Wings of Steele 3: Revenge and Retribution

by Jeffrey Burger

  “Something like that.”

  “Uh-huh,” grunted Chase, folding his arms across his chest. “Because that's just so believable...”

  “We're looking for Deputy Dan Murphy... he seems to be missing.”

  “Really. Well I wouldn't know anything about that. Haven't seen him in a couple months,” said Chase defiantly.

  “You see Mr. Holt, you seem to be the nucleus where a lot of information comes together. All the people we're interested in finding have one thing in common...”

  “Do tell...”

  “Yes, they all know you...”

  Chase licked his swollen lip. “So I know a lot of people, so what? When did that become a crime?”

  “When those people are all a risk to national security... Like Dan Murphy and Jack Steele...”

  “How about I call my lawyer and you can discuss your thoughts with him.”

  Laughter rang through the speaker, sounding tinny and hollow. “Lawyer? Funny man. You think you're under arrest? You're not under arrest, you're being detained as a terrorist risk. The Patriot Act says we don't have to let you go... Ever.”

  ■ ■ ■

  It was almost 9pm when the veterinarian came out into the waiting room where Karen and Pam were sitting nervously. “Allie will be just fine. She got hit in the right thigh but it passed right through the muscle tissue. Probably a 9mm. You said the police shot her?”

  “FBI,” volunteered Karen. “They did a raid on a neighbor's house and they tried to kill the dog...”

  “Good Lord, what kind of neighborhood do you live in?”

  “Bimini Basin...”

  “That's a nice neighborhood,” confirmed the vet.

  “And our neighbor is a decorated Army vet back from Afghanistan. I've known him since high school, he's one of the best people I know...”

  The veterinarian shook his head, “What's this country coming to...” It was more a statement of dismay than a real question.

  “Can we take her home?”

  “Sure,” nodded the vet. “We'll help you get her into your car. Keep her quiet and don't let her fuss with the bandages. I'm going to give you some sedatives and medication, just follow the directions on the bottles...”

  ■ ■ ■

  They weren't short of time but NSA Special Agent Doug Mooreland was getting tired of the game with Chase Holt. “Pete... Pete, “ he hissed, “wake the fuck up.”

  Agent Pete Whitman had been reclining on the chair with his feet up. He lifted his head, “Sorry Doug, the pain meds are making me drowsy...” he mumbled, sounding like he had the worst sinus cold in history.

  “That's twice in less than a year Pete...” said Mooreland sarcastically, “you really ought to learn how to duck.”

  “Bite me, Doug. He smashed my face with his freaking head.” He glanced at the video screen, “Where are we? Any progress?”

  “No. These guys that come out of combat are less susceptible to tampering with their daily light cycles. They get conditioned to sleeping anywhere, light or dark, on almost any surface. We'd need more time. Way more than I want to spend. If I wanted to blow a couple of weeks we might be able to do it with sleep deprivation...”

  “What about sodium pentobarbital?”

  Doug Mooreland dismissed the thought with a wave, “You know we can't do that without medical supervision...”

  “Well, we're not exactly running by the book as it is...”

  “No,” said Doug flatly, “I've never administered. I don't want to run the risk of killing him, we need him. If we change his life circumstances and nudge him in the right direction, we just might get him to do what we need to locate the others.”

  “What about boarding him... that usually works pretty fast...”

  “No...”

  “Why not?” waved Whitman. “We could save ourselves a lot of time...”

  “Because I'm just not comfortable waterboarding one of our vets... there's something inherently wrong with it...”

  “Wow. When did Doug Mooreland suddenly get a conscience?” asked Pete sardonically.

  “Don't push it Pete, or I'll add something to that broken nose.” He lit a cigarette. “Besides, if we drive him hard he may lead us in the right direction. I'm more inclined to let him go and track him, see who he turns to.”

  “Well, Wilson said whatever it is, we should to do it soon. The Sheriff stirred the pot over at the Tampa field office and got the Feds all up in arms.”

