“Duke, when I meet you,” I said softly with a smile in my voice, “You’ll be medically unfit for flight status for a week.”
“J-Pop, ha, flying a fat GunShip,” he said as only a self-assured Fighter pilot could, “J-Pop, I look forward to meeting you.”
“Duke, plan on 2 weeks,” I said before snapping off the radio.
“If the Station is closed, how did the Marine Corps unit get us here?” Stone Angel asked, “and wouldn’t they get in a mess of trouble for the escort?”
“Ah, the Flight was 1775,” I replied.
“Oh, the Marine Corps’ birth year,” the Striker replied, “You don’t suppose they lied about their flight designation?”
“Marine’s don’t lie,” I assured him, “I must have misunderstood.”
I got busy with Flight Control. They were coordinating a medical response team for Warlock and Heavy Rain. While we talked, ground crewmen towed the DS to a dock. I shut down power to the ion wall and opened both hatches.
Four Emergency Medical Technicians and two other teams stood beside two portable pressure beds and two stretchers. I began to step off the cockpit deck when I was gently shoved back.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Piran,” Stone Angel said in an upper crust accent.
He had changed. From wrinkled work utilities, he’d put on a tailored civilian suit. The nattily dressed Striker walked out of the hatch pulling a large suitcase. The travel luggage was about the size of a hard drive case.
“Excuse me young man,” he said to one of the EMTs, “Please direct me to the Shuttle port.”
“Yes Sir, it’s on the fourth level,” the Medical Tech answered, “If you rush, you can make the next flight down to Dos.”
“My good man, I never rush," Mr. Lieke Steyn, formally known to me as Stone Angel, replied, “But I do appreciate your forethought.”
With that, the Striker nonchalantly strolled off the dock pulling the mundane looking luggage behind him. He’d no sooner disappeared into a lift when two Navy Shore Patrolmen appeared. They marched from their lift directly towards the DS.
“In here,” Fire Dove directed from the hatch while waving to the EMTs, “One critical on the lower deck and another stable in the third row main cabin. You four, once we’ve cleared the wounded, take the bodies to the morgue.”
Fire Dove, or I could have said Doctor Iñaki Uxue, had also transformed. He’d donned green surgical scrubs and to accent the outfit, a stethoscope dangled around his neck. Even his footwear resembled the type used by surgeons. They were white with just enough scuff marks to look well used.
“Let’s go people. Lives depend on us,” he said as he led one team towards the ladder and the lower deck where Warlock lay.
Over the next five minutes, Warlock and Heavy Rain, escorted by Doctor Uxue, were placed in stabilizing pressure beds and taken off the DS. Three minutes after that, the bodies of Thunder Eagle and Cionaodh 5th Daire were also removed.
The Deep Space GunShip was empty except for the Shore Patrol and me.
“Are you the pilot?” one of them asked.
“Yes, the commander of Galactic Council Navy 48,” I stated, “Lieutenant Piran. And I need to speak with Flight Control. Right now.”
They looked at each other. I didn’t know or care what their orders were, I needed information.
“We’ll escort you to Orbital Station flight control,” he replied, “But then you’ll come with us to see the officer of the watch.”
“You are standing in a Navy vessel of which I am the Captain,” I said giving them a hard stare, “You will refer to me as Lieutenant or Sir. What unit are you from?”
“Oh, sorry Sir, we’re from the Monserrat de la Astolfo,” he answered.
So this Rear Admiral Remigio had brought down his people to run security on Orbital Station. These bumbling guys weren’t trained Shore Patrol. Most likely, this was temporary duty. They actions weren’t those of professional military policemen.
“This GunShip you’re standing in is armed to the floor boards with munitions,” I said while stomping my foot on the deck plates to see if they winched, “It is a hazard to this entire civilian station and all the personnel on board. And, it cannot be left unguarded. Are you with me so far?”
They had winched and looked nervous. I had to assume they were usually assigned to office work on the Heavy Cruiser. But at least, they both shook their heads in understanding.
“Good. You and you are hereby assigned to guard this GunShip,” I ordered, “If any of the gun ammo goes missing or a rocket or missile fires and kills hundreds of people, it’s your responsibility. Gentlemen, you have the watch.”
Chapter 37
I didn’t wait for them to call the officer of the watch or to question me. I simply walked out leaving the two very confused men standing in the empty DS.
