Brian turned to follow Jack, “Right behind you skipper, we just need one more...”
■ ■ ■
Reverberating through the hull, the zwump, zwump of the Freedom's main guns could be heard coming from both sides of the ship. With an enlarged view on the bridge's main screen Commander Walt Edgars and the bridge crew could see the hits on the unshielded cruiser's hull. The floor vibrated as two fighters launched, points of light appearing at the bottom of the screen, arcing away in formation.
Raulya called out updates, “We have six fighters in route, Zulu is away... we're registering hits on the stern of the cruiser...”
Walt confirmed the updates on his command screens “Looks like the Archer and Bowman are moving up...”
“Yes sir, they're firing now...” she turned in her seat, “the enemy cruiser is launching fighters...”
Walt called up his targeting screen “Dammit, target their launch tubes...”
“Aye aye,” her fingers danced across her control panel giving the orders to the main turret operators, “Commander, their shields are coming up - but it doesn't look like they have full power yet.”
“Understood.” Next to his targeting screen Walt pulled up the Freedom's armaments screen, displaying all turrets, their capacity, ranges and defensive shield status. “Almost forgot we had these little buggers, let's see what one of these does...” he chose an MK*73 and activated its launch tube, locking it onto the pirate's port stern quarter, “Torpedo away,” he said, tapping the launch button on the flat keyboard.
■ ■ ■
Lieutenant Commander Derrik Brighton swung his Cyclone in an arc to the left to intercept the launching fighters, his wing man sticking closely off his starboard wingtip. “White One and Two, breaking to intercept...”
Commander Paul Smiley and Lieutenant Mike Warren had caught up with Lieutenant JG, Duncan Taylor and his wing man. Smiley keyed his mic “Copy, White Leader. Good hunting... Dunc, you and your wing form up on us...”
Lieutenant JG Duncan Taylor acknowledged and swung into formation with his wing man in tow, activating his weapons systems, the pirate cruiser growing in his HUD, heads up display.
Jack pushed the Zulu's throttle to the far stop and left it there, adjusting the targeting systems and activating all its weapons systems. “They've launched fighters, you guys all set back there?”
“Roger.”
“All set skipper...”
Jack adjusted the position of the moveable HUD and the secondary HUD, “hey kid, what's your name..?”
“Santine, Ensign Santine, sir” replied the tail gunner.
“OK this is easy Santine; you have one job, whatever it is, just keep it off our ass.” The pirate cruiser was visible on the view screen and taking a severe beating. Steele keyed his mic, “All flights, heads up guys, there's an MK*73 coming through...” it passed the Zulu's left side about five miles away, a fireball driving it across the dark void. Steele glanced at it briefly as he unlocked one of the two torpedoes the Zulu carried on its belly, a MK*52, a smaller version of the MK*73 fired by the Freedom. Lining up his shot as the silhouette of the cruiser grew in front of him, Jack could see Paul Smiley's flight of four splitting after their first attack, passing above and below the target, arcing away.
Paul Smiley keyed his mic, “Port shields are down Zulu, she's all yours, take her out...”
An enormous eye-searing blast erupted at the stern of the pirate cruiser as the MK*73 connected with her damaged and unshielded armor, tearing through her hull and detonating inside, blowing her port engine into particles and separating the entire stern of the ship from the rest of her hull, a sphere of debris swelling outward.
■ ■ ■
Raulya spun in her seat, “Commander, two pirate destroyers approaching from behind, moving fast. They'll be in range in about sixty seconds!”
“Bloody bastard... he called for help,” Walt Edgars took one last look at the crippled pirate cruiser, “Helm bring us about, Ms. Raulya, recall our birds and update the Archer and Bowman...” He clicked his mic, “Bridge to tower, launch four!” Pulling up the Freedom's armaments screen again, he checked the progress on the reloading of the torpedo tube as the scenery on the bridge's view screen swung away from the cruiser.