  Doug nodded, “We knew that was gonna' happen sooner or later.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Consciousness came and went, a cool, steady drizzle falling gently. It was real and it was dreamlike, the only sound the hushed movement of the air and falling rain. Chase's mind struggled to make sense of the mixed realities, wading through the muddy quagmire of an abstract dreamworld. The salt spray from the Jet Ski racing silently across the water soaked his face and body. The water, emerald green like meadow grass, swayed with the breeze like waves of the ocean. The shuffling steps of the cattle through the shimmering, swaying green surf made perfect sense. A ripple of lightning and a low faraway rumble flickered across his eyes, his mind fighting to connect what he was seeing to what his mind was thinking. The two halves refused to mesh into a cohesive interpretation. Was he still dreaming or were his eyes really open?

  With a curious snort and a halfhearted moo, the bovine reached down to get a closer look at the man laying in the grass. Munching a mouth full of sweet meadow grass, she stared at him, nearly nose-to-nose, studying him. When he finally stirred, she jumped back, bleating a warning, retreating a few yards with the others. The herd continued to graze, casually monitoring the prostrate man, occasionally raising their heads and pausing their graze, if only for a moment.

  Consciousness came rushing forward to Chase, accompanied by a wave of nausea. He rolled to his stomach and raised himself onto all fours, heaving up what little was left in his stomach. Not much. And then again. “Fuck,” he groaned. He had a splitting headache to boot and dry-heaving on all fours wasn't helping. The tiny red cylinder sticking out of the puddle caught his blurry vision and he moved it with his finger. “Son of a bitch...” he hissed “they tried to chip me...” He wiped the RFID, Radio Frequency Identification, capsule on his soggy cargo shorts, examining it to get a better look, a fine hair-like antenna hanging from one end. “Hmm” he snorted, stuffing it into his pocket. “Bastards.”

  He plopped himself into a sitting position and looked around, the herd scrutinizing their visitor. “Don't mind me ladies...” he waved, somewhat drunkenly. His mouth felt like it was pasted together. He needed something in his stomach. Something that would calm his nausea and possibly counteract whatever the hell those assholes put in his food to knock him out. There wasn't a house or building in sight, just rolling fields and trees as far as he could see. Chase eyed the full udders on the cows. “Hmm, warm milk...”

  ■ ■ ■

  A transplanted Wisconsin farm boy, patience and persistence paid off for Chase, the Guernsey allowing him to milk her right into his mouth. As empty as his stomach was, he was careful not to drink his fill, fearing another bout of nausea. He'd forgotten how delicious raw milk was... there was nothing in a store that could compare. If people knew the difference they'd probably never want to drink processed milk ever again.

  “Thank you mama,” he said, stroking her muzzle, finally able to manage being upright. Taking stock of his surroundings, he gave her a final pat and chose a direction, padding barefoot across the meadow... being careful to avoid the cow pies.

  Chase still had his wallet, but it was completely empty. No money, no credit cards, no ID, not even a scrap of paper. It was a cruel joke, but of course he expected nothing less. They had even taken his watch and cell phone. He had absolutely nothing of value and could never recall ever being so destitute.

  ■ ■ ■

  It was a good thing Chase was a person who barefooted on a regular basis - Florida was a place you actually could
do that... because this excursion was not for a tenderfoot. But even then, there were limitations. “Crap,” he mumbled, climbing gingerly over the barbed wire fence, staring at the gravel road. “I hate gravel.” He looked up and down the empty road, the overcast sky giving no directional assistance whatsoever. He looked up at the sky and the drizzle drifting down. “A little help? Anything? No? OK I got the milk, thank you for that... but I could use a little more guidance...” Then it dawned on him. Farmers and ranchers build their spreads on high ground. “Oh, thanks!” He turned right and headed uphill, walking carefully in the grass and scrub alongside the road.

