Wings of Steele 3: Revenge and Retribution

by Jeffrey Burger

  ■ ■ ■

  The landscaped island between the greens, which would unfairly be called the rough, was a welcome sight with its stand of palm trees, Steele's lungs screaming for a rest after their recent scorching. An icy cold drink, a shady cabana, and a beach would be better, but this wasn't a vacation after all...

  He cleared the sculpted hedges and when he landed, his left leg collapsed underneath him, sending him crashing to his hands and knees in a roll. The searing hot poker of pain in his thigh told him something was more than just a little wrong as he rolled on his back, pulling the hybrid 1911 from its shoulder holster. He didn't want to look but hazarded a glance while scrambling awkwardly behind the closest palm tree, a massive Canary Island Date Palm. It wasn't the best cover, palm trees being rather soft and porous, but it was the best he had available. The exit hole in his thigh was about the size of his thumb. He was right, looking made it worse. He shouldn't have looked.

  “Son of a bitch,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “These assholes are really starting to get on my last nerve...”

  “Jack! Jack... where are you?”

  “Under the trees. I'm hit, I can't run any farther.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough, I don't have anything to stop the bleeding...”

  “I'll land, there's a med kit in the Reaper...”

  “NO! Stay up there... no sense in both of us getting nabbed. We're not handing them that bird.”

  “Your twelve o'clock, Jack!”

  On one elbow, Steele rolled from concealment, his artificial eye zooming in, his gun coming up and the sights lining up instantly, squeezing off one round, the agent running at him with the submachine gun dropping backwards off his feet, a spray of blood exploding through his back, his tactical armor useless. A glance to his right and he could see the black helicopter past the Reaper, a team fast-roping down at the far end of the golf course. “Chopper on your right!”

  “I see it.”

  Steele saw the glint of sunlight on the gold canopy before he heard them, a pair of F-22 Raptors coming down, head on with Lisa's Reaper. Then he noticed the two higher up. “Lisa! You're being set up! Get out of here!”

  “I see them, I'm not blind...”

  “Lisa they're going to pass you, the two above will drop on you from behind... Get out of here!”

  “On the left!” she shouted.

  Steele saw the nose of the Reaper swing, the turret rotating, the Cryo Gauss Guns thundering a short burst, the rounds passing over him, a vacuum of air imploding, the palm trees swaying. By the time he rolled to look to his left, a flaming black SUV sailed into the air in mangled chunks, vehicle-sized craters disfiguring the once-manicured green. He covered his head, a rain of dirt, sand and grass falling around him, the second SUV nose-dived into a hole, crushing it's front end less than a hundred feet away.

  The two low F-22s swept in low, a high pitched scream turning into rolling thunder as they passed overhead, their gold canopies gleaming in the sunlight. They began an upward sweep. Steele figured they didn't fire because of the neighborhood beyond the golf course. The flights would switch places; the high flight would come down and do the first pass the low flight go high and turn back for their run. In that direction collateral damage would be the bridge or the river. He searched the sky over his shoulder, he couldn't see the other two, but the color of his vision was fading, “You're a sitting duck, Lisa... get moving...” he said drowsily.

  ■ ■ ■

  Lisa was watching her scope as well as everything surrounding her, the multitude of vehicles, lights, people, her brother... She eyed the threat indicator, the chirping becoming more insistent as the top flight of F-22s descended on her position. She didn't want to have to shoot them down, but she would if they forced her to. Completely out of visual sight, the gun pipper was already locked onto the first jet, another marker locked onto his wingman. She could kill them with her guns at this distance easily. The other two were notations on the screen, still facing away from her. When they turned in her direction the computer would lock them in too.

  She could see the reflection of their cockpits as they dove in, the target marker displaying their speed at 1200 miles per hour. She was going to have to time this just right... Cranking the anti-gravity actuator on the throttle while pulling the handle into the negative, catapulted the Raptor upward and back, leaving only empty space for the F-22's twenty millimeter cannon shells. It suddenly disappeared from view altogether, dissolving as Lisa activated the ARC system.

