, Mister Collins, let me introduce you,” he started as the doctor turned around to inject her patient. “This is Dr. Edith “Edie” Beilor, Commander, Medical Corp, Confederation Navy.”

  Before he could say anything else, Edie interjected “Retired!” and then held her hand out to Mike. “Most folks call me Doc Beilor, and my friends,” she paused, looking toward Masters, “call me Edie.”

  He took her hand, noting her strong but nonthreatening grip, which he returned. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And this young officer is Ensign Michael Collins, Confederation Navy and a recent graduate of Harpers Military Academy.”

  She smiled and released his hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said and then looked back to Masters. “You’re picking them rather young from the tree.”

  Gunny ignored the comment, which he recognized as a taunt. “How is Commander Richards?”

  Doc Beilor put her hand on the sick man’s forehead. “Leave him here, and by the end of the week I will have him shipshape. At least his body: you’ll have to work on the mind,” she said, knowing the man’s unfortunate circumstance.

  Masters met her tired green eyes and held them with his stare. “And what about you?” he asked, almost holding his breath.

  Letting out a deep sigh, she threw up her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll be ready,” she corrected. “After all, what would all of you retirees do without your trusty physician?”

  Leaving the clinic and Commander Richards in the doctor’s good care, they returned to the truck.

  “So Gunny, do you have any other girlfriends I should know about?” he questioned rather brazenly.

  The old marine made a sour face. “Did your daddy ever tan your hide?”

  Mike laughed realizing he had hit it right on the nose. “He sure did!”

  “Well, I’m more than old enough to be your daddy, so behave yourself,” he said, turning the truck down to a bypass that connected to Route 1 - the main highway.

  This was away from the shuttle terminal. “Where are we going now?”

  “Two down, one to go,” he said with a smile as he accelerated onto the highway.

  The drive was a familiar one, and before Mike knew it, they were approaching the gates to Harpers Academy. He couldn’t believe it he would have thought that this would have been the last place they would go. “Gunny, what the hell are we doing here?”

  “We’re looking for a captain, Mister Collins, so just follow my lead,” he said, slowing down as he approached the gate and the guard booth.

  Looking across the driver’s side to the guard booth, he could see that the midshipman on duty was one that he recognized. It was one Walter Rabb, who also was called Rabbit. He was a junior, and it was surprising that he would have pulled such a lousy duty. The guard post was pretty much a ceremonial position and was often used as a punishment duty or given to freshmen as part of their training.

  “I know the guard, so let me handle it,” he suggested as the old marine nodded and lowered his window. “Good evening, Mister Rabb,” Mike said with a smile.

  Upon seeing him, the midshipman snapped to attention and performed a weapon’s salute. Not only was he a graduate, but Rabb also knew that Mike was a commissioned officer.

  “Good evening, sir,” the underclassman said, holding his salute. He was dressed in a regular issue, all-weather gray trench coat. It was fastened shut with a wide, black pseudo-leather belt with a highly polished brass-looking buckle.

  He was equipped with an old Colt assault rifle, a model that hadn’t been in active service since the Vorooshin Occupation. On his belt, he had a magazine pouch and a sheathed bayonet. What was strange about his uniform, was that his saucer hat and his uniform’s collar, which latter was sticking out from his trench coat. Instead of the white, gold, and gray uniform, he was a wearing a brown one with a silver trimmed collar.

  “At ease, Mister Rabb,” he said, returning his salute. Once the midshipman stood at ease, Mike continued, “Tell me what’s up with your uniform?”

  The young plebe made a sour face. “Commander Weaver has us wearing Austro cadet uniforms.”

  “And what is a second year cadet doing pulling such a crappy duty?” he asked, wondering what he must have done wrong.

  Rabb shook his head and cautiously looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Commander Weaver doesn’t much like off-world students, let alone ones that have fathers who are in Confederation service.”

  Mike understood that Rabb was being singled-out, as were probably others in the academy. His friends had hinted that things were bad, but they hadn’t mentioned that it was this bad. “I know what you mean, my dad’s on the Prometheus. Have you spoken to Captain Hope about this; he might be able to do something.”

  The midshipman frowned, “No one’s seen the commandant in the last week. People say that he had a breakdown, and some say that he is under house arrest. I don’t really know what to think.”

  Mike shook his head. “Well, Mister Rabb, make sure you talk to Mister Dover and tell him I sent you. In the meantime, could you give me a visitor’s pass; I want to show my great uncle the campus.”

  Rabb looked concerned and wasn’t sure if he should. "I don’t know, sir; I’m not supposed to let anyone on the grounds without notifying the Commander’s office.”

  “I’m a graduate, and my great uncle is a retired gunnery sergeant. I don’t think we are a threat, and I believe it is policy to allow alumni access to the campus,” he said, remembering having seen graduates return to school to show their family and spouses.

