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

by Shane VanAulen

  Entering the crater’s dark mouth, the lights from the two shuttles were turned on and illuminated the opening. They could now see that it appeared to be a large cavern. Following the rough-hewed walls of the tunnel, they almost ran into a manmade gate.

  Getting closer, they realized that they must have tripped an automated laser eye as the gate slowly opened. Entering the opening, they saw a second door just in front of them as the rear door closed.

  The second door’s batteries must have been low, for as the door slowly opened, it stopped halfway. It was still more than enough room for the shuttles to get by, and they continued into the interior. Here they saw that the cavern had been expanded into an extensive docking bay and loading platform. The bay was large enough for a frigate, and the two shuttles had no problem mooring.

  Rotating the ship’s lights, they saw a landing with smooth, poly-crete flooring, neglected machinery, and an airlock that connected to hallways leading to other sections of the complex. There was also another small shuttle and two old star fighters sitting on the loading dock’s floor.

  “Well, he said it was abandoned,” Cappilo said over the open link.

  Mike had to agree; the place looked like no one had been there in ten or fifteen years, which would be just about right. “What’s the temperature and atmosphere like?”

  “Cold, and there is no breathable atmosphere,” Masters answered from the copilot’s seat.

  “Well, let’s take a walk and see what we can find,” he said, locking down the ship and then heading to the airlock. A quick check of their space suits, and the two shuttle crews disembarked.

  Mister Cappilo immediately went to the two star fighters while Chief Petty Officer Bell headed with Pendleton in tow towards the small cargo shuttle. “Well, I guess we’ll head over there,” Mike commented, pointing towards the machinery.

  Masters strode ahead of him as they examined the hulk of the ancient equipment. “It looks like some kind of ore extractor. It may also have been used to extract oxygen from the rocks and ice.”

  “It looks like a piece of junk!”

  Masters nodded and opened a panel. “It may have a power core that we could salvage and other parts we could use.”

  Mike kind of doubted it; the machinery had to be twenty years old, and he wondered how much of the old pieces of equipment were compatible with their modern technology. Turning his attention to the star fighters, he left the Gunny to tinker, as his generation liked to do. Crossing the dock, he found Cappilo crouching under a star fighter’s wing.

  “What do we have here?”

  Rufo looked up at him, and the light of his faceplate revealed a big smile. “LN-23’s Fighting Wasps. Probably the fastest, most maneuverable star fighter built back then.”

  Mike had also recognized them, but was indifferent to their usefulness. “Could we use any parts from these old girls?”

  Cappilo nearly hit his head on the wing when the question was asked. “Sir, these are classics, and even though they are old, they are still damn fast. If we could rearm them with modern pulse cannons and missiles, replace some of their avionics, and upgrade their power cores, we’d have two really capable fighters.”

  The two Wasps looked rather shot up and wanting, but Mike was again swayed by the enthusiasm and infectious smile of his friend. “Okay, see if they can be salvaged, and then we’ll make the call whether to haul them over to the Wolf.”

  He turned and saw Bell and Pendleton crossing towards them. “What’s the news?”

  “The shuttle has a bad engine burnout. It would probably take a refit or a total rebuild to get her to fly again,” CPO Bell reported, and then pointed towards a dark hallway. “We think that hallway might lead to the complex’s generators and air recyclers.”

  “Okay, Chief. You, Pendleton, and Cappilo search down that way. Gunny, Rabb, and I will take this hall,” he ordered, pointing to a passage to his right.

  At that moment, Masters returned from the ore processor. “There are several hydrogen storage tanks beyond that wall,” he said, pointing to the area between the two passageways. “There are also fuel ports protruding from the wall which you can see if you get closer.”

  “Look for food, parts, weapons, and basically anything you think we can use,” Mike needlessly instructed. “If you find the generator and atmosphere controls, let’s try to get them started if we can.”

