The Log of the Gray Wolf (Star Wolf Squadron Book 1)

by Shane VanAulen

  With that said, Mike touched the pad as the door slid shut, cutting off their view of each other. Turning away from the door, he leaned heavily on the wall and let out a deep sigh. He didn’t want to play hardball with him, but the Gunny had said to provoke him and get him mad, so that’s what Mike did. He had even already known the meaning of the word Borochun.

  Leaning there, he waited, knowing that a battle was being fought within that small cabin: a battle that directly affected the life of the Wolf and everyone onboard her. Yet, Mike wondered which outcome would best serve them. Was it better to have no captain, no experienced officer at the helm, or a man who had lost his nerve and was a servant to the drink?

  He was just starting to worry when the door slid open. Standing in the entrance was Richards, dressed in the tan duty uniform. His face still looked unsure, but Collins had to admit, he looked like a commander. Snapping to attention, he performed a crisp hand salute. “Welcome aboard, sir!”

  The Commander hesitated for a moment, but then returned the honor. “At ease, Mister Collins,” he ordered and then said, “Please lead the way to the bridge.”

  Mike nodded and headed to the lift. The design of the ship had several lift points near the officer’s quarters, which allowed easy access to the entire ship. Reaching the lift, they entered, turned to face the door, and before he could either activate the lift by voice or touch, the solemn commander spoke.

  “Thank you, Mister Collins,” he said softly and then, continued in a normal yet strong voice. “I want a full systems report by nineteen hundred. Make sure you have the status of weapons, engines, and the hull. In addition, I want an inventory of the ship’s stores as well as a projected wish list of supplies.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” he replied with a smile, hoping that this was a turning point in the old officer’s life.

  Work continued on the Wolf over the next few days at a breakneck pace. Commander Richards started slowly, but quickly, the old role of a naval officer retook him. A lifetime of service was a hard thing to shake, and his other life as a drunk was now temporally forgotten as the long, hard hours left little time for self-pity. By midweek, they were all optimistic that their escape date of that Friday morning -- just two days away -- would be met.

  It was then that the proverbial other shoe dropped. A friend of Chief Bell’s who worked at the civilian space control center had called him early Wednesday night. He reported to Bell that a Karduan battle destroyer and two destroyer escorts had just entered the system from the gravity well. The enemy ships were being met by four Austro system cutters, who would then escort them to the planet.

  A system cutter was about the size of a frigate, but lacked Bender drives, and was only capable of in-system operations. In exchange for this lack of interstellar flight, they were able to carry a greater amount of ordnance and larger sub-light fusion drives. Fast and hard-hitting were the best ways to describe them. Unfortunately, most systems only had two to a half dozen of the powerful little ships.

  If a fight broke out between the three Karduan ships and the four Austro Cutters, it would be a near thing. The two Karduan destroyer escorts were each the approximate size of a Confederation frigate, whereas the average Karduan destroyer was the equivalent of a Confederation light cruiser.

  Still, any hostilities would immediately result in a Karduan battle group being sent to the system to insure order, the treaty, and of course friendship. The last thing the Austro government wanted was a battle, and the cutter captains’ orders were to give the Karduan ships a wide berth and all ceremonial honors.

  To the Wolf’s crew, this news was devastating. The enemy was more than three days early. They knew they had a real problem. Not only did they still have a planet-side operation pending, but also they now had to get past three Karduan ships as well as the system’s cutters.

  “What are we going to do?” one of the retirees called out at a general meeting of the crew. They had assembled to discuss their options and address the growing fear and panic that was spreading among them. The rumor mill had the enemy force as large as an entire battle group, which of course was steaming right for them.

  Padre and Gunny had taken charge, being recognized as the appointed leaders. Mike and Commander Richards hung back, waiting to hear what the rest had to say. The latter two may have been the officers, but these old wolves had been friends for years through their Imperial Legion Post, and it had been their force of will and wild scheme to steal the star cruiser in the first place.

