“Yes we were. But I don't see how that brings you to pursuing and attacking a ship...”
“To be fair Admiral,” interrupted the Gogol Captain, holding up his hand, “we never fired... In driving off an unwanted visitor from our home, we realized...”
“Home? Did you purchase or lease that facility?”
“No Admiral,” countered Ceravin. “That base has stood empty, unused and unmaintained for over fifty years. According to interstellar law, after that period it is open for claim. We have been in that facility for a little over a universal year. In that period there have been no occupancy or ownership disputes. By law it is legally ours...”
Steele glanced over at the Captain Ryan, getting a curt confirmational nod. “I see. I'm sorry I interrupted, you were saying...”
The Gogol tapped his bottom lip with his index finger in thought, “Oh yes, while we were in pursuit of your frigate, we realized we had a bounty order for one quite similar. According to our data, it is called the Raven... It is reported the Captain was a Commander Carter and the owner of the ship, a man named Jax Mercury...” His eyes narrowed, eying the Admiral, a wicked little smirk creeping across his reptilian features. “The bounty was placed by a business consortium on Rikovik's Reef... You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”
Under the watchful eye of the Gogol Captain, Steele remained stoic. “I'm sorry Ceravin, I'm afraid the UFW would probably be the last to learn of a bounty order. It's not exactly our line of work...”
“Interesting thing, Admiral, the data packet included some images...” he touched his chin in contemplation. “They weren't the best mind you, but you seem bear a considerable resemblance to the man called Jax Mercury...” With a sweep of his hand he waved it off a bit too nonchalantly, “But of course, that would be ridiculous. What would you, an Admiral, be doing in a degenerate dung-heap like Rikovik's Reef... it's absurd.” His eyes shifted slyly.
Dammit, he knows. Steele tried to remain detached, rubbing the top of Fritz's head, who had pushed against his hand for attention. The distraction helped. “You are quite right, Captain... It is absurd. And my advice to you would be; to choose more carefully the contracts you accept. There are a lot of unscrupulous characters out there and my understanding is that Rikovik's Reef is lousy with them. This encounter could have ended very badly for you and your squadron...”
“Wise words, indeed,” agreed the Gogol Captain, nodding. “Bounty hunting is inherently dangerous, and we quite often take the work at face value, having to work with clients of all sorts, good and bad. But we will endeavor to choose more wisely in the future.”
“Might I suggest you dispose of that contract,” pointed Jack. “I seriously doubt that it's wise to pursue it to its conclusion, it sounds dubious at best...”
“I am sure you are correct, Admiral,” he replied slowly, unconvinced. “I don't see it as something we can fulfill...” Scanning Steele's expression, he was both disappointed and impressed that there was nothing there that he could read.
“Good,” nodded Jack emphatically. “I'm glad we see eye-to-eye on that.” He brought his hands together, his fingers steepled, “I thank you for your cooperation, Ceravin, but we really have to continue our patrol...”
“Of course, Admiral. May I beg of you one indulgence before we go?” He did not wait for an answer, indicating Fritz, “Could we hear him speak..?”
Jack looked down at Fritz, “He really only speaks when he has something to say... what do you think dog?”
Fritz stood and moved forward toward the screen, his tail swaying, looking up at the Gogol Captain, “Two dogs walk into a bar...”
■ ■ ■
Suffering from the energy void left by the receding tide of adrenalin, Lisa Steele felt drained, sitting in the cockpit of her Cyclone as it gently settled to the deck with a bump. She hauled back on the canopy release lever and it broke seal with a hiss, a wash of flight deck air with its warm metal, oil and tangy electronic smell filling her nose. It smelled like home. She rested her head back against the headrest and dug a power bar out of one of her suit's utility pockets. She knew she was going to have rubber legs without a little boost.
A deck-hand slapped the fuselage of her fighter, “Ladder! Ladder!”