  ■ ■ ■

  Major Less McArthur, 43rd Fighter Squadron, 325th Fighter Wing out of Tyndall Air Force Base, got the order; “Shoot it down.”

  The Major looked out over his wing, his wingman falling back for their gun pass. He keyed his mic. “Yellow Jackets, we're cleared for guns only. Guns only. How do you copy?” Each member of the flight acknowledged. He flexed his gloved fingers around the flight stick, “Lead, is beginning the first run...”

  “Copy Lead, second element in position for cleanup...”

  The Major lined up on the flat black craft, hanging motionless, the targeting pipper pickling the target with an indicator and lock tone, a targeting solution showing him where to shoot. The air around his Raptor compressed, a sonic boom trailing behind him and his wingman as they punched through Mach 1, approaching Mach 2. He released the safety with his thumb and squeezed the trigger, “Guns guns guns...” the 20 millimeter Gatling on the right side of his plane mounted in the wing root spun up, producing a quick bbbrrraaattt sound as the rounds lanced downward. The target shot straight upward prompting him to quickly release the trigger, the short burst drawing a dirty line on the green velvet of the golf course below. His eyes followed the ship upward as it disappeared before his very eyes, dissolving in thin air. “What the fu...” He pulled back on the stick, leveling off, flashing over the bridge and began to climb, heading back to altitude, grunting through the G forces.

  “Mac, where the hell did it go?”

  Major McArthur craned his neck, looking around, “Damned if I know... What the hell was that thing?” He checked his radar, the screen blank, his electronics showing static. “I just lost avionics...” He looked back, relieved to see his wingman still in formation. “Hello? Yellow Jacket Lead; can anyone hear me?”

  ■ ■ ■

  Covered in sand and bits of grass that was still floating down, Steele rolled over at the sound of footfalls running up behind him, the muzzle of his 1911 leading the way, a figure in black rushing towards him. His eye zoomed in, the sights lining up, his vision blurry, forcing him to squint. The woman in black tactical gear dropped a duffel at her feet, her hands going up.

  “Don't shoot! I'm unarmed...” She nodded towards the bag with the red cross on it, “I'm a medic.”

  He nodded sedately, his gun hand and the 1911 dropping slowly to his stomach as he lay on his back, “Fine...”

  She snatched up the bag and moving swiftly, dropped to her knees at his side, unzipping the bag as she eyed the pool of blood soaking into the grass. “Damn, you've lost a lot of blood...”

  He looked up at her face, as she concentrated on stopping the bleeding. “Looks like you lost some too,” he waved, indicating the laceration across her forehead. “How'd you get that?”

  “We'll share war stories later, we need to get you out of here...” she said looking around, people closing in from across the golf course. “Are you Jack Steele?”

  “That would be me...” he replied slowly, “Admiral Jack Steele, United Federation of Worlds, citizen of these United States of Amer... ”

  “Oh good! You found him...”

  Steele turned his head, focusing on the man walking up behind the woman who was doing her best to keep him from bleeding to death. The man's face was covered in blood and some of his gear was missing, his tactical uniform looking burnt and tattered, his bare right arm blistered and blackened. A handgun hung from his left hand. “Geez,” said Jack slowly, “you sho
uld probably sit down, you don't look so good...”

  Doug Mooreland waved his gun,”Get out of the way Mercy, I'm just going to finish him off. Fuck it. I'm tired of all this. Pete is dead because of him, most of my team is gone, he's ruined my life...”

  “Sit down, Doug,” she said without looking back, “you're in shock...”

  “Nah, I'm fine. C'mon, move Mercy... Move!”

  Hidden by her position over his body, she slid the 1911 out from under Steele's hand, keeping it hidden against her body, “OK fine, Doug. You want to throw it all away? Go ahead, be a dumbass...” As she turned, the muzzle appeared between her arm and body underneath her armpit, clearing as she twisted, squeezing off two rounds producing a three foot flame, the first round low, exploding through his pelvis, his body crumpling, collapsing backward as the second passed through his ballistic vest under the sternum and came out through his shoulder taking the arm with it. He was dead before he hit the grass. She turned back around and looked down at the gun, “What the hell is this thing?”

