Wings of Steele 3: Revenge and Retribution

by Jeffrey Burger

  There was a dog barking somewhere but there was no time to consider the direction or the cause.

  As they crossed the patio, lights flickered on from the house to the seawall, lighting their way, the glow splashing across the dock and boat. “I guess these people don't believe in flashlights,” panted Karen, struggling to keep up with Chase and Allie.

  “None of these lights came on last night...” he replied. Leading the way, Allie cut the angle from the patio and slid on the dew covered dock, bouncing against the hull of the boat with a thud, scrambling to keep her footing. “Hup, Allie,” commanded Chase as he slid to a stop at the first mooring line. “Get in, get in...” he pointed to Karen, “I've got the lines.”

  Karen moved past him, her running shoes squeaking on the wet surface, Allie jumping over the gunnel of the boat into the cockpit. Unable to climb over with her burden, Karen wrestled her pack off and dropped it into the boat before climbing over. Chase had the bow line free of the dock cleat and flung the loose end up on the bow as he pushed the boat away, hustling as best he could to the stern on the slippery dock.

  “Lights!” shouted Karen in a hushed tone. “In the house next door! Hurry!”

  The stern line free, he swung one leg over the side of the boat and pushed off on the dock with his other foot, the boat sliding silently away from the dock into the darkness. He shrugged off his pack and let it drop to the cockpit floor, digging between the seat cushions. The keys were gone.

  “Lights are coming on in this house...” pointed Karen, whispering, “what do we do?”

  A bolt of adrenalin shot up his back. “Sit! Sit!” he urged, looking around. He needed room, he'd never hot wired a boat before, but necessity was the mother of improvisation. He grabbed a mini flashlight out of his backpack and snapped a red lens over the front, “Keep an eye on the house...” he whispered.

  Flashlight in mouth, Chase searched the seats and chart pockets again by a gentle red glow. Nothing. Son of a bitch. He dropped to his knees to feel under the dash for the back of the ignition switch, the tangle of wires running to a multitude of switches and instruments. It was in that position when the red wash of the flashlight reflected off the key fob dangling from the key plugged into the ignition. There was a wave of heat over his ears followed by an immediate cooling breeze when he realized, once again, his guardian angel had been watching out for him. He reached up and flipped on the bilge blowers, letting them run for a full minute before turning the key with his fingers crossed. The engine started up cleanly with a low burble, the exhaust bubbling up around the outdrive.

  “The lights went out but there's a dog running around out there now,” whispered Karen, peeking over the top of the gunnel from her seat on the floor.

  “Doesn't matter,” replied Chase, dropping the engine into reverse. He backed the boat away from the neighbor's dock and seawall where it had drifted. “Because we're off like a bad prom dress...” As the boat fell back into the darkness, he slid the boat into gear and spun the wheel, the boat sliding quietly around, idling away from the back of the island. The world around him nothing but ink and shadow, he flipped on the radar and adjusted the screen, pointing the boat toward the channel markers that would take them around the north side of the island and out into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Karen sat down next to Chase at the helm, “Where to?”

  ■ ■ ■

  Detective Buck Harper knocked on the open doorway to the Sheriff's office, “Boss, you got a minute?”

  Sheriff Frank Naywood looked up from a stack of paperwork, “C'mon in Buck, I could use a break.” He flexed his wrist and fingers, “Getting writer's cramp for God's sake.”

  Buck walked in and sat down, a manilla folder in his hands.

  “Did you get some sleep?” asked Naywood.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Watch'a got there?” asked the Sheriff pointing at Buck's paperwork.

  “Well, you said to bring you anything that seemed out of sorts... anything that might relate to this whole thing in Bimini Basin...”

  “Yeah...” Naywood extended his hand, waiting for the folder.

  Buck handed it to him, continuing, “A boat was stolen from North Captiva sometime last night. The owners didn't notice till about 10am this morning. One of our marine units went out to take a report, we just got it back...”

  The Sheriff glanced at his watch, “It's damn near six-o'clock... no wonder I'm hungry.”