  Gunny looked to the crowd of seasoned veterans and frowned, wondering if they had forgotten how to act under fire. He would not humble them with words to that effect, but they had come too far to turn back. “We double our efforts. Concentrate on the gravity plating of the hull and the engine’s startup.”

  A general grumble followed his words. They were already working as hard as they could; how could they be ready sooner than they had planned? A feeling that things were hopeless had seeped into their spirits.

  The Padre raised his hands and started to run down the systems that had to be either checked or finished before they could run. As his list ran on, the mood went from bad to worse.

  Mark Richards had, for the last four days, been working hard to get all the bridge systems and the bender drive’s navigational computers online. During that time, his confidence and acceptance from the men had slowly grown, and he, too, had grown to believe in their merry band and impossible dream. Stepping up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Gunny and the Padre, he placed his hand on the Chief Warrant’s shoulder.

  “We continue to fight!” he said, his voice ringing with the sound of command. He was not asking; he was telling them that there were no options for failure. “We are wasting time we don’t have. All of us have signed on for this, and if we die here or across the galaxy, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we did not simply lay down and die. I’ve had to learn that lesson the hard way. I don’t plan to give up this chance to once more strike a blow for the Emperor and the Confederation!”

  His strong words were met with hoots and hollers of agreement. Gunny smiled from ear to ear and looked to the Padre, who was also grinning as he wiped a tear from his eye. “I told you,” the old marine said, slapping the chief on the back.

  “God be praised,” Padre said, gripping his bible tightly.

  When the noise died down, Commander Richards turned to the Padre, who proceeded to assign the right men to the right jobs. As they received their assignments, they seemed to stand a little taller and though dead tired they even looked a few years younger. As the Chief finished the duty roster, a hand went up in the back of the group.

  “What about Mister Cappilo and the other midshipmen?” the old veteran asked.

  The room grew silent; everyone had come to believe that the young gentlemen, their pups, were coming with them. Not only did they deserve it, but the older men expected and wanted their help and camaraderie. They were, after all, part of their pack.

  This time it was young Ensign Collins who stepped up to speak, for it was his operation and his friends’. “I’m leaving to get them now. They are coming with us!” he announced to a room full of cheering men.

  “All right, let’s get to it! We leave as soon as Mister Collins gets back!” Richards said, dismissing the room to their respective jobs. Turning to Mike, he added, “If you’re not back in four hours, we’ll have to leave without you.”

  Mike nodded in reply, understanding that that’s how it had to be.

  “Let’s go,” Gunny said, moving toward the lift and back to the crew quarters.

  They had decided weeks ago that they would have to be ready in case they had to leave quickly. That meant Alister, Rufo, and Martin had to be prepared with their part. He and Gunny sent the alert message as the transport shuttle reached the atmosphere. It was a simple yet cryptic message that said in text, “Full Moon!” After all, that was the best time for wolves to hunt.

  Mike was dressed in a Confederat
ion duty uniform with his appropriate rank on the collar. He had his Krager in his shoulder holster and the Colt 8mm Starburst was holstered on his right hip. His extension sword was hanging on his left side and his carbon knife was sheathed just behind his right hipbone. All in all, he felt like he was loaded for bear.

  The Gunny was also carrying. He not only had his 8mm caseless automatic, but also his stun baton and a large traditional marine K-Bar fighting knife. In a shoulder holster, Mike caught a glimpse of the butt of a Krager gauss pistol, presumably from his CCF days. He was also dressed in a Confederation uniform, his being standard marine camouflage battle dress.

  It had turned out that all of the retirees had purchased new Confederation uniforms from surplus stores and outlets. The once-proud uniform was now virtually worthless and was becoming popular as a fad with the planet’s adolescent population. It was not unusually for old veterans or grandfathers to purchase them for remembrance sake, cheap work clothing, or for that whining grandchild.