  Fifteen minutes of walking along the deserted road, a vintage pickup truck approached from behind him going in the same direction, a middle-aged woman alone behind the wheel. She slowed at first but sped away after getting a good look at him. He didn't blame her really; filthy, soaked to the bone, with two black eyes and a fat lip, he could probably take the ugly prize at the county fair.

  A short time later the same pickup approached from up the hill, slowing as it neared, its tires crunching on the gravel as it came to a stop, a man behind the wheel, the same woman as before sitting in the passenger seat. “Say mister, are you lost?” asked the man, rolling down the window.

  “Completely,” admitted Chase.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get back to Cape Coral...”

  “Cape Coral... Florida?” The two people said in unison.

  “Yes. Why, where am I?”

  “Mister, you're in Georgia...”

  ■ ■ ■

  The FBI had sent agents from both the Tampa and Miami field offices to meet with Sheriff Naywood. The FBI's stated task was to assist the Sheriff's Office with any resources necessary to aid in their investigation. Their official task was to catch the impersonators. The FBI was none too happy with the raid conducted under their banner, and they were more than just a little peeved at whomever was impersonating their field operators. If they found Chase Holt in the process, well, that would be a bonus.

  Naywood stood at the end of the table in the conference room filled with FBI agents and investigators from his own office. “Tell me about this operation you fellas botched in my county...”

  The agents shared glances. “Sheriff, I can assure you the FBI had nothing to do with this raid... In fact, this guy, Chase Holt, wasn't even on our radar for anything.”

  “You wouldn't bullshit a bullshitter, would you boy...?” To those who didn't know him, the Sheriff might come off as a yokel, and at times that worked to his advantage, having a seasoned background and five years in the bureau himself. He didn't find the work to his liking and went back to the police work he loved, moving up through the ranks to become the elected Sheriff. He didn't dislike the Feds so much as he didn't trust them. While local law enforcement simply did its best to enforce the laws and keep the peace, the government agencies never seemed to do anything that didn't benefit their agenda somehow. Whatever the agenda du jour happened to be. “Look, ever since that guy disappeared...” he looked over at his detectives, “what was his name..? Lived on the beach..?”

  “Steele?” volunteered one of the FBI agents, jumping in.

  “Ever since then,” continued the Sheriff, “you government types have been stirring up all sorts of trouble around here... and making a mess of it. Like when that thing...”

  “UFO,” volunteered one of the detectives.

  Naywood shot the detective a shut the hell up look. “Like when that thing landed out on Ft. Myers Beach. You started a war on my beach. I won't stand for that kind of...”

  “To be fair, Sheriff,” interrupted one of the agents, holding up his hand, “that was the NSA... And maybe a little CIA. We weren't involved in any way in that...”

  “Well you damn sure had to know what was going on.”

  “No sir. Our two agencies don't communicate too often on things like that...”

  Sheriff Naywood folded his arms. “Well that right there sounds like a problem to me... Doesn't it sound like a problem to you? Because Steele disappeared and nobody has been able to find him since. Then his sister disappears during a war on the beach with... well, who knows what...” he waved his arms. “A local news personality was murdered after airing a news special I'm sure you've seen, and her husband, one of my Deputies, took a leave of absence and has since disappeared. Now Mr. Holt, who was friends with both Steele and my Deputy, is abducted in broad daylight by a raid you say wasn't one of yours...” He folded his arms again. “And nobody seems to know a damn thing about anything.”

  “Mistakes happen, Sheriff. The FBI doesn't like it, but like everybody else, we're juggling cases and budgets. Things fall through the cracks. It doesn't help when secretive agencies like the CIA and the NSA who think they're above the need for communication with what they perceive as less important agencies, hold back information. That's been a bone of contention for years.”

  “I don't want to hear about bones of contention...” waved Naywood. “Falling through the cracks? I know what a turnip truck is... but it doesn't mean I fell off one.” He stared at the men in the dark gray suits. “How about you stop blowing smoke up my skirt and tell me what you really know about what's going on here?”

  “The Steele case is an open investigation of national security. The topic is not open for discussion...”