  Buck shrugged, “I don't ever remember a boat theft out there, do you? I thought it might be our boy...”

  The Sheriff shook his head, “I can't think of one. Well if it is our guy, he's got a ten or twelve hour lead on us... Did anyone see or hear anything?”

  “Security lights and dogs barking at about five-thirty this morning. That's about it. If it is our boy, where d'you suppose he'd go?”

  Naywood leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead, his eyes closed. “I don't know Buck. Conservatively at thirty miles an hour, if he went south, he could be in Key West or Cuba by now.” He sat back forward staring at the report, trying to read between the lines, knowing the answer wouldn't be there. “No extradition with them either...” he mumbled. “If they went north, they could be beyond Crystal River. It all depends on the water conditions and his fuel consumption. File the report,” he shrugged.

  “Standard procedure, then.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You don't think he would've cut across Okeechobee to the other coast, do you?”

  Frank Naywood pursed his lips then shook his head, “Too slow. I'm guessing he went for speed and distance. Open water. I know I would...”

  Buck's eyes narrowed, suddenly understanding the Sheriff''s intentions, “You're letting him go...”

  Naywood didn't acknowledge or deny the detective's assertion, and his expression remained poker-like, “Thanks for bringing that report to my attention, Buck...”

  ■ ■ ■

  The River Inn & Marina was about four miles up the narrow, winding, Steinhatchee River from Deadman Bay inlet, and it was as far as Chase wanted to go by boat. He wasn't familiar with the panhandle and beyond where they were, marinas or safe harbors were a lot more scarce. Exhausted, he was glad to have made it before light failed and darkness fell. Even with the radar and GPS, the river would have made for tough navigation, lined with sandy shoals, docks, homes and scattered businesses. The boat securely moored at the dock, the marina quiet, music drifted from the restaurant and tiki bar at the far end of the marina.

  Chase hefted his backpack over the side of the boat and set it on the dock. “Ok, let's get a room...”

  “Why don't we just sleep on the boat?” asked Karen, handing him his laptop bag.

  “Because I'm going to wipe down and dump the boat up river on a dead-end canal I saw on the chart. Hopefully it'll stay hidden for a while.”

  “Seems a shame, it's such a nice boat...”

  “That's not ours,” he reminded her.

  “I know...” she shrugged, hefting her backpack onto the gunnel. She reached over the side to set it on the dock and its weight tipped her over bodily, bending her over the side of the boat, her feet coming off the cockpit floor. Chase caught her by the shoulders, her feet in the air, her head near his beltline.

  “This is interesting...” he chuckled, grabbing her by her belt. Lifting her off the boat he set her on the dock across the bags like another piece of luggage.

  “Well that was ladylike,” she said, rising to her feet. She looked sheepishly around for a non-existent audience.

  Chase pointed at Allie, still on the boat, “You stay. I'll be right back.” She plopped her butt down, her head tilted to one side.

  ■ ■ ■

  In her underwear and a t-shirt, with the television on low, Karen jumped up when the knock came on the room's door, Allie vaulting off the bed to accompany her. “Who is it..?”

  “It's me,” came a whisper, “let me in...”

  “You have been gone t
wo hours I was getting worri...” Karen opened the door and recoiled, Chase standing there, soaked to the skin, his hair matted to his head, “Ew! What is that smell?”

  “And hello to you,” he replied, entering the room, his muddy running shoes in his hand. He headed straight for the shower. “The river water's brackish and the mud in the mangroves is really nasty...”

  “That's an understatement, “ she attempted to wave the smell away. “ Why were you in the water?”

  “That dead end tributary is on the other side of the river. I took it to the end and ran her bow into the mud, tied her to the closest tree. Then I had to slog through the mud and swim back across the river...” He stepped into the shower, clothes on, shedding them in the safety of the tub. “There's nothing over there and the overhang is pretty dense... she'll be hard to find.”

  She stood in the bathroom doorway watching him shower. “I really don't think those are going to come clean. And I think your shoes are ruined.”