  “Yes, sir, but if anyone asks,” he said, pausing mid-sentence and looking rather nervous.

  “Roger that!” Mike responded, giving him a big smile and a nod as he took the electronic visitor’s pass. The security card would allow them to access and pass through any of the gates on campus.

  “What’s this crap about “great uncle”? Couldn’t I have just been your uncle?”

  “No, he’d never have believed it,” he said straight-faced.

  Passing through the gate, Masters took the right lane, which led away from the dormitories and classrooms. He drove down the scenic route, one that was often followed by visitors and parents touring the academy. The route would eventually pass by the memorial to ancient maritime heroes. It would then circle to the commandant’s house and curve back past the chapel and graveyard to the main campus.

  “Who are we recruiting now, the chapel’s pastor?” Mike said, letting a little sarcasm slip out.

  “Do you thi
nk he’d come?” Gunny said, flipping it right back to him and pretty much telling him to be quiet.

  Leaving the memorial garden behind, they continued until they reached the drive to the commandant’s house. Surprising him, the old marine turned the truck onto the commandant’s driveway.

  Mike looked at him incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding!” When there was no reaction from him, he continued. “Are we here to see Captain Hope?”

  Un-holstering his 8mm auto pistol, Mike slid it under the seat. “Leave your weapons in the truck just in case we are searched, and remember to follow my lead.”

  He then drew his Krager, placing it under his seat, followed by the Colt Gyro Starburst, his fighting knife, and the extension sword. The last, he stared at for a moment, recalling that the extension sword was designed to be hard to detect. Letting his better judgment sway him, he left the carbon sword behind as he exited the vehicle. Maybe a detector wouldn’t read it, but a pat down would.

  Following after the Gunny, he caught up to him just as he rang the door’s bell.

  A valet, who was in his mid-thirties and seemed definitely out of place, quickly answered the door. “What can we do for you?” he asked, giving them both a head to toe visual scan. He looked to be a bodybuilder that had somehow squeezed into a steward’s black formal jacket and gold vest.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we would like to see Captain Hope, please,” Gunny stated, looking quite sincere.

  The valet stared at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, do you have an appointment?” he asked, seeing the negative looks from the old and younger men. “No? Then I’m afraid he can’t see you.”

  As the closing the door swung shut, Masters shoved a hand out and stopped its movement. “Just tell Captain Hope that Mister Collins is here and would like to speak to him about a job recommendation.”

  The door opened again and the large steward looked angrily at them. “And who is this Mister Collins?”

  “I am, and I’m a recent graduate of Harpers Academy,” he said, telling the truth and backing up the Gunny’s story.

  The steward and Masters locked eyes, neither looking like they were going to back down. It rather reminded Mike of a cobra and a mongoose, only often in a fight like that, neither wins. He also noted the bulge under the servant’s right armpit and decided that he’d better intervene. “The Commandant told me to drop by and see him.”

  The bruiser looked from the old marine to the young officer and back again. “Very well, wait here,” he said with a frown as he closed the door in their faces.

  Mike glanced at his compatriot. “How much do you want to bet his knuckles drag on the floor?”

  The Gunny’s hard and serious face cracked into a smile. “No bet!”

  In a few minutes, the door opened again and the valet looked out at them. “The Commandant will see you now. Please come in,” he said, sounding rather monotone and uninterested.

  Neither said anything in response. Instead, they simply entered into the house and moved into the foyer. It was a large entrance hall with portraits of former headmasters lining the wooden paneled walls. Underneath each picture was a mounted officer’s dress sword with a brass nameplate. These were the personal weapons of the former commandants and numerous distinguished graduates, which had been donated to the school.

  Mike had been here several times over the last few years for socials and traditional formal dinners, called dining-ins. The foyer ended with a large circular staircase that led to the second floor. Every time he walked into the entrance area, he was reminded of some old, late-night vid of the pre-Civil War American South. It was an elegant and fitting entrance that gave any visitor the impression of old world style.

  To the right and through the arched doorway was a long dining hall with a table that could seat thirty. Beyond that was a large, open ballroom that often doubled as a fencing salle for the old officer and a lucky guest or friend. Highly polished oaken hardwood floors covered the entire expanse of the house and made for excellent dancing or fencing.

  Off to his right was a set of double doors that led to the commandant’s private library and office. It was to these doors that the pair had been led to by the questionable steward. Opening the door on the right, the servant directed them with a wave of a hand to proceed into the library.

  Walking into the room, the steward shut the door behind them, leaving them and the sole occupant of the room alone. The room had a high four-chamber vaulted ceiling. Every inch of wall space, from floor to ceiling, was covered in old-style paperbound books. The only exception was the occasional archaic weapon or oil painting that was sporadically hung about the room. There was a rail ladder, which slid along a track that was used to retrieve books from the top shelves. To their right was an iron spiral staircase, which led to a balcony level that overlooked the main floor.