“Incoming fire,” called Ragnaar. Intense bright green slashes passed by the Freedom on either side of her hull, a volley from the second destroyer landing a hit on the Freedom's starboard stern quarter, splashing weakly. “No effect, shields holding.”
■ ■ ■
Flipping the safety cover back over the launch button for the Zulu's torpedo, Steele yanked the throttle back and laid the flight stick over on its side, kicking the pedals to jet the nose around, the cruiser swinging wildly out of view. He reached over and relocked the torpedo as he pushed the throttle back to the far stop, thumbing and holding the boost button, the engines roaring. “Zulu One, on our way Freedom...”
Rotating the upper turret to face the rear, Brian could see the twin thousand foot long streamers of fire behind them, the crippled and motionless cruiser shrinking, surrounded by a slowly growing sphere of debris, atmosphere bleeding out into the darkness of space. “Skipper, you might want to ease up on the boost button, you're gonna burn out her forcing cones, she's not a fighter...”
■ ■ ■
Bathed in red light, the bridge of the pirate cruiser was clouded with smoke, CO² levels climbing, the communications officer was still at her station, “Commander, the DD36 and the DD104 aren't going to be able to reach us - we're on our own...” she turned in her seat, “they're going to try and buy us some time...”
The Commander nodded, “Understood Ensign...” He keyed his mic, his voice calm, drained of all emotion, “All hands abandon ship, all hands abandon ship.” He pulled himself to a standing position, “Time to go Ensign...”
“Sir, what about the Captain?”
The Commander looked over at the lifeless, bloody form, sprawled on the floor. He shook his head as he limped toward the door, “Nothing we can do for him Grinah, let's get outta here...”
The only two people left on the bridge, she shouldered herself underneath him to take the weight off his injured leg. “How did they know we were going to jump in here...?”
The Commander shook his head, “They didn't. Bad luck, plain and simple. We jumped into the wrong place at the wrong time...” the ship shuddered, the floor shifting under their feet, bouncing them off the corridor wall. “We need to hurry, she's not going to hold together much longer...”
“Are we going to be able to get the shuttles out? Or do we need to find a pod?”
“We lost a lot of people; there should be enough room in the shuttles. Once everyone is in, they'll blow the cargo doors...”
Making their way through the mortally wounded cruiser, the Commander promised himself if they made it back safely, he would do his best to get himself an audience with the FreeRanger Council to recommend no ship ever jump more than fifty percent of their reach - it simply left the emerging vessel far too vulnerable. As they had been. Drained of power reserves from the extended jump, they'd appeared in front of a hostile task force, without enough power for immediate shields or weapons. The UFW cruisers had reacted quickly, targeting his ship's engines, preventing their only chance to survive by running. And the two light fighters they were able to launch were outclassed in so many ways.
The Commander was pretty sure running would have ended with the same result, though somewhat delayed... three-to-one were terrible combat odds. It was a surprise that any of the UFW ships had torpedoes, he didn't know anyone was using them anymore... big, slow, they rarely made it to target, a ship's defensive guns would take them out... of course low on power reserves they had to make a choice between shields and weapons. They had chosen shields but their level was insufficient to dampen the torpedo's effect - and it literally tore the rear quarter of the hull off of the ship. The only reason they had any life support or gravity at all, was because of the emergency
mid-ship power cell bank, which he could tell was almost exhausted. But the real surprise had been the fighter patrol, as there was no carrier profile identified in the group. The center one, the one that had fired first - he was reasonably sure, though it was not shaped as such and was a little small for the job, was the task force's carrier. It really didn't matter one way or the other, what mattered was that they were skilled and experienced; taking immediate advantage of the circumstances... there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. The only reason he wasn't floating frozen in space was DD36 and DD104 responding as quickly as they had, jumping in from a nearby zone to pull the UFW away.