  “I passed the Inn's laundromat coming back, we'll have to give it a try.”

  She stripped her clothes, depositing them on the bathroom counter before climbing into the shower behind him. “Pass the soap, big boy...” She rubbed her naked body against his back.

  He handed the soap back toward her, “I thought you'd already showered...”

  “I did...” she purred, running her fingers across the muscles of his back.

  ■ ■ ■

  Chase leaned back on the bed with his laptop on his legs. “Let's see if we can find a wireless signal...” he yawned.

  Karen curled up next to him on the bed, “Where do we go from here?”

  “We'll get some sleep, chill tomorrow and see if we can find a car tomorrow night...” Chase typed as he spoke. “Nice. Got a signal...”

  “Find or steal?”

  “I prefer to think of it as borrow...”

  “You're just a one man crime spree aren't ya?”

  “I remind you it is one man, one woman...”

  “Yeah, thanks for that by the way...” she smacked his arm, “Until I met you I was a good girl who never got in trouble...”

  He smirked crookedly, never taking his eyes off the screen, “So you're forgetting that little drunken fiasco at the prom?”

  “I never said I was innocent, I just said I never got in trouble.” She shrugged, “We never got caught...”

  “Oooh,” he laughed, “huge difference between good girl and never got caught.”

  “You're an ass,” she laughed. It was something she hadn't done freely since Pam's death. It felt good to forget for a little while. Chase sat up quickly, typing, the keys clattering under his fingers. Karen leaned in, “What's going on?”

  “Murphy's alive. Holy shit he's alive!” Chase pointed at the nickname on screen, “That's him right there...”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don't know yet, hold on...”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  UFW CONQUEST, OSSOMON SYSTEM : MOVE ALONG, NOTHING TO SEE HERE

  Lieutenant Commander Mike Warren settled into the deep leather seat of the Cyclone sitting in the launch rack, accepting his helmet from the rigger standing on the boarding ladder. The rigger assisted Mike with his flight harness, umbilical cord connections and safety checks. As his final task, he pulled the safety pin on the ejection seat and showed it to the pilot, getting a nod before dropping it into a gear pouch around his waist. He'd be reinserting it when the craft returned from its patrol.

  Giving the rigger a thumbs up, Mike watched him disappear as he slid down the ladder to the deck. Pulling the lever that retracted the ladder into the Cyclone's fuselage, the light winked out on the console telling him it was complete. Master power, air system, communications, fuel delivery system, electronics... he progressed through his standard pre-launch checklist.

  “Conquest Control to Black Leader...”

  The Commander keyed his mic, “Black Leader, go ahead.”

  “Two minutes to launch.”

  Mike checked left and right exchanging a thumbs up with the other members of his flight as he pulled the canopy handle, the frame and perspex motoring forward on its track. “Good to go Control, we're saddled up and ready to ride...” Mike listened to the comm traffic as the flight tower checked in with White Flight, launching out from the other side of the Conquest's hull. Two flights of six to launch the moment they cleared the gate into Ossomon. As a precaution, two more flights of six were manned and ready to launch and probably another twelve were suited up on standby.

  The Novellis System was such a major snoozefest, Mike wondered what they'd find in Ossomon. He knew the official story; that there had been considerable Pirate activity here but this felt like they were prepping for more than just a little resistance. In retrospect, that was OK with him, he hadn't pulled the trigger on anything since Velora Prime and he was jonesing for a serious hit of adrenalin. It wasn't that he wanted or longed to kill someone, it was more of a competition, a jousting match of sorts. It was only personal to the point of his machine against his opponent's, his nerves and talent in contrast to theirs. A challenge. It was irrelevant whether the enemy ship was destroyed or simply disabled... it was the winning that counted. A few drinks with Commander Dar Sloane and Mike was convinced he'd probably enjoy the thrill of canyon racing in Drifters.

  He relaxed, leaning back against the headrest, staring straight ahead. The interlocking steel door in front of him was suddenly partially obscured by the translucent blue stasis field winking to life. Looking like an intense blue version of a television between stations, the electronic curtain moved and swirled and he pulled his helmet's sun visor down to preserve his night vision.