  “Bullshit!” snapped the Sheriff. “You opened it for discussion when you spilled it all over my goddamn county...”

  “We've already told you this wasn't us...”

  “There's so many loose ends and unanswered questions... it's got Fed fingerprints all over it.” Naywood was watching their posture and each of the FBI agents sat openly and casually.

  “My assessment, Sheriff, is that this was an NSA move. Now, you could place an official inquiry with them but I don't think you'll even get so much as an email.”

  “What do you recommend then?”

  “I'm going to put you in touch with an agent who is familiar with the original case... he'll only speak with you off the record, but maybe it will be of some help to you. His name is Phil Cooper. Officially, I will have no involvement in that introduction...”

  The Sheriff nodded, “I appreciate the effort.”

  “In the meantime we will circulate the information about Holt and your missing deputy, maybe we can generate some movement...”

  “I noticed you didn't mention locating Steele who seems to be the crux of this whole thing...”

  “At this juncture,” began one of the agents, “Steele is out of the picture, he's out of reach...”

  Nawood saw an opening. “So he's someplace without an extradition treaty... you can't touch him?”

  “I cannot tell you anything more.”

  “He's dead...” guessed the Sheriff.

  “Not to our knowledge...”

  He's already being held somewhere...”

  The lead agent stood up abruptly, smoothing his suit jacket, followed by the other agents. “We're done, this conversation is over. We'll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  UFW CONQUEST, GEDHEPP SYSTEM : SMOKE AND ASH

  “Jack, you have an incoming communication.”

  “Thank you, TESS.” Steele opened his eyes and swung his legs off the couch in his darkened quarters, rubbing his face. “Source?” It had been a long day and he'd never made it to bed, falling asleep on the couch still in uniform.

  “Air and Space Port, Veloria.”

  Jack stepped over Fritz's sleeping form to get to the desk in his quarters and ran his fingers over the gently lit glass keyboard, the screen winking on, its blue glow illuminating the room around him. The logo of the Velorian Royal family in the middle of the screen matched the gold Pegasus silhouetted against a red rising sun on his ring. He glanced down at the ring on his finger and back up again. The logo sat on a black shield framed by olive branches, flanked by outstretched gold wings. Alité had taken the image he'd used for the Freedom and ad
opted it for Veloria. He was to say at the very least, floored.

  The screen flickered for a moment as the Queen of Veloria's face appeared. “Hello my husband...”

  “Hello gorgeous.”

  “Do you like my little surprise?”

  “Which one?” he teased. “The fact that your communications are up, or the new logo?”

  “The logo, of course...”

  “It's beautiful. I'm stunned... but why?”

  “I wanted to show the people that the old royal family was gone. This is about rebirth and a new beginning. A new image seemed to be a good way to convey that. I wanted something that would be totally different, something they had never seen before. Something they could not associate with anything past or present. Your winged horse and your flight wings seemed to fit together nicely.”

  “It looks spectacular, sweetie. I hope it works for your...” he stumbled, “our people,” he corrected himself. “So how did you get communications up?”

  “The UFW Directorate was kind enough to send a comm satellite on one of their transports. Before coming down to land at the ASP, they set it up in synchronous orbit with the base so we have constant signal. How's your reception?”

  “Looks pretty good to me.”

  The small screen on Jack's eGo-h lit up, “Jack, we are entering the Gedhepp System in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, TESS,” he replied.

  “Who was that?” asked Alité.

  He held up his arm so Alité could see the eGo-h on his wrist. “TESS, large screen...” The holographic screen lit up, hovering above his wrist, her animated face smiling at Alité. “TESS, this is Alité Steele, my wife. Sweetie, this is TESS.”

  “Hello Alité.”

  Alité raised one eyebrow, “Hello, TESS,” she said slowly. She shifted her eyes to her husband. “What is she... it, whatever...”

  “Sort of an electronic assistant,” he countered. “She's tied into the ship's systems and can feed me live information and communications...”