  Everyone gave a thumbs-up or an “aye, sir”, and went off with their search groups. Not for the last time did Mike shake his head in wonder that just a month ago, he was an assistant custodial engineer. Now he was a leading mission on a foreign world to help save his ship and defend humanity. Fate was definitely weird. Turning, he ran to catch up to the old marine who had stopped to look at an old tracked ore hauler.

  “Well, Mister Collins?” Hope inquired, sitting behind the plain desk of his day cabin’s office. His day office was a mess, having been used as a work area when they were refitting the bridge. Tools, excess bridge components, and building materials were still littered around the room. No one had considered that the office would be used anytime soon, or that they’d have a real captain to command the ship.

  Nevertheless, Hope had already cleared an area around his desk and had laid out his customary clutter including paperbound books, star charts, and cry chip computer crystals. He also had a bottle of Bushmill’s Irish whiskey sitting on his desk.

  It had taken Mike and his search team almost four hours to cover the entire labyrinth that was the old pirate base. He was exhausted, but happy to be here giving his report.

  “Sir, we found two old LN-23 Wasp fighters that Mister Cappilo thinks he can refit, an old shuttle with a burned-out engine, and some ore processing equipment we might be able to salvage some parts from.”

  The Hawk sat quietly letting the young officer report in his own way before commenting or asking any questions of his own. He always believed in giving his people room to operate and guidance. His maxim was to listen to all points of view or ideas in silence, and then decide what course to take.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “Chief Bell and Mister Pendleton have managed to get the base’s reactor online and are confident that the air recycler can be repaired with just a few hours of work. They also found a room full of battle rations and vacuum-sealed foods. A pity our mining shuttle pilots didn’t realize they were there,” he commented, feeling sorry for the pair of ill-fated prospectors.

  “My thoughts as well.”

  “We also found a large cache of old missiles, which we will have to examine one by one to make sure they are safe and operational. There were four dozen class four standard mines and a room full of old replacement parts.”

  “Are we sure they are class four mines?”

  “Yes, sir, they were clearly marked and have only conventional warheads.”

  Hope nodded, having once fought his way through a field of such mines to gain access to the center expanse.

  “We found a full medical infirmary and an armory with a wide variety of older small arms,” he continued and then paused with a frown.

  “What is it, Mister Collins?” he asked, sensing the young man’s unspoken question.

  Mike shrugged his shoulders and looked away before speaking. “Sir, I find it strange that so much contraband and equipment was left behind after the base fell.”

  “To tell you the truth, we were a little swamped with repairing ships and tending to our wounded to worry about it. It was assumed that the admiralty would send out another ship to mop the place up and see if those last three damaged pirate vessels could be salvaged. When they sealed the records of this system, they must have decided not to send any more ships out here.”

  “Lucky for us, this place was kept such a good secret,” he agreed, thinking that his explanation made sense.

  “Anything else of note?”

  Letting out a soft sigh, Mike handed over his report via a memory crystal. “Gunny found some repair equipment, mostly
plasma torches and laser wielders -- all old, but still serviceable.”

  “Well done,” he said, loading the cry chip into his computer. “When you get some rest, I want you to take the Carronade and go out to the pirate ships and see what kind of shape they’re in.”

  “Aye, sir. Should I have the missiles transferred over to the Wolf?”

  Hope looked up from his screen. “After they are deemed as safe and are refitted to the proper dimensions for our missile batteries. Have those that can be mounted on your fighters taken to the lower hangar bay. Also, prepare the class four mines for deployment. You may want to get Commander Hutton to give you a hand. And take your time, I don’t want any accidents.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and I did find two other things I thought you might want,” Mike said, turning away and walking back to the door. Stepping outside for a moment, he returned carrying a wooden case with what was apparently a sheathed sword lying vertically on top of the box. He set his burden down, and handed the sword over to Captain Hope. “I found it in Leech’s quarters; I believe you earned it, sir.”

