“DAAAAVID! MIIIICHELLE!”
David turned in his chair looking over his shoulder, “What the hell…”
“That was Katie,” clarified Michelle, her high heels clicking on the floor as she darted for the doorway.
“DAAAAVID! MIIIICHELLE!”
Michelle leaned over the balcony railing outside her second-floor office, overlooking the control room, David appearing at her side. “What’s going on Katie?”
Katie pointed at the control room entrance toward the lobby, “Black trucks! Black trucks! A whole bunch of them! Men in black suits coming…”
“Oh, what now…” sighed Michelle.”
■ ■ ■
The parade of suits walking through the door and into the control room seemed endless; ignoring the facility, operations and the researchers occupying it, making an unhurried but purposeful beeline to the stairs and the second-floor office. With men stationed on the operations floor, bottom of the stairs, and on the balcony outside of the office, two men remained with David Webber and Michelle Fabry.
“You are excused, Doctor,” said the taller of the two men, locking eyes with David Webber. His mannerism was precise and business-like, if not a bit threatening.
David Webber hesitated, not wanting to leave Michelle alone, chivalry fighting a pang of fear. The insistent tug on his sleeve by one of the men who had been outside the doorway, silently reminded him, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Once on the balcony, the door was closed and he was dismissed to the first floor with a casual wave.
Standing next to her desk, arms folded defensively across her chest, the petite astrophysicist, did her best to look formidable. “Who the hell do you people think you are? “
“Dr. Fabry, please… sit,” motioned the taller man, his voice and mannerism softening, more casual. He sat in a chair in front of her desk as did the other man. “Please,” he repeated, motioning to her chair.
She stepped around her desk, sat and re-crossed her arms defiantly. “I’m waiting...”
“Special Agent Phil Cooper, FBI. Director of Operation Starlight.”
“Never heard of it,” blurted Michelle.
“Not surprising,” offered Cooper, “it’s not exactly a public knowledge type of program…”
“And you?” she asked the other man.
“Stephen Miles, Director of the CIA.”
“CIA, huh?” she countered. “No NSA with you?”
Stephen Miles tried not to smirk, “No, no NSA. They’re kind of in the listening and information business.” With a flick of his wrist he motioned towards Phil Cooper, “We’re in the, get things done, business.”
“I see. And why am I so popular? Where do I fit into all of this?”
“Your country needs your service, Dr. Fabry,” said Stephen Miles.
Michelle’s head tilted to one side, “Reeaaly. Doing what exactly?”
“Before we start, Dr. Fabry,” offered Phil Cooper, “we have to call to your attention that what we’re about to discuss… is above Top Secret and a matter of National Security…”
“Everything with you people is National Security,” she interrupted sarcastically, crossing her legs at the knee.
“And the fact that it is Top Secret,” continued Cooper, “and a matter of National Security, means that what we discuss here and any subsequent conversations on the matter, cannot be discussed or communicated outside the three of us. Ever. Any violation of this confidence will result in imprisonment for life, without outside contact, without legal counsel or recourse.”
Michelle waved her hands in the air, “Forget it, I’m not agreeing to that…”
“I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice,” added Stephen Miles. “It’s been approved by the President of the United States…”
“Then let him do it,” she snapped.
“That’s really not an option, Dr. Fabry,” said Cooper, crossing his legs casually, mirroring her posture. “You are in a unique position to serve your country in a way only you can.”
“And you will,” nodded Stephen, “because…”
Phil Cooper patted Stephen on the knee, “What the Director is trying to say, is that the information you might provide will help protect the United States as well as possibly benefiting the entire world.” He adjusted his posture. “You may not remember, Doctor, but we met briefly on the deck of the Conquest during the news briefings…”
“I thought you looked familiar…” She pointed at Stephen Miles, “But I don’t remember seeing you up there…”
“Because I wasn’t there.”
“He was buried under the White House in the PEOC bunker when the missiles hit,” explained Phil Cooper.
Her eyes shifted back and forth between the two men, her defenses softening somewhat. “Oh… I’m sorry, that must have been… horrible.”
Stephen Miles’ expression remained stoic. “It was worse for those who were above ground.”
“You see, Dr. Fabry,” said Cooper, continuing the conversation, “we want to prevent this from ever happening again, and you could be the key. You were chosen, because I remembered you were invited to study with the aliens, continuing your research…”
“I’m supposed to be going up in about a week,” she muttered, her mind recalling the images of the broadcast news in Washington D.C. It was easy to forget, to overlook what happened around the country - up on the mountain in Green Bank, nothing much had changed. Sure, there was no power for a while. But there were no riots, no rise in crime, no shortage of food, no shortage of water… this was the countryside; farms, clean well water, neighborly people helping each other out…
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” acknowledged Cooper. “And that’s why you’re the perfect candidate…”
“But I’m a scientist, you want me to be a spy?”
“What we want you to do,” said Stephen, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “is keep your eyes and ears open.”
“We’re not asking you to do espionage,” added Cooper.
“No, no,” injected Stephen, “what we’re asking, is for you to keep us informed if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Anything that seems suspicious or doesn’t make sense…”
“We are finding it hard to trust a race who on one hand tried to ruin us, and on the other hand rescued us from ruin,” commented Cooper. “It almost feels staged. Like it was all a ploy.”