■ ■ ■
Steele nudged the Zulu's throttle further back as he lined up the landing lights on the Freedom's fantail. Weapons systems off, torpedoes locked, gear down, anti-grav on... He reached forward and turned off the weapons and tactical HUDs. Pulling the throttle to the zero mark and firing braking thrusters, the Zulu passed over the fantail and sedately through the stasis field, decelerating as he swung it off the center line and pointed it toward the lift that would take it back to the level below. Steele reached forward and cut the power to the anti-grav, the craft settling to the deck with a bump, just short of the lift. He popped the harness release that held him in his seat with a sigh, “Well that was a bit anti-climactic...” he shrugged off the harness, “we didn't get a chance to pull the trigger on a damn thing...” He flipped off the systems and master switch, the controls and entire cockpit going dark.
“I hate when that happens,” quipped Brian from behind him with a grin.
“What are you so cheery about?”
“Fun flight!”
“What'ya talking about, we didn't get to blow anything up...”
“I know, but it was sorta fun flying together like old times – we haven't done that in a long time...” he popped the belly hatch, the ladder dropping down toward the deck, “I miss it a bit.”
Jack stooped in the cramped opening to the cockpit facing the open floor hatch, “Get out...”
“No really, I do...” said Brian grinning, bobbing his head.
“No,” countered Jack, pointing at the open hatch, “I mean get out...”
Brian was still grinning widely, “Oh, I knew that...” he stepped down into the opening, climbing down to the deck, followed by Jack and Ensign Santine, who watched with interest the interaction between the Captain and the senior pilot he'd winged with.
Steele stopped, cracking a crooked smile, pointing at Brian with an admonishing finger, “Stop it...”
“What?” Brian bounced on the balls of his feet, still grinning like a loon, Santine standing there looking on.
“I mean it, quit it...”
“I'm not doing anything...”
“Yes you are...”
“No I'm not...”
“You're being unprofessional in front of the new guy,” Jack was losing the battle with his face, fighting the grin. “You're making him uncomfortable...”
“No he's not...” countered Santine.
Jack shot him a glance, “Nobody asked you.” He pointed at Brian again “Stop it - you're freaking me out!”
Helmet in hand; Paul strolled up from behind them, accompanied by Mike, “What's going on...?”
Jack looked over his shoulder and thumbed over at Brian, “He won't stop that, he's freaking me out..!”
Paul recoiled, “Ew yeah, that's freaky dude, quit it.”
The group started walking in the direction of the tower, the ground crews moving past them. Mike nodded, “They're right, seriously man, that's creepy.” He chuckled, “It's funny but it's creepy...”
It started with Jack, snorting a chuckle through his clenched teeth and it quickly spread through the group until they were all doing it, even Santine, though he still didn't quite understand what was going on. “I don't get it,” he snickered, “what we're even laughing about.” That made them all laugh just a little harder. It was like looking at a train wreck, it compelled you to look even though you knew you shouldn't, and the harder you tried to look away, the more you were drawn to stare. And though you knew you should recoil in horror, you felt guilty for looking away... such was their dizzying cycle until a line worker trotted up to presumably ask a question of one of the pilots. The young man was so unnerved by Brian's unrelenting stare, bobbing head and ear-to-ear grin he recoiled and trotted off muttering something to himself. It was the final straw and the pilots staggered through the guffaws, Brian rubbing the cramps out of his cheeks.
CHAPTER FIVE
FT. MYERS BEACH, FLORIDA: PHONE HOME
Her soft soled shoes squeaking on the polished marble floors, the maid walked from the center island of the kitchen, through the spacious living room, past the hand-polished black lacquer grand piano, through the wide, arched foyer to the leaded stain glass front doors, the figure on the other side ringing the bell again. As she opened the heavy door, the wind from the open sliding glass doors to the patio rushed past her out of the doorway, she had to grip the door harder to keep it from slamming in the man's face. “Can I help you please?” Her Latin accent was heavy but her English was good.
“Brodermeyer...”
The man smelled of alcohol, sweat and too much cheap cologne. Sporting a full two day stubble, his hair was greasy but neat and there appeared to be a stain on the front of his maroon track suit. She wondered if the shiny gold Rolex was real or fake. The second man leaning against the silver Hummer parked in the circular driveway smoked a cigarette and stared at something down the street. “Who shall I say is here to see him...?” He tried to step past her but she blocked him with the door.
