Op File Sanction

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Two reasons, Poet. I’m messed up.”

  “I can see that. But it’s not a reason. What’s the real reason?”

  “Uno Global Transporters. We need to get the head of that den of snakes before I give a report and they lift our sanction,” she wheezed out each word. “Get a wheelchair and take me to The Talon.”

  “A wheelchair?”

  “Poet, I am really messed up.”

  “But?”

  “Go, now. Don’t make me crawl out of this room to find one,” Warlock directed. Then she clamped her hands on the sides of her head and squeezed as if she could manually control the nightmares playing out in her mind.

  ***

  “Flight control, The Talon is ready for launch.”

  “Talon lift and move to the first air curtain.”

  “Lifting and moving to first air curtain.”

  As the half yacht rose from the sled and glided through the curtain, Walden glanced down. Diosa lay on a mattress covered with a blanket.

  “Poet, reality check?” she inquired from her bed on the flight deck.

  “We are in The Talon preparing to leave Command Station,” Walden assured her.

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “But we are.”

  “Sorry, I meant easy for you to believe.”

  “Because it’s what we’re doing,” he informed the unrestricted agent. “Are you sure about this?”

  “The only thing I’m sure of is you are wrapped in an aura of beautiful flowing red and yellow.”

  Walden looked down at his body and the flight instruments. He didn’t notice anything unusual.

  “Talon, you are clean and the launch tube is free of obstructions. Move to the second air curtain.”

  “Flight control, Talon moving to the second curtain.”

  “When you talk, your breath comes out in waves of orange,” Warlock commented.

  Before Walden could question her, flight control gave him the final go.

  “Talon, the flight pattern is open and you are cleared for launch.”

  “Talon is entering the flight pattern,” Walden responded as he shoved power to the internal drive.

  The yacht shot through the tube, broke free of the station, and flew into space.

  “The Talon is leaving your pattern, flight control. Thank you.”

  “Safe travels, Talon.”

  “That was exhilarating,” remarked Diosa.

  Looking down, Walden noted she was sitting up peering beyond him and out the forward screen.

  “There wasn’t much shift when we broke free of the station’s gravity and The Talon’s took over,” commented Walden. “I barely felt the transition.”

  “Not the sense of motion, but the forward screen’s glass,” explained Diosa. “It looked like bands of color as we went up the tube. First red, then orange, yellow, purple and at the mouth, it faded to blue/black. You didn’t see any of that? Must have been another illusion.”

  “Setting your confusion aside, do we have a destination?” he inquired. “Or do we just orbit Planet Uno?”

  “Orbit for now,” instructed Diosa. “Give me a chance to sort this out.”

  “And regain your sanity. You did leave a hospital bed without being released,” Walden reminded her. “Or completely lose your mind and then, where am I?”

  “If I lose my mind, get me to a neurology team and have them rip out this bionic eye,” Diosa instructed. “Every muscle in my body is sore and I’m hungry. Once you’ve logged the orbital path, can I trouble you for some hot soup.”

  Walden registered their route with the Master of Transit office who checked to be sure The Talon wouldn’t collide with another spaceship. When his flight plan was approved, Poet left for the galley. Fifteen minutes later, he placed a tray in Diosa’s lap.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” Walden warned.

  “The soup smells delicious,” Diosa exclaimed. With her eyes closed she inhaled, savoring the spicy aroma. Then she opened her eyes, giggled, and wiggled her fingers in the steam. “Rainbow soup? It’s lovely.”

  Walden panicked. His agent had lost her mind and he crept away intending to circle The Talon around and go back to Command Station. He had a hand on the pilot seat and a foot on the step ready to climb up. Then he stopped.

  “Describe what you’re seeing?”

  “The soup in the bowl is red in the center and orange around the edges,” Diosa told him. “And the steam is yellow as it leaves the bowl and transitions to violet then purple before it disperses. Oh, the colors aren’t really there. Are they?”