  On the other side of the room was Captain Sir Randolph Hawkins Hope. He was seated behind a large oaken desk that was said to have been hundreds of years old and had once belong to American Admiral Oliver Hazard Perry when he was commander of the USS Lawrence. Behind him was a great bay window, which was as high as the ceiling.

  It was normally a beautiful window of hand-case, leaded stained glass. It depicted the Archangel Michael holding a sword in one hand and a red banner with a scale emblazoned on it in the other. At his feet lay the body of a dragon, symbolizing the fall of Lucifer. In the four corners of the window were smaller works with the Archangels Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, and the Angel Apollion. The last was a mystery to him when he first saw the Angel and his name. He was depicted as an angel with a fiery sword and a large key, which he later discovered was the key to the abyss.

  When he actually took time to look him up, he discovered that he was known as the angel of destruction and the angel of the abyss and was called, the “Destroyer.” Apollion was referenced in Revelation 9:11 and in Revelation 20:2 which said, “and he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him a thousand years.”

  Mike had always marveled at the sight of the massive window, and was disappointed to see that the drapes had been tightly drawn shut. In fact, the room was rather dark and gloomy. A single desk light on the captain’s desk was the only illumination, and what it showed was not a welcomed sight.

  The desk was usually cluttered, but organized, yet it was now a real mess with papers and computer crystals strewn about its surface. A decanter of whiskey was empty and laying on its side. A half-empty bottle of Bushmill whiskey sat upright and uncapped. A water glass with about a shot glass worth of whiskey was also nearby, as was a pistol.

  The pistol was an antique, and Mike wondered if it could even fire. It was a British Webley Mark IV break-open six-shot revolver from the beginning of the twentieth century. It was chambered in 455. caliber and hadn’t been in service since the Korean War. A box of brass cartridges lay open with several lead bullets lying out amongst the mess.

  “What are you doing here, Mister Collins?” a voice said from the darkness.

  Mike hadn’t noticed before, but someone was sitting behind the desk just outside of the lamp’s light. “Sir, is that you?”

  “What do you want?” the voice demanded as a face leaned into the light. It was Captain Hope, or at least it vaguely looked like him. His gray hair was longer and looked uncombed. His face was unshaved and worn tired with fatigue. His uniform's tunic was unbuttoned and seemed as if he had slept in it for the past several days. “Answer me, Mister!”

  “Sir, I…” he started, unsure what to say to him now. Looking to the Gunny, he saw from the expression on the old marine’s face that he, too, was at a loss for words.

  The old officer grabbed the bottle of Bushmill’s whiskey, ignored the glass, and drank directly from its neck. “Dead! We’re all dead!” he stated, taking a second long pull from the bottle.

  Mike again was speechless, just managing to mumble out a “Yes, sir.”

  The Commandant reached out and grabbe
d the old revolver, spinning it by its trigger guard like some kind of child’s toy as it lay on the desk. “They’re trying to kill me,” he said softly, and then laughed.

  “Captain Hope, let us take you away from here and get you some help, please, sir,” Mike said, taking a step forward.

  The old man’s bloodshot eyes looked up from the pistol and locked on Collins. His hand tightened on the butt of the Webley and the barrel aligned with the young man’s chest. “Didn’t you hear me, Mister?” he screamed, his pale face turning red with rage. “I said we are all dead, now get out of here!”

  Gunny grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door. “Let’s go!” he said, dragging him away from the deranged man and his ancient revolver.

  “But Jack, we have to do something,” he pleaded, distraught to see such a great man come to such an ignoble end.

  Passing by the smiling steward, it was all he could do not to pull lose from the old marine’s grasp and beat the valet to death. Gunny tightened down on his arm and used the distraction to shove him out the front door and towards the truck.

  Rushing to the truck, he pulled at the locked door. “Open this up!” he ordered, his anger getting the best of him. He wanted his Krager and he wanted it now.

  “No, sir,” the Gunny answered forcefully, staring at him from across the hood of the vehicle. “Listen, we can’t do anything for him. He is too closely guarded, and they obviously have him drugged!”

  “But…” Mike started, sure that if he could get the Commandant to the midshipmen’s barracks, they would help and protect him.

  Masters looked back to the doors and shook his head, “Look, sir, we have something bigger to worry about, and if he knew, he would want us to succeed!”

  The old man’s words hit him like a bucket of cold water and snapped him out of it. The Gunny was right, but it still didn’t sit well with Mike. Nodding his agreement, he heard the door’s lock release, and he got into the old truck. Looking down at his hands, he wished that he could have done something and promised himself that he wouldn’t fail again.