Much bigger than her, he could have easily pushed past but decided against it, “Viktor... Colonel Viktor Restonovich...”
She nodded and closed the door, latching it, turning to seek out the owner of the oversized beach house who startled her from behind as he descended the carpeted stairs from the second floor. “Oh..! Doctor Brodermeyer, there is a man...”
He nodded, “I know Carmella, it's OK, I'll take care of it...” he shooed her away. By all common descriptions, the doctor would be considered a mousy man, slightly built, balding at thirty something, round wire frame glasses and a meekness that was almost feminine. A fairly successful Psychologist, he often counseled patients at his home, however the visitor wasn't a patient. He opened the door.
“Brodermeyer...”
“Doctor Brodermeyer, Mr. Restonovich.”
The Russian raised an eyebrow, “Colonel Restonovich, Doktor,” he pushed his way inside, “you have something for us...” it really wasn't a question.
“Not here...” commented the doctor shutting the door, “let's go out to the patio,” he guided the Russian through the house, trying to do so without actually touching the man.
Restonovich pulled out a cigarette and lighter as they walked through the house.
“Please, no smoking...”
Restonovich nodded as he flicked the lighter, producing a flame, “Dah, I understand...” he puffed on the cigarette, sliding the lighter into his pants pocket, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he walked past the shining grand piano. He paused to run his fingers over the polished surface, “Mmm, very nice Doktor...” he walked around it. “You know, I used to play...” he stuck the cigarette between his lips and lifted the fallboard, letting his fingers stroll across the keys.
“Please Colonel, outside, please...” said Brodermeyer nervously.
“Dah, dah, in moment.” He sat down at the piano bench and began to play lightly, “Don't worry Doktor, I will not hurt beautiful keyboard...” But it wasn't the playing so much that concerned Brodermeyer, as much as the man's personal hygiene and that damn ash hanging off his cigarette, which grew longer by the second. “As boy, I enjoyed to play - until father made it work... I hated him for dat...” The ash dropped off onto the keyboard, its powder splashing across the white ivory. The doctor looked like he was about to enter a serious conniption fit, which intensified when
Restonovich swept it casually away, the broken gray powder falling between the keys. “Ach, look at dat,” he blew on the keys driving the powder everywhere. “No matter,” he closed the fallboard covering the keys, rising from the bench.
Doctor Brodermeyer was sweating and pale “Please, let's go out to the patio.”
“Dah, good.” The Russian looked for a place to drop the stub and final ash as he'd smoked it to the butt. He was able to maintain it intact and as they passed through the kitchen he dropped it into the sink, wiping the ash remains on his pants.
Standing along the rail of the patio overlooking the beach, the Russian lit another cigarette, “So you have it then?” When he exhaled the smoke went into the doctor's face, carried by the on-shore breeze.
Brodermeyer circled as nonchalantly as he could, around to the other side of the Russian, the smoke was bad enough but he needed to be upwind of the toxic mixture of sweat and gagging cologne. He handed the cash envelope to the man, “Here, fifty thousand. Are we done then?”
Viktor Restonovich was not a trusting person and he thumbed through the cash, not really counting it, but feeling its weight. The good doctor was too intimidated to have shortchanged him so he wasn't overly concerned. “Vasquez says you have something else for us..?”
The doctor sighed, he turned and looked over his shoulder, “It's that house down there,” he purposely did not point.
“There are many houses dat way, please to be more specific, Doktor.”
“The smaller one with the wood deck.”
Colonel Restonovich leaned on the rail with his elbows, “Dah, I see,” he puffed on his cigarette, “is anyone dere now?”
“I have no idea. All I know is two girls live there.”
“No man?”
“No, I think it's the man's sister, but I'm not sure.”
The Colonel nodded, “Sister is good... we can do sister.”
Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2) Page 7