Stuffing the last half of the bar in her mouth, crunching on the sweet, toasted cardboard, Lisa flipped the release and the ladder unfolded from the belly, allowing him to climb up. Leaning in, he helped her disconnect and unbelt, taking her helmet, reaching over and setting it on the wing. “You doing alright there, Ensign?”
“Sure, yeah, I'm fine...”
“Jittery?”
“Yeah, a little. How'd you know?”
“Happens to everybody. Here,” he handed her a small 8oz. bottle of dark red liquid pulled from his waist pouch. “Suck this stuff down and you'll be fine in a couple of minutes.”
Lisa examined the liquid and how it clung to the insides of the bottle. “What the hell is it? It's kinda gross looking, like blood...”
“It's a juice. No idea what all the ingredients are but it's salty-sweet. Most everybody calls it Jungle Juice. Gives you energy and takes away the wobblies.”
“OK...” she replied suspiciously, popping the cap. A tentative sip revealed it was definitely unique. As odd as it sounded in her head, it reminded her of a combination of tomato juice and cherry juice. It wasn't great but it wasn't objectionable either. She finished it before standing up and attempting to climb out of the cockpit, the deck-hand having moved on to the next Cyclone. Stepping to the deck and retrieving her helmet, she ducked under the fuselage and headed toward the locker room, Mike approaching with a wave.
“How was your first patrol..?” he queried, knowing full well what had transpired.
“It was...”
Lieutenant Margareth strode up from behind, punching Lisa in the arm as she passed, “Good, Princess...”
Lisa lunged with a swing that whiffed through empty air and Mike bodily intercepted her, “Whoa there...” the Ketarian pilot walked on, unawares. Or maybe unconcerned.
“I've had it with her...”
“Easy Lisa,” he urged, voice lowered. “I think you just got the Lieutenant Margareth stamp of approval...”
“I'll stamp her...” She looked back at Mike, confused. “What?”
“If she was unhappy about your performance, you can be sure she would have let you know in no uncertain terms. She's not shy about that. Considering she had nothing negative to say, I'd say you passed her standards...”
Lisa looked unconvinced, “So next time I fly with her I won't have to hear her ration of shit..?”
Mike took a step back, waving a non-committal, “Oh, now I didn't say that. She has something to say about almost everyone she flies with...” They started walking across the deck toward the locker room.
“You?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I think the only person she hasn't said anything to, is probably Pappy.”
“Smart. Jack?”
Mike smirked, “I don't think he's ever flown with her, but wouldn't that be a show to watch?”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
TAMPA, FLORIDA : REPLACEMENT & REGRET
After a winding drive through the grimy old commercial park, the taxi pulled to a stop in the middle of the street, the area nearly deserted. A humid Florida breeze blew dust and paper across the adjacent parking lot past a derelict truck sitting on flattened tires.
The cabbie looked over his shoulder at the woman in the back seat, “Lady are you sure this is the right place? I don't see anything here... leastways no place you'd want to go.”
Mercedes Huang scanned the rusty building, her keen eye for detail catching the rim of a transmitter dish nearly hidden behind the building's roofline. Cameras... there should be, ahh, there's one. “Pull up to the door,” she pointed, “there.”
The cabbie shook his head and let the car roll up the drive and through the useless gate hanging limply off its hinges, stoppi
ng in front of the corrugated building's steel front door. He popped the trunk release and got out to help her with her luggage. “I hope you know what you're doing young lady,” he winced, hefting out a long, flat, black bag.
She hefted the bag by its sling, swinging it effortlessly over her shoulder, the contents producing a metallic rattle. “I'll be fine, thanks.” She handed him a fifty, “Keep it,” she smiled, pulling the handle up on her roller bag.
He set her laptop bag on top, wrapping the sling around the roller bag's handle. “Look, the company won't send any cabs here after dark, it's not safe. Which means you've got about half an hour...” he handed her a card. “But you call my cell and I'll come get you. I ain't afraid of this area... I pack,” he tapped his ribs. “But I'm only on for about another two hours...”