  Walden let out a sigh of relief, crossed his legs at the ankles, and sat on the deck.

  “As a matter of fact, the colors are there,” he explained. “If you were watching the heat signatures through an infrared camera. I don’t know if this is a good thing or bad considering the mission.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your bionic eye has activated another feature,” he ventured. “But as you told me, each new feature taxes your brain. Until you learn how to isolate, balance, and integrate the infrared sensor, you are certifiably psychotic.”

  “Why didn’t I realize it?” she inquired.

  “Probably because your brain has been in a stimulus loop,” Walden suggested. “When dealing with overstimulation, your body may go into a feedback loop. A loop has three main parts: stimulus, control center, and effectors. While the effectors can be positive where the body attempts to eradicate the stimuli, your response seems to be negative.”

  “You know I’m not in my right mind so go slowly and use simple words,” pleaded Warlock.

  “The activation of the infrared sensor has disrupted the relatively stable equilibrium of your brain. Your disorientation was the result of all the sensors activated at the same time. Each was seeking a logical place in your thought processes. While your mind sorted and categorized the new input, it shut down rational thought. Which forces me to ask, should we be planning an assault on the Uno Global Transporters compound?”

  “Of course not,” Diosa agreed. “It must have been the electrical current that activated the infrared.”

  “Now that that’s settled, I’ll fly us back to the station,” suggested Walden. “You can work on getting control between meetings with the brass.”

  “Maintain our orbit, Poet,” declared Warlock. “This isn’t over yet.”

  “But I thought we agreed you weren’t in any shape to attack a fortified compound.”

  “I never said we were,” Warlock informed him as she slipped the goggle over her right eye. “I said we were going to cut the head off the snake. Give me a day and we’ll discuss the attack plan.”

  Diosa stood, collected the blankets and mattress, and left through the hatch. Walden stood on the flight deck watching her stagger down the corridor to her suite. After struggling with the door handle, Warlock vanished into her room.

  “Of course not,” Poet sneered in a voice that mimicked Diosa. He climbed into the pilot’s chair, lifted his legs, and placed his boots on the control panel. Then he craned his neck back and spoke to the overhead. “And the shrinks think I’m nuts.”

  ***

  Walden Geboren positioned another capacitor on the wire cage and placed the tip of the soldering iron against it. A knock on the workroom’s door caused him to look back.

  “The light is on,” he warned.

  Diosa opened it and for a second, she was silhouetted in the frame. Behind her, the passageway was dark and only her front half illuminated by the workbench’s light. She appeared to be a specter coming from a dark void.

  “I can turn the lights off but I can’t work in the dark,” he mentioned.

  For five days, The Talon had been in an ultrahigh elliptical orbit around Planet Uno. They docked once at the outlying merchant station to make purchases. Then they returned to the orbit.

  While the exterior of the spaceship bristled with warning lights and collision beams, the interior was
dark. Except where Walden’s work required light.

  “I’ll deal with it,” Diosa replied. She slipped on a pair of welding goggles. Walden had replaced the left lens with one less tinted. “So that’s it. It looks like some techno-madman’s idea of a miniature Christmas tree.”

  Hanging from the wires coiled around a conical cylinder were capacitors. Dangling from their soldered leads, the tiny energy storage units could be mistaken for ornaments.

  “I was able to modify the forward section of the rocket to encase it,” Walden boasted. He pointed to a mushroom-shaped piece of alloy. “The explosives from the warhead are adequate for the cylinder. I’m just thankful the e-rocket doesn’t have to travel far or hit a target. Her aerodynamics will resemble those of a wounded duck.”

  “All it has to do is snuff out the lights,” Warlock told him. “Poet, you are a genius.”

  “And you are not right in the head,” he responded. “The electromagnetic pulse will only fry small circuits and kill the engines until the crew makes repairs. What will you do if the lights come on while you’re playing blind cat burglar?”

  “I only need a few minutes to locate Sean Mareika and question him,” Warlock explained. “Then I’m overboard and bobbing around until you pick me up.”