  The sword was an English Royal Navy officer’s dress sword about forty inches long with a blade approximately thirty-two inches long. The hilt, fittings, and guard bow were twenty-four carat gold plate over brass. Its hilt was wrapped in flat white stingray skin covered with gold plate wire. The sword’s pommel knob was a gold plated lion’s head and face.

  The beautiful blade was sheathed in a hand sewn black leather scabbard with three traditional fitting and mounting loops of gold plate at the tip, middle, and mouth. The sword wasn’t a field weapon but was one meant for dress uniforms and formal occasions.

  Partially drawing the blade from the scabbard, they could see a highly engraved, silver-plated, nylon steel blade. “A Wilkinson,” he commented, looking thoughtfully at the sword that had once served an officer and gentleman of Great Britain.

  Sheathing the sword, he nodded once and laid it on the desk with a soft, almost whisper. “Thank you.”

  Mike nodded in return, then leaned over and brought the box up to the captain’s desk. As he sat it down, the rattle of glass bottles could be heard.

  “I also found this in Captain Leech’s quarters,” he said, popping off the wooden lid from the case and pulling out a glass bottle from within.

  The top of the box’s lid had a burned crest of a shield with a crown in the upper right hand corner. A keep or castle tower was in the left corner above a bar row of three roses or stars which were over a wheat or barley bushel.

  “I know you like Irish whiskey, but it seems your onetime foe liked Scotch,” he said, passing him the bottle.

  Raising a gray eyebrow, Hope accepted the bottle, thinking that it wasn’t unusual for an Englishman to prefer Scotch. Examining the bottle, he saw that at least Leech had good taste in alcohol.

  The bottle had a tan label with the picture of two barrels and had a cork stopper. Across its label was the name “Balvenie Doublewood Single Malt, Balvenie Distillery, Dufftown Scotland Est. 1892.”

  This type of Scotch was a single malt, uniquely distilled in a double wood cask system. Balvenie Scotch whiskey spent its first six years in a traditional whiskey oak cask, which mellows its taste, allowing it to mature and purge itself of impurities. The second six years the Scotch spends in a Spanish sherry oak cask, which adds fullness and depth to the flavor.

  “Uisgebeatha!” Hope commented, gazing at the bottle as he wondered what the additional fifteen years in the bottle had done to the Scotch’s taste.

  Mike looked at him in confusion. “Excuse me, sir, what did you say?”

  The Captain smiled, putting the bottle on his desk.

  “Mister Collins, you’re a good Celt and you don’t know Uisgebeatha?”

  In response, the young ensign frowned, “Really, sir?”

  The old man laughed at his own joke, even if it was a bad one. “It means, in Scottish Gaelic, “Water of Life,” and is the old word for whiskey.”

  “Of course, sir,” he said, trying not to sound condemning. “Where do you want the case?” he asked, picking it up from the edge of the desk where he had it balanced.

  “Thank you, Mister Collins, but I think the crew could use a drink too. I want you to be the class-six officer, and at dinner tonight, give each man a taste of this fine Scotch.”

  “There may not be enough to go around,” he said thinking that a case would be hard pressed to spread out over a hundred men.

  The captain nodded absently as he put his bottle back into the case. "I know you’ll do your best.”

  “Aye, sir,” he said and turned to leave. As he walked towards the door, a strange man in a Confederation steward’s uniform entered the room. Mike almost dropped the case of Scotch to draw his Krager at the stranger’s sudden appearance. The fellow was about fifty and looked oddly familiar to him as if he had seen him once or twice, but never really paid him much notice.

  The steward smiled at him. “A pleasure to see you again, Ensign Collins,” he said, sounding very proper, and then looked to the captain. “Sir, your quarters are ready, and I laid out a fresh uniform for you on the chair.”

  “Thank you, Lucas,” he replied as the steward respectful closed the door.

  Mike looked back to Hope, and the old captain must have seen his bewilderment from the expression on his face.

  "You remember my personal steward, Mr. Lucas, from before the Austro take-over, don’t you?”