Stephen leaned back in his seat, confident in the momentum of the double-team tactic. “So now we’re supposed to believe, all-of-a-sudden, these magnanimous benefactors are gifting us all these wonderful things? The very things we wish for? Why? We’re invited to join their precious alliance… Why? What could we possibly offer a race as advanced as theirs?”
Phil Cooper waved casually, “Maybe it’s all exactly the way it appears. Maybe it’s not.”
“And if it’s not,” continued Stephen, “We need to know what they’re up to. Even the tiniest bit of information could prove insightful.”
“And if the aliens are on the up-and-up,” said Cooper, “we need to know that too. We need to be in front of this. The United States needs to be in front of this. We can’t afford to let those idiots at NATO run the show.”
“We would want the U. S. to control the deal…” confirmed Stephen.
“Exactly,” nodded Cooper.
Michelle was trying to absorb it all, her head swimming, “But how would I…”
“We need you at Langley. Tonight.”
“You need to be briefed and you have a lot to learn in a very short period of time.”
Her eyes shifted back and forth, her analytical mind overwhelmed, turning to reactionary mush, “But… But I haven’t even begun to pack…”
“No problem. We’ll help you with that. And when we’re done, we have a chopper standing by at NIOC. We can make Langley by tonight if we start now…
CHAPTER EIGHT
CASTILLE SYSTEM, BYAS-KUYOL FIELD : THE DRAKE
Despite all St
eele’s hopes, the Black Widow was indeed, gone. And since he’d been excluded from all ship’s business for weeks, he had no idea what their next stop was. He could assume they were sticking to their original flight plan, but how likely was that? The Black Widow had a delivery scheduled at ArmaCore, but the detour to Castille for the scans at Byas-Kuyol’s clinic upset their timetable and their original flight plans. Jack could only guess what Michel’s choice of route would be… If he was wrong - for any number of reasons… well, it was a big sky. He wasn’t even sure he could get the Drake off the ground alone. And without his MOBIUS, he had no way of discreet contact with anyone he knew - after all, it wasn’t like dialing a phone.
Byas-Kuyol Field was primitive at best; gravel landing pads surrounded by roughly-cut grass, a couple miles across, hacked out of a jungle. The control tower, attached to the terminal, was a corrugated metal building with an open observation platform rising above it. It reminded Steele of an old forestry fire observation tower. Far across the open field, a shuttle bus bounced along, carrying passengers to the terminal from a ship on a landing pad way out in the darkness.
Security was nearly non-existent; Jack drove the old truck straight through the open gate and rumbled across the airfield, past the vacant landing pads where the Black Widow and Palladium had been parked, toward the long, shadowed form sitting out on pad seven. Passing a low, squat, asymmetrical ship on his left, the truck’s headlights swept across the Drake’s nose and down its hull, revealing a well-worn mercenary Cutter. She wasn’t in bad shape as far as he could tell… decent lines… Of course, internally, mechanically, she could be a different story. Much different… His mind went back to the Freedom when he first boarded her. What a mess that was.
Steele let the truck trundle to a stop, the gravel crunching under its tracks and tires. The engine shuddered as he shut it down, the silence of the airfield rushing in at him. Gradually, the sounds of the jungle birds carried across the field and the hum of insects filled the night air. There was an old-fashioned generator, or perhaps air conditioner, chugging along in the heavy, humid night air, hidden in the darkness somewhere. Dropping to the ground, he dragged the loose gear out of the back seat, slinging it over his shoulder, cradling the shotgun under one arm. He did not expect there to be any extra crew on board, but he wasn’t about to take any chances, he was prepared to eliminate any resistance he met.
“Looks like you’re prepared for trouble there, young fella.”
The spike of adrenalin that jolted through Steele made him whirl, the barrel of the shotgun coming up.
“Easy there,” urged the man, catching the barrel one-handed and holding it away, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Where the hell did you come from?” growled Jack, unhappy with being surprised so easily, his eyes shifting around, searching the shadows caused by the two bright moons overhead.
The man thumbed over his shoulder at the low, fat, asymmetrical ship behind him, “The Galixus, that pig over there. We’ve been here a month now, waiting for parts. Most of the crew has disappeared…”
Steele frowned, studying the man for a moment. Despite his mostly-silver hair he looked fit, almost hard. Eye-to-eye, they were about the same height, though his posture seemed to soften a stature that Jack suspected was bigger than his own. “No offense, mister, but why is that my concern?”
“Because I think we can help each other.”
Steele raised an eyebrow, “How is it you think I need your help?”
“Well, like I said, I’ve been here for a month. I see ships and people come and go. I saw that ship when it came in,” he nodded at the Drake, “I saw the crew when they left; and while you might be dressed like them, you aren’t one of them. That I know. I get the feeling I won’t be seeing them again, that you have somehow acquired the ship.” It was a question disguised as a statement.
“Yeah, huh? You’re pretty observant…”
“I pay attention,” replied the man, nonchalantly.
“You don’t worry about knowing too much?”