  “That is a custom made, .45 caliber, charged particle blaster...” Steele annunciated slowly, taking it out of her hand and with some effort, sliding it into its shoulder holster. His head rolled to the other side following the noise, a team of officers running in their direction. “Uh, oh... they don't look too happy. I think somebody's in trouble...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  FLORIDA, FORT MYERS : MERCY ME

  Sheriff Frank Naywood couldn't believe what he was seeing, a war zone over his municipal golf course, pyres of fire and smoke on the bridge and fairway. He had to believe it had something to do with the whole Steele-Holt-Murphy thing. And that pissed him off to no end that it had boomeranged back into his jurisdiction again.

  Standing on the top of his patrol car in the parking lot near the clubhouse at the far end of the course, he stared at the scene through binoculars, having witnessed the run on the black object by the F-22s from Tyndall Air Force Base. The departure of the black object seemed to have an adverse effect on electricity and electronics over a fairly sizable area, the news chopper having to put down on the putting green near the pro shop, narrowly avoiding a crash. He wondered if that's why two of the F-22s departed, leaving the other two patrolling at altitude.

  Radio contact with the SWAT team was spotty at best but he was fairly certain they were going to reach the man on the island between the fairways. He hoped they'd get there safely before that thing returned.

  FBI Agent Phil Cooper climbed up on the trunk of the Sheriff's car, holding his hand out for the binoculars, “May I?”

  Frank handed them over, “Glad you could make it.”

  “What did I miss?”

  “Not sure I could accurately describe it, Mr. Cooper. You may have to watch the news footage. I know I'm going to have to...”

  “There's two people up there now.”

  Naywood nodded, “There were two, then three, now two again. The newest arrival to the meeting got shot... I'm seeing FBI on their gear, are they your people?”

  “Nope. SWAT team is closing in...”

  Frank Naywood stuck his hand out, “Let me see?”

  Phil Cooper handed back the binoculars, “Why didn't your team drive in?”

  Naywood was watching the SWAT team's advance through the binoculars, “Because that thing; whatever it was, doesn't seem to like vehicles very much...”

  What could only be described as an absolutely massive formation of multicolored ball lightning, appeared over the river on the far side of the bridge, almost fluid tendrils of light reaching out and dancing in all directions, skipping across the water, feeling for the edge of the bridge, gingerly touching the tops of the tall palms lined along the river.

  Phil Cooper's mouth dropped open, “Frank... to the right...”

  The Sheriff turned the binoculars on it, “What in God's name...”

  The clear blue sky split with deafening thunder and a ring of lightning, like the hand of God reaching downward, the Earth shaking, a downward blast of hurricane force wind, palm trees instantly shedding palm fronds, a brief rain falling from the clear sky as a result of the severely compressed air, the phenomenon suddenly producing a dark shape casting a massive shadow across the golf course.

  ■ ■ ■

  “GOD jump complete in: three, two, one... and we're clear...”

  Commander Brian Carter had his hands full in the command chair of the Revenge, Maria in the first officer's seat. “Tactical, shield status?”

  “Commander; coming up now... all port, topside, bow and stern zones at one-hundred percent. Starboard and belly zones zero for recovery, that side...”

  Brian nodded, “Helm, maintain anti-grav, no legs, descend to ramp contact height.”

  “Aye sir, descending.”

  “All guns manned and armed?”

  “Aye, sir. Commander, we have air threats inbound.”

  Brian turned to Maria, “Lieutenant?”

  “Aye, Commander.” She keyed her mic, “Revenge to R1, copy?”

  “Reaper One, go ahead.”

  “Fuel and weapons status?”

  “Eighty percent fuel, plenty of ordnance.”

  Maria smiled a knowing little smile, the response from Lisa positive and full of confidence, “You've got no back seater, can you still chase off a few bogies?”