  “You skipped a lot of sequential steps,” Walden observed.

  “With you flying cover and your e-rocket, I’m not worried,” Warlock assured him. “Besides, my left eye is starting to adjust.”

  “It’s not your left eye that’s causing me consternation,” Poet informed her. “It’s the light sensitivity of the bionic eye contributing to my colon convulsions.”

  “But you have to admit, it’s amazing in the dark,” Warlock replied as she moved to the doorway.

  “I have to admit nothing,” Poet complained as he held a capacitor in place and touched the lead with the hot tip of the soldering iron. “I’m a pilot and a researcher. Not a full support staff for a one-woman army.”

  “Oh, but Poet, you are,” Warlock assured him as she stepped out and closed the door.

  He reached for another capacitor. The electromagnetic pulse rocket may be over-engineered, but Warlock’s life depended on it. Besides, it did resemble a Christmas tree and Walden had always enjoyed exotic holiday lights. Even after blowing up his dorm room in his first semester at the university.

  ***

  Diosa Alberich was a Space Marine and a Striker. Water for her meant a beverage, a mixer, a shower, a bath, or a swim while on leave. The kilometers of water passing below Talon Two didn’t fit in any of those categories. She felt as out of place as a fish in space.

  “The Empress Dream is one hundred twenty-six meters long and eighteen meters wide,” Poet related. “She boasts five decks plus a bridge and a below deck hanger. And the superyacht is valued at four hundred twenty million pesetas.”

  “It’s a floating office building for Sean Mareika,” Diosa added. “And that name? How much more do the authorities need to investigate the chairman of Uno Global Transporters?”

  “When you put it in that context, the connection to the Empress does sort of stand out,” Poet answered.

  He dipped the gunship and changed course.

  “She is sailing off our starboard side,” Poet explained. “We’ll circle around and cut across her path.”

  “Why are ships called she?” Warlock inquired.

  “One theory is ‘she’ relates to the idea of goddesses and mother figures playing a protective role in looking after a ship and her crew,” Poet suggested.

  “That makes sense,” Warlock acknowledged. “It couldn’t be that men believe ships, like women, are unpredictable?”

  “I would have never thought of that theory,” Poet lied. But the flinch gave him away. “It’s not too late to call this off.”

  “Uno Global Transporters keeps popping up in our investigation,” Warlock articulated. “From pickups to missing data, it all points to them. And they have the communications gear to collect information and beam it off world. This has to be done.”

  “Please note my protest,” her pilot tossed in as the gunship banked gently to starboard. “Two minutes.”

  “Two minutes,” Warlock confirmed as she released the harness. “Breach, breach, breach.”

  “You do realize we are on the planet’s surface and surrounded by air,” Poet teased.

  “Old habits,” Warlock suggested as she opened the hatch. In space, opening a hatch required the pilot to put on a helmet. Warning about the loss of internal atmosphere was more than a courtesy, it saved lives.

  Diosa stepped from the gunship’s deck and lowered her legs until her feet touched the skids. Standing on the runner and hanging onto the frame of the hatch, Warlock spent the last seconds of the insertion being buffeted by the wind.

  The gunship slowed, the wind pressure reduced, and Poet pointed at the retired Marine. Diosa stepped back and dropped into the sea. The cold seeped through the wetsuit and closed in around her head. Several powerful strokes later, she shot to the surface.

  By the time Warlock emerged, Poet had reduced power and let Talon Two settle. Below the gunship, two inflatable boats, lashed together side by side, splashed into the water. After scrambling over the gunwale, Warlock released the catch and the cargo line swung free.

  “Release complete, the load is down,” Warlock informed her pilot.

  “Confirm, the load is down,” Poet repeated.

  The gunship rose and powered away. Diosa watched until it blended in with the dark sea and sky. Then, she lowered one of the motors into the water and started it. A glance at her PID showed her location in relationship to The Empress Dream. Warlock brought her two rubber boats around and headed off on an intercept course with the massive superyacht.