“No, I read people pretty well. I don’t see the hardness in you. You’re different.”
Steele nodded, “Uh huh. How does that fit into the needing each other, thing?”
The man smirked, “Well if I’m right, and I think I am, you’re a pilot. And being unfamiliar with the ship, you’re going to need help. You’re going to need at least an engineer.”
Steele chewed the inside of his cheek, “And you just happen to be an engineer…”
“I am. I’m a good one. And I need a ride off this jungle.”
Steele nodded at the ship behind him, “So you’re just going to abandon your rig?”
The man shrugged, “No parts, no flight crew, not much choice.”
Steele was dubious, “No offense, but how do I know I can trust you?”
“Mutual need,” replied the man. “We need each other. I don’t fly, my guess is, you don’t engineer.”
“Assurance of mutual destruction,” muttered Jack.
“What’s that?”
Steele shook his head, “Never mind. I guess if you have any gear…”
The man hefted a duffel off the ground near his feet, “Got it right here.”
“Pretty sure of yourself,” commented Jack, still wondering how the man snuck up on him; carrying a duffel, no less. He adjusted the shotgun as he headed for the control panel on the side of the Drake, “You got a name?”
“Command Master Chief, Daryl Jolly…”
Jack pulled the Drake’s panel open revealing the keypad, “Man, that’s a mouthful. Mind if I just call you Chief? Or DJ?”
“That works. How about you?”
“Jaxon.”
“Just Jaxon?”
“Just Jaxon,” replied Steele.
■ ■ ■
Having secured the last lock-down to prevent the old truck from moving around the cargo hold, Steele straightened up and stretched his body, pressing his hands into the small of his back, “That ought to do it…”
“Glad you decided to keep it,” commented the Chief, walking through the cargo area toward the ramp.
“It might come in handy,” shrugged Jack. He motioned to the tubes under the Chief’s arm, “Watcha’ got there?”
Daryl paused, “These things?” he hefted one with his free hand. “Fuel rod assemblies. Remanufactured ones. And poorly at that.”
“How can you tell?” motioned Jack, stepping closer.
The Chief carefully leaned the others against the front of the truck, pointing the open end of the one in his hand at Jack, “See that?”
Steele looked at the dark brown sandy material packed into the four-foot-long, thick-walled glass tube, “What am I looking at?”
Daryl pushed his gloved finger into the sandy looking core, the soft material giving way, crumbling. “Poor packing job. Should be hard as a rock. These are cheap re-manned pieces. Crap like this can getcha’ killed.”
“Could they just be worn out?”
“Nah,” waved Daryl, “they get pale when they’re worn. The darker they are the fresher they are. They look fairly fresh,” he observed, “just poorly made. My guess is somebody was trying to save money. This,” he wiggled the tube in Jack’s direction, “is not the place to skimp.”
“So, what do we do?”
The Chief scooped the other tubes back up and headed for the ramp, out toward the ship on the next pad. “Our ship uses the same kind. I’m going to swap us out some good ones. I’ll be right back.” He paused on the ramp, looking back, “Sky is starting to lighten...”
■ ■ ■
“Interesting,” announced the Chief as he strolled back up the ramp, an armload of new fuel rod assemblies in his arms.
“What’s that?” asked Steele who was rummaging through crates and containers to see if there was any inventory of interest or use.
“Just saw a Pathfinder patrol jumper land up over by the terminal; they’re about as close to the Law as we get out
here.” He stepped onto the open cargo lift to the engineering room and hit the button, the platform lurching upward. “Don’t see them too often. Wonder what they want.” If he noticed the color change in Jack’s face, he gave no indication of it.
“You heading back out at all?” Jack called up at the retreating lift as it rose up into the next deck.
“Nope,” came the response.
Steele dashed over and palmed the control for the cargo ramp, the hydraulics drawing it up and into the hull. In a few short moments, it hissed into position as the locking rams squeaked into place, the indicator lights announcing a positive hull seal. But Jack never saw it, he was already halfway across the cargo bay, headed for the bridge in a full sprint.
In comparison to any other ship in his experience, the Drake’s bridge was small, with only five seats, arranged in a V, the pilot sitting in front looking directly through the armored glass. No big screen here, the controls were simpler, a little more primitive, a HUD-like holographic overlay on the glass.
Dropping himself into the pilot’s seat, Steele started activating systems, running through a start-up checklist before engine ignition, familiarizing himself with the controls. He keyed his mic, “You with me Chief?”
“I’m here,” responded the voice in his earpiece.
“Are we ready for runup?”
“Not for at least half an hour...”
“What? Why so long Chief?”
“You’ve got fourteen of these fuel rod assemblies in both of your engines. Seven on each side. They extend right into the engine core. They need to warm evenly from the core-pack to the glass. If you rush the process and they warm unevenly, you can fracture the glass assemblies…”
“Aaarrrgh,” groaned Jack.
“What’s your hurry, Kid?”
Nearly a mile away, Steele eyed the lights of a vehicle which left the terminal, heading out of the airfield gate. If that was the Pathfinders and they were heading where he expected they were heading, things could get sticky in a hurry. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, “Nothing.”
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