  It then dawned on Mike that he had seen the man as a servant in the commandant’s house. "Yes, sir, I do now, but how did he get on board?”

  The Hawk chuckled in private amusement. “When Gunny, the Padre, the other veterans from the club and I had decided to steal the Wolf, he readily joined us. He had been my steward for twenty years, and he wasn’t about to be left behind now. When I was play acting at the academy, he was my eyes and ears and was the one who helped me escape when we made our breakout,” he said, marveling that it was just hours ago that they had made their getaway.

  “Good to have him aboard,” Mike said, still holding the case of Scotch. Shifting his burden, he turned to leave.

  “Oh, Mister Collins, one more thing,”

  He stopped just short of the door and turned back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The old man looked up from his computer and the expression on his wrinkled and usually hard face was solemn, yet kind. “I want to thank you for coming back for me at the academy. I know you did so at great personal risk, and that’s something I won’t forget.”

  Mike didn’t know want to say, so he met the older man’s eyes and nodded. It was a guy thing -- a warrior thing -- one of those moments when words weren’t really needed even if they could have been found.

  Hope nodded in return and then looked back down to his work. Taking that as his cue, the young ensign turned and finally left, but this time, it was with a huge smile on his face.

  Chapter Nine

  A few hours later, the majority of the crew, except for a skeleton bridge crew and engineering section, assembled for their first meal. Doc Beilor had taken it upon herself to recruit a few middies to help CPO Pauly, the crew’s chef, to get a hot meal started even before Commander Richards’ orders to do so.

  She was relieved that there weren’t any real casualties, and that the only injuries from the battle were a middy who had smashed his knee into a bulkhead and a retiree who sliced his hand open on an exposed and roughhewed wall.

  Fortunately, all of the midshipmen had -- at one time or another -- pulled mess duty and were familiar with the routine. The veteran who was running the kitchen had been a chef for years at one of Austro Prime’s best upscale restaurants after he had left the service. As crew became available, he had them set the tables so that there would be room for everyone.

  The mess hall normally could hold at any one time a third of a normal crew size of two hundred. It would be a little cramped in the galley for the eighty or so crew that wasn’t on duty, but they w
ould fit.

  The table settings and flatware were what was left of the Wolf’s original stores, and a mix of plates, mugs, and glassware. Most of which was salvaged from the Rebecca and Surprise as well as those they swiped from Harpers Academy’s mess hall.

  The aroma of the cooking food had already drawn a dozen or so crewmen to the hall. An announcement of the dinner’s time over the ship’s public announcement system had motivated the rest of the crew to start towards the mess hall.

  The retirees had been using the galley since they had moved onboard a month earlier. They had rotated the cooking schedule to allow each section to have a turn as chef. Needless to say, the dishes had been unique, and some downright on the verge of experimental cooking. Chief Petty Officer Pauly had finally had enough, his pampered stomach having rumbled in indigestion once too often after a rather bad mystery meal involving chips, baked beans, and some sort of sausage all baked into a casserole.

  He had taken over the supervision of each section, and everyone would agree that the quality of the meals had greatly improved. Though Pauly was still a gunnery chief, but he was also looked on as the ship’s chef in-residence.

  After a couple well-needed hours of sleep, Mike had finally taken a sonic shower and changed into a clean uniform. Passing through the corridor with his case of Scotch, he was mildly surprised by all of the activity. The ship seemed alive with the addition of the midshipmen, and even the tired veterans appeared to have taken a sip from Pounce de Leon’s fabled Fountain of Youth. Their steps seemed lighter, their smiles deeper, and their jokes cruder.

  He also noticed that wherever he went, the men, both young and old, looked to him. Smiles and warn greetings were given, and he had a sense that he wasn’t just a young man or even just a newly commissioned officer anymore. He was their officer - their leader - the one who had helped to bring this dream alive and had faced the fire to emerge stronger. It was a good feeling, and he walked a little taller for it.