Mercedes smiled warmly, “You get along, now,” she shooed him with her free hand, “I'll be fine, I promise.” She tucked the card away, “Thanks.” Four inches taller than him in her sensible heels he looked up and nodded, climbing back into the cab, waving as he idled away, back out the way he'd come.
Satisfied she was unobserved; she dug a key-card out of her pocket and passed it over the push-button keypad, the face popping open with a chirp, revealing a digital screen hidden underneath. Checking her surroundings first, she stooped and stared at the screen placing her right thumb in the corner of the screen. The thumbprint reader initiated a retinal scan and a pale green halo swept over her face, the door next to her unlocked with a distinctive clack.
She pulled the door wide, grabbing the handle of her roller, the keypad face swinging shut on its own. Stepping in, the door behind her swung closed, locking her in a cubicle, her eyes fighting to adjust to the sudden darkness. A momentary green halo above her flickered for an instant before the metal wall in front of her slid aside, disappearing, allowing her entry to the building.
The last of the day's light angled through the greenhouse style skylights, a grid of golden light splashed across the warehouse floor and the scattered workstations. At first glance the organized chaos resembled a maze, but as she approached there was a clear path. The building opened widely to her right, a fleet of four black SUVs parked inside the adjoined bay.
“Pete's replacement is here...!” called a disembodied voice.
“Aw man...” groaned another, “they sent us a bitch...”
“Bros before hos, man...”
Her eyes still adjusting to the muted light, Mercedes could see men moving through the shadows, between the lights, having the impression they were converging on her. Doug Mooreland got to her first, stopping in front of her with his hands on his hips.
“You Mooreland?” she asked.
“Yeah...”
Agent Huang reached down and pulled a manilla envelope out of a pocket in her laptop case, handing it to him, “Agent Mercedes Huang...”
Doug looked her up and down as he took the folder and flipped it open, taking in her straight smooth hair, caramel skin, chiseled features, fine suit and stature before paging through the sheets. “Hmph,” he snorted, “Air Force intelligence analyst? No combat?”
“Holy shit, she's blackanese...”
“And she's hot..!”
Doug shot an evil glance around him, “Shut up.” He looked back at Mercedes, “So what's an intelligence analyst do..?”
“Try to figure out why you clowns can't find your asses with both hands, and yeah, I've seen combat...”
“Really? What kind would that be..? Because we don't count sitting on your ass in a zone as comba...”
She unslung her weapons bag and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, pointing her finger in his face, “Flying past Mach 1 and trying to take pictures while they're shooting SAMs and anti-aircraft at you is not as easy as you think.”
“Bitch, please...”
“Fuck you, Mooreland,” she spat. “You got a problem with it? Speak to the Deputy Director because he's the one who picked me. And if you're even remotely curious about my background or experience, I'd suggest you read the entire folder. You do remember how to read, don't you Doug?” She glanced around, “Or are you the same as all the rest of these mouth-breathing Neanderthals?”
“Ouch,” mumbled a voice in the group.
“Yeah... uncalled for...”
“Screw the lot of you.” she shot back, widening her stance. “I'm not going to tolerate your bullshit. Any of it... if you have any more disparaging comments about my race, my color, my mother, whatever... let's get it over with now!” She glanced sternly around at the shadowed faces. “Anybody? Nobody? Good. You can call me Mercedes, Agent Huang or Mercy. I'll accept nothing less...”
“Mercy?”
“Mercy,” she said through gritted teeth, “cuz that's what you'll be begging for when I'm kicking your fucking ass...”
“Geez, what a fucking...”
“Your mouth better be forming the word, bitch,” she snapped, scanning the faces that were becoming clearer, her eyes adjusting, “because if you say the C word, you'll be wearing your nads for a hat.”
“Alright, that's enough!” waved Doug. “You guys get back to work. Huang, my office. Now.” He turned on his heel and headed for the other side of the vehicle bay.