  “Roger, Revenge. Weapons clear?”

  Brian turned to Maria shaking his head, “No. Only if it's absolutely necessary.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The SWAT team blown to the ground, Mercedes Huang threw herself over Steele's body, trying to maintain the elevation of his IV bag, palm fronds dropping across her back, the air filled with static electricity. When the wind subsided she sat back up, the debris falling away, the sky above them obscured by something long and dark, a heavy shadow cast over them. She stared up at it, her mouth hanging open.

  Steele looked up at the belly of the Revenge off to their left, floating motionless a hundred feet off the fairway. “Oh, I think my ride's here...”

  Mercedes continued to stare up in amazement, “This thing is yours?”

  “Uh, huh. But you should see the big one...”

  “Big one..?” she squeaked.

  The ship seemed to simply sink as it dropped closer to the ground, Mercedes aware of a strange electric tingling crawling across her entire body. With a metallic clang and a rolling sound, a large armor panel popped outward on the side of the hull and it slid upwards, almost flush with the hull, revealing a reinforced door behind it, swinging inward with a hydraulic hiss, creating a sizable black opening. The ship halted its descent a few feet from the ground, a ramp extending from the belly...

  ■ ■ ■

  “Reaper, copy.” Hovering on anti-gravity over the golf course at three-hundred feet with her ARC system active, halfway between the Revenge and the clubhouse, Lisa kept everyone below in an electronics blackout. She toggled the system off, activating her shields, startling almost everyone with her sudden appearance. She rotated the anti-gravity actuator, sailing flatly upwards, her engines thumping as she throttled up, shooting off. “TESS?”

  “Yes, Lisa?”

  Lisa grabbed the holographic screen and placed it where she could keep an eye in it. “See if you can locate the radio frequency used by the military jets.”

  “I will only be able to locate it if they are actually transmitting...”

  “Then let's give them something to talk about.” Lisa adjusted her sensors, locking a missile to a Raptor about fifty miles away.

  “Searching for signals,” noted TESS.

  “I'm being painted, I'm being painted..! He's got a lock on me...!”

  “Aggressor at fifty miles and closing...”

  “Tyndall Control to Yellow Jackets, you are clear to engage! Take it out!”

  “Good TESS, that's the one. Can we transmit on that?”

  “Yes Lisa.”

  Lisa punched the throttle a little, pulling it back almos
t in the same motion, her speed exceeding Mach 2, shooting past the two approaching F-22s underneath them, then curling the Reaper into a climb to bleed off the speed, finishing a half loop putting her twenty-thousand feet above them and fifty miles behind them. She canceled her missile lock. “Yellow Jackets, this is the black craft you have engaged, can you hear me?”

  “Unidentified craft, this is Captain Luke Speek, 43rd Fighter Squadron, identify yourself. You are in American airspace, you are ordered to depart our nation's airspace or be shot down.”

  Lisa activated her ARC system and keyed her mic, “Captain, this is Ensign Lisa Steele, United Federation of Worlds, Task Force Lancer. That ship below you is the Revenge and we are here to pick up our man, we will be out of your hair momentarily...” Eight new markers were inbound on Lisa's scope from the panhandle of Florida at Mach 1; she could see them the moment they left the ground.

  “United Federation of... What?”

  ARC system on, nearly invisible, Hecken Noer's special coating confounded radar signals, allowed Lisa to ease in behind the F-22s, flying a close chevron formation, the nose of her Reaper in between their wingtips. “Worlds. United Federation of Worlds. In case you haven't noticed, these ships aren't from around here... And when I say that, I mean planet. This is by your definition, a UFO.” She toggled off the ARC system, the Reaper appearing in between them. “See, can you do this..?”

  “Break! Break! Break!” They rolled outward, splitting, winging over in full afterburner, curling away from the black ship in opposite directions.

  Lisa took the Reaper to Mach 2 to intercept the new threats that were descending on the Revenge, the air thundering behind her. She keyed her mic, “Do not engage us, gentlemen,” she warned sternly, “it will not end well for you...”