  ***

  At an estimated point along the track of Mareika’s yacht, Warlock shut down the motor. Then, she untied the two rubber boats and hand guided the other to the back of her boat. When the motors were side by side, she lashed the boats together and let them drift a half meter apart. From bows forward, the inflatables now faced in opposite directions.

  Commonly used in space, catch lines provided a margin of error for drifting space Marines. Unable to steer, they learned to shove off on a plane and as long as their flight tracked anywhere along the line, they could safely grab on and halt their hop. It was Walden’s idea to use the system to hitch a ride with the fast-moving yacht.

  A tripod was unfolded in the bottom of the boat and secured to the sides. Then a line got threaded through an eyelet on a rod and the rod telescoped up two meters. Warlock grabbed the clasp on the end of the line and leaped to the other inflatable dragging the rope across. On the second boat she extended another tripod and repeated the threading and telescoping. Finally, she hooked the ropes from both boats together. When done, a line stretched between the eyelets. From the two-meter height, the ropes dropped to long lengths coiled in the bow of each boat.

  Unlike space where motionless items simply floated, breezes and ocean swells changed the angle of the two inflatables. Diosa stood holding onto the rod for support and searching the dark horizon. The catch line was spooled and ready. All that was required was to unreel the rope. But first, Diosa needed a visual on the yacht.

  ***

  The initial sighting consisted of a small flash of light in the distance. Poet had warned that her low stance above the water would give her a false sense of distance. Bridge lights five decks high would appear far away. In reality, the yacht was just over the horizon and only four point seven kilometers away. At forty knots, it would reach Warlock in as little as three point six minutes. She started the motor, locked it at half speed, and jumped to the other boat.

  With both motors running, Warlock unlashed the boats. They chugged away from each other feeding out the line.

  “Baby needs attention,” she said after tapping her earbud.

  “Attention is on the way,” Poet replied.

  Light from the bridge grew into
a wide bar rising into the night sky. Above the command deck of the superyacht, sonar, radar, scanners, and various communication gear kept surveillance below, around, and above The Princess Dream. But all the sensors filtered to a single crewmember on mid-watch. Before the radar pinged the two small boats in the path of the vessel, the control monitors lit up. An unidentified airship was approaching from the stern drawing the watch’s attention. ‘Baby’ was distracted as the yacht close with the catchline.

  Diosa stood on the motor board leaning over using one leg of the tripod for support. The bridge lights rose higher and came closer until she could make out features behind the glass. Then her view was blocked by the towering hull. Behind her, the rope didn’t impede the progress of the massive bow. All of the movement from the bending line was transferred to the two small rubber boats.

  One second Diosa was standing on the top of the inflatable and the next, she was horizontal. Quick steps placed her feet on the side of the tilted motor. The blades came out of the water and, free of resistance, spun loudly. But the noise faded, replaced by the rushing of air and the sounds of the upended rubber boat skimming across the swells. Warlock reached to her hip, wrapped her fingers around a handle, and drew a device the size of a dinner plate.

  The tripod acted as a tow bar pulling the boat in towards the ship. But the rope slid down and traveled under the yacht. From the narrow bow, the underside of The Princess Dream broadened dragging the rope down and the inflatable closer to the dark hull.

  So far, the movement, although bumpy, was manageable. If the trip to the yacht had stayed as rhythmic, Warlock wouldn’t have needed her Striker skills. But the real challenge came at her in two forms. And both happened at nearly the same time.

  The side of the rubber boat skipped from a swell and into churning water. As the inflatable met the edge of the ship’s bow wave, the top of the tripod dipped below the water. Pulled down by the rope, the boat capsized completely. Foot speed and confidence from Striker training allowed Warlock to run up the rolling side, go airborne for a split second before landing on the bottom of the inflatable. But the bottom wasn’t firm. Pounding from below by the ship’s wake cracked and disintegrated the frame of the rubber boat.