  “This is Conquest Control; Black and White flights launching in; 5, 4, 3, 2…”

  ■ ■ ■

  Captain Paul Smiley hovered over the situation table in the control tower, watching the movement, the positioning and make-ready of everything on the deck below them, the Conquest's experienced Mini-Boss watching the launch racks from his position at the tower's observation windows, “...3, 2, 1, Launch!” The tower's windows bowed as alarm klaxons screamed, red lights flashing throughout the flight deck, crates flying across the bay. “Blowout! We have a blowout!”

  In the second or two it took Pappy to cross the gap between the table and the glass, the door on the rack where Black Three had launched was already closed, piled with debris the open maw had tried to suck out into space. “Cut the alarm. Did we lose anybody?”

  “Not sure yet, Boss,” replied his second in command. “We need to get a count. I'm working on it now.”

  “Any problems with the launch? Everybody out in one piece?”

  “Black Flight is clear and operational,” reported the crewman at the sensor station.

  Jack Steele trotted down the steps from the main bridge, “What the hell's going on, Pappy?”

  “Blowout, Admiral.”

  “Everybody OK?”

  Pappy glanced at the Mini Boss and got a non-confirmation signal as he spoke on the comm to the deck crew. “We're still working on that, Jack.”

  Steele clenched his jaw, “Hmm. Was it one of the new units?”

  “No, we haven't gotten to all of them yet...”

  “Can we close off the ones that haven't been converted yet?”

  Paul Smiley sucked air though his teeth in a sign of apprehension, “Man, Jack,” he said quietly, “that would seriously hamper our launch abilities. We've only got about fifty percent of them installed.”

  “We need to step it up Paul...”

  “I realize that Jack, but we can't sacrifice the launch readiness of this ship. We're a carrier; we live and die on our ability to field and recover fighters. Without them, were a big fat pigeon...”

  “I get that, but...”

  “No buts Jack, you know as well as I do, battleship escort or not, we'd be somebody's lunch. Look what you did to that Pirate carrier...” He waved, anticipating Steele's rebuttal, “Look, let me
speak with the Captain Ryan, see if we can add some more men to the work crews. Maybe we can speed up the process.”

  “Please do,” nodded Jack.

  Paul pulled Jack to one side, “We still don't have enough of the field emitter sets though, do we?”

  “We're golden,” replied Steele. “The Chief was able to remove the modules. They're clean and ready to go... so we'll actually have some spares.”

  “Outstanding...” nodded Paul.

  ■ ■ ■

  Admiral Steele and the Captain Ryan stood nearly shoulder to shoulder in the center of the Conquest's bridge, looking at the expanse of Ossomon, Black Flight and White Flight patrolling ahead, noted by markers on the big screen.

  “Welcome to Ossomon, Admiral,” commented Ryan. “Over there” he pointed to a blue and green planet on the right, “is Rega, capital of the system. She's a pretty large Class 014. Over on our left we have Ozira, a Class 09, not terribly habitable - fairly desolate really. Mostly desert. But there are several mining colonies there. There are also two stations in the system,” he pointed at the markers on the screen, “one owned by Rega as a trade hub and another that is owned by a private franchise.”

  “Busy system...”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed the Captain, “it certainly is. And on a regular basis, we have to visit and chase out some undesirables.”

  “Pirates?”

  Ryan pursed his lips for a moment, “Sometimes a little of everything. Minor skirmishes mostly. Peacekeeping.”

  “Does Rega have a military? Can't they handle it?”

  “To some extent, yes. But in many respects they are like Veloria, a little light on population and technology. They are making strides in the right direction though. As a steady provider of agricultural goods, they have expanded their wealth and upgraded much of their equipment and technology. We just need to lend them a hand from time to time to make sure their growth remains unfettered.” He glanced at Steele momentarily, “Something that should have been done with Veloria.” He shook his head briefly, thinking about recent history. “It pains me greatly that Velora Prime was... overlooked. That we were not there when they needed us...”