  Over their uniforms, they wore plain overcoats. Mike’s was his old gray greatcoat from his midshipman days, which he hoped would help him go unnoticed on campus. Gunny Masters had a black trench coat that had seen better days and yet would blend with the evening’s light as well as be irreproachable on such a windy planet.

  It was agreed that they would probably be shot if they were caught, and they’d much rather be executed as Confederation servicemen than as spies or common criminals. Their uniforms also reminded them of their cause and made them feel a sense of pride and resolve.

  They took the Gunny’s old truck and followed Route 1 to the academy. As they drove, Mike checked his weapons. When he finished, he started to check them again.

  “Sir, you have already checked them once. Let them be,” the old warrior said. “Just take a breath and calm down. It’s like all those martial arts you’ve studied just become still and wait for the storm, or better yet, wait to become the storm.”

  Collins smiled and relaxed back into his seat. The old marine was right, and it made him wonder how many times he had given that same advice to young boots and rookie CCF cops.

  Approaching the front gate, Mike looked to the guard booth. His Krager was drawn and sitting on his lap. If their man weren’t manning the guard post, then the Gunny would lean back to give him a clear shot.

  It was dark, but as they slowed to a stop, a familiar face greeted them in the light of the overhead lamp. “Good evening, sir,” the guard said, bringing his old assault rifle to a vertical salute in front of him. The sentry was Mister Rabb, who had been the guard the last time they had visited.

  “I see you drew the duty again,” Mike replied with a smile as his pistol covertly aimed at the junior classman’s chest.

  “Yes, sir, but this time I tried to get it,” he said, still smiling and opening his gray overcoat to expose his uniform underneath. He wasn’t wearing the standard brown Austro cadet uniform that he had previously been wearing, but once more, he wore a gray Confederation midshipman’s uniform.

  That told Mike and Gunny Masters everything they needed to know. Young Mister Rabb was with them and the operation was going as planned. “Where are the others?”

  Rabb, out of habit of giving directions, pointed to the main campus. “Mister Dover has them gathering at the Farragut in the gymnasium,” he said.

  The Farragut was the name of the fitness center named after American Admiral David Farragut, “Hero of the Battle of Mobile Bay” during the American Civil War. He had defeated a southern flotilla and sailed through a minefield toward the forts of New Orleans, saying his famous quote, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

  Mike thought that this was a fitting site. Not only was it common for upperclassmen to work the plebes in the middle of the night, but it was also the location of the Academy’s armory. “What are your orders?” he asked before they drove off.

  Mister Rabb snapped back to attention. “Sir, to hold this post and alert through code of the approach of any hostile or suspicious force. If confronted by said force, I’m to deny them through deception, and give them misleading information and directions. If in the event of discovery, I’m to escape by all possible means and make it to the rally point.”

  “Carry on,” Mike replied as they sped away. This time they took the left hand lane, which took them to the main campus. He looked down the right lane and wondered about Captain Hope. Pushing that thought aside for the moment, he looked straight ahead as they came upon the library and classroom buildings. The library still had some lights on, not normally closing until after midnight.

  The classroom buildings were all dark and locked tight. Taking a turn to the left, they veered their course away from the Quad, which housed the midshipmen dormitories and mess hall.

  Instead, they headed down the tree-lined lane to a group of buildings built on a circular drive. These great stone and brick structures included the Farragut Fitness Center, Porter Indoor Stadium, and the nearby Porter Infirmary. It had been a long running joke that the Farragut was purposely located near the infirmary, a joke that was often true, for the injuries in training were sometimes numerous.

  In the center of the circle was a green island of grass that possessed three full-standing statues. They were placed back-to-back in a triangle formation, facing out toward the three buildings. From this distance and considering the lack of light or night vision enhancement, they couldn’t make out who the statues were of. It didn’t really matter, for Mike had seen each one hundreds of times. He had even been forced to memorize -- as part of his underclassman hazing -- not only their names, but also their histories.