■ ■ ■
Doug sat with his feet up on his desk, reading the file in the manilla folder, trying to ignore the woman sitting in his office and how attractive she was. There was a lot of the usual information; Mother: Black, Father: Chinese, Born: New York, New York... schools, hobbies, grew up an only child, yada yada yada. Which all changed drastically the day after 9/11. “Your parents..?
“Both killed,” Mercedes replied flatly.
“I'm sorry...”
“Thanks, I'm over it now.”
He paged through her spotless service records. “Why the Air Force?”
“I wanted to fly. I wanted to bomb them all into dust. I figured I could get more of them that way than with a gun.”
“So how did you end up as an intelligence analyst?”
“I didn't like flying.” Huang swept her hair back and sat back in the chair a little, crossing her legs at the knee. “I went with my strengths. I have an eye for detail, figured I could do the most in target assessment and after-action damage assessment. Worked on the ground, in the field and in the E-3 Sentry...”
“The AWACS?”
“That's the one.”
Doug cocked one eyebrow, “So you never flew Mach 1 in a photo mission then...”
“No, I told you what you wanted to hear...”
Doug dropped his feet off the desk and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, “You lied...”
“Yes, I did,” she nodded nonchalantly. “Get over it. When I walked in here,” she waved, “the testosterone count was off the charts. It didn't matter what my experience was; I could have been the fucking door gunner on the space shuttle... You were going to find fault with it. So I threw you a bone.”
“So you have no combat experience then...”
Mercedes pointed at the folder, “Keep reading, Mooreland.”
After two more pages he looked up, a little wide-eyed, “As an analyst, what the hell were you doing in the field?”
“We had to wear multiple hats. I volunteered as a forward observer. We'd consult, record, film, direct air support... sometimes we'd get too forward, and sometimes we had to do more than observe.”
Mooreland tapped on the page, “This Marine commendation says, you actively assisted this Marine unit to repel an insurgent counter-attack on your position...?”
“Yeah. What's the date on that one?”
“That one? You mean there's more?”
“Sure,” she replied casually, “I have several. But the office was pressed for time and couldn't get me all the copies for your file before my flight. I can have them send you the others if you'd like.”
She knew that she had skewered him, he could see it in her eyes, and now he knew it too. Did she know that he knew? Of that, Doug
couldn't be sure. But he should have known better than to second guess a personal pick by the Deputy Director. Was she there for his position? Could he trust her? He didn't know that either. The guys would watch his back, but he was going to have to watch her. Closely. “Welcome to The Barn, Huang...”
■ ■ ■
By the time the guys wandered into the operations area, morning sunlight poured through the greenhouse skylights. Mercedes Huang was already showered and dressed, sitting Indian-style on the situation table, coffee mug in hand, studying the materials posted all over the white board. In her lap she poured through the documents scattered across the table, carefully placing them back in their respective piles before moving on to the next.
“Hey, Doug! She took Restonovich and Brodermeyer off the white board!”
“So what,” she shrugged. “They're dead, they have no other connections to our guy and they were peripheral at best. They were only linked to Steele through Maria Arroyo. And if I remember right, she's with Steele, right?”
“Right...” Doug Mooreland approached from around the table looking at the changes to the board, coffee mug in hand. “You moved the sister and her girlfriend up under Steele. Why? She entered the picture later, down here...” he pointed at the time line toward the bottom.
“Because you're looking at this as a time line, I'm looking at this as a relationship tree. We need to determine who is loose, who is in play, what their relationship is and who we can leverage. Like this guy,” she pointed, “Stephen Miles.”
“He's a CIA Director...”
“Yes, I can see that, Doug. Fuck, it's right on his tag, I'm not blind. But at this point no one is above reproach. Maybe they've repatriated him and they're hiding him... They won't share that with us without some leverage...”
“Steele is currently out of the picture...”
“How can we be sure of that?” she countered. “He could be...”
“Wait,” grinned Mooreland, holding his hand out, “Hold on, you have seen the videos, right?” He turned to his right, “Lou, run the DVD...”
Wings of Steele: Revenge and Retribution Page 32