  The first statue was American Admiral David Glasgow Farragut born in 1801 on the 5th of July, and died on August 14th, 1870. He had severed in the War of 1812, the Mexican War and the Civil War. Hero of Mobile Bay, the ranks of Vice Admiral and Admiral were created by Congress to promote him for his service.

  The second statue was of David Dixon Porter who was Farragut’s adopted brother and who had served with him during the attack on New Orleans. He later helped in the fall of Vicksburg and was promoted to Vice Admiral in 1866 and Admiral in 1870. Between those years, he would be the Superintendent of the U.S. Naval Academy.

  The last statue was of Captain David Porter the first two’s father and who had gained fame against the British during the War of 1812 on his ship the USS Essex. He was later Commander in Chief of the West India Squadron.

  Looking away from the statues, Mike thought that they were a family of heroes. He wondered if they ever had to steal a ship and a crew from under the enemy’s nose.

  Directing the Gunny around the Center and to the rear entrance, they parked along the walkway under a “No Parking” sign. Entering through the poly-glass double doors, they found the lobby empty and dark, yet the doors were unlocked.

  Once inside, a light from the gym could be seen, and the pair moved on toward the source of the illumination. Reaching inside his greatcoat, Mike’s hand felt the butt of his Krager, and with a flip of his thumb, he switched off the safety. A faint whine of the EM-powered weapon’s generator could just be heard for a second as the pistol answered its master’s call to arms.

  Tripping the laser eye, the gym’s double-doors slid open and inside, a welcomed sight greeted them. There were at least fifty midshipmen waiting for them. They looked as if they were exercising. Each man was dressed in shorts and tee shirts. Alister Dover was leading them in a set of side straddle hops, also known as jumping jacks. On seeing the two enter, he called them to a halt and ordered an “about face and present arms.” The midshipmen as a group hand-saluted the young ensign and the old marine.

  Mike and the Gunny returned their crisp salutes. “Very good, Mister Dover, please put them at ease.”

  Once the company had stood at ease, Mike ordered them to break ranks and gather around him. It was an unorthodox command, but one he had always found effective. He quickly filled them in on the current situation and their chances.
It was one thing to sneak out and make a clean break; it was another to fight your way through an enemy squadron. He felt it was only fair, after all, they still had a chance to get out of this safely; all they had to do was go back to their rooms.

  He had to admit, they took the news well. There was no grumbling or talking amongst them. At most, there were some side-glances and thoughtful expressions. Mike then gave them the option to back out, and no one would think the less of them. Like Colonel Travis at the Alamo and his line in the sand, not a man turned to leave.

  Dover was smiling at him from the rear of the formation. Mike nodded in return, smiling with pride. “All right, listen up. We have a half-hour to get everything we need, and get the heck out of here and to the rally point,” he paused, looking at their serious faces. “You have to work quickly and cautiously. We need each of you and the supplies, but the bottom line is that we can’t be caught.” He waited a second, letting his word sink in. “Clear?”

  “CLEAR, SIR!” the company replied in one voice.

  “Mister Dover, break them into their teams and let’s move out.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Alister replied and started calling off the names of the three raid teams.

  The first group was going with him to get any medical supplies they needed from the Porter Infirmary. The second team was headed by Mister Cappilo and was going to the mess hall to commandeer provisions. The Wolf’s galley was currently stocked with sealed battle rations, which though filling, were less than appetizing. Mister Daley would lead the third team accompanied by Mike and the Gunny. They had the most difficult task of breaking into the Academy’s armory.

  As the corps of midshipmen broke into their teams, they each grabbed one large duffel bag from where they were hidden behind the gym’s retractable bleachers. Within the overstuffed bags were their fitted space suits, two uniforms, and their personal items. Outside the building, Cappilo and three volunteers had borrowed three; two-ton trucks from the campus motor pool and were waiting for them to load them up.