The lift carried me to the top of the flight control tower. As it climbed two deck heights above the docks, I had a nice view of the six launch tubes and the six recovery tubes. My DS was the singular war ship. There were, however, three Navy Shuttles, four civilian Shuttles but, only two Navy Yachts.
I assumed one Yacht was for the Dos Sector’s Admiral. The other I knew was from the Heavy Cruiser. I knew because Monserrat de la Astolfo was stenciled on its side. What bothered me was the absence of a Yacht from the Ander El Aitor. If Rear Admiral Haitham was on Orbital Station, his personal boat should be here as well.
The lift opened and I walked into a large room where one wall and part of the floor was constructed of cantilevered glass. Just off the glass flooring were controller stations. Only one had an operator and he looked bored.
“Is that your Patrol Boat?” he asked as I detoured around a few desks to avoid walking on the glass floor.
It was two decks down to the docks, the floor looked flimsy and the gravity was heavy compared to the DS. So, I judicially avoided the direct route. The operator, thankfully, didn’t laugh out loud, but he did have a wide grin on his scared face.
“It’s a Deep Space GunShip,” I relied as I approached him from the center of the room, “And yes Sir, I’m the pilot.”
“Don’t call me Sir. Sir,” he barked, “I work for a living.”
It was then I looked closely at the scars on the side of his face and neck. They were complimented by scaring on his hand on that side of his body. I imagined there was more space exposure scared skin under the long sleeved shirt. The cold had killed the cells and destroyed the underlying tissue. It left him permanently disfigured.
“Military?” I asked pointing at the rough and angry looking skin.
“Staff Sergeant Cináed, formally of the Galactic Council Marine Corps, retired,” he reported.
“Lieutenant Piran, assigned to Special Navy Operations, Striker detachment,” I replied and added, “Nice to meet you Mister Cináed.”
“Is the GunShip armed?” he inquired.
“She’s armed to the teeth. But I have two Navy guys sitting on her,” I told him, “at least for now.”
“They look like Shore Patrol,” he said with an evil grin, “I can’t usually allow an armed GunShip to sit on my dock. Although with all flights cancelled, I can leave it there for a day or two.”
“Can you order the Shore Patrol to maintain the guard duty?” I asked.
“You want to keep them occupied, do you?” he asked, “I can do that seeing as the Navy has practically commandeered the entire Station.”
“Yea, about that. Why would the Navy close the Orbital Station?” I asked.
“Well, it started when the Ander El Aitor arrived and began unloading their wounded,” he answered, “The Monserrat de la Astolfo was already here. Sometime during the shuttling of the wounded to planet side, Rear Admiral Remigio ordered all flights cancelled. Except for planet Shuttles and flights from the Heavy Cruiser.”
“He’s blocking all flights from the Ander El Aitor,” I asked in horror.
The BattleShip’s crew had just come from a space battle. A fight
they were lucky to escape from intact. They needed resupply, some deserved shore leave, and the shops would require repair items. Blocking them from Orbital Station was beyond immoral. It was criminal.
“All flights are cancelled. Rear Admiral Remigio issued the orders when he marched the two Rear Admirals off his Yacht,” he said shaking his head.
“Define marched, Marine?” I asked.
“They were handcuffed,” he said putting his arms behind his back, “as in shackled.”
“Did he give a reason for closing the Station?” I inquired.
“One of his four, yes, four aids, mentioned something about the whole crew being Pirates,” he sneered, “Couldn’t happen. I know a few of the Marines assigned to the Ander El Aitor. Good people.”
“Yes they are,” I agreed with him, “Thank you for your help. Semper Fi.”
“Aye Sir, and same to you,” he responded.
I took the lift down to the dock area and walked across to the main set of lifts and, stopped. I had no idea where to go. Or who to talk with, except, it wouldn’t be the officer of the watch.
My PID buzzed saving me from making a decision.
‘Sending the Troop’s body to planet Dos,’ Dr. Iñaki Uxue sent, ‘Mr. Steyn wants to run some tests.’
‘Keep me posted,’ I sent back, ‘Any idea where they’re keeping Haitham?”
Fire Dove and Stone Angel had gone operational on their own volition. The Strikers had transformed from military personnel and assumed civilian cover identities. I was grateful for their foresight. Now, if I could stay off the Navy’s radar, maybe I could help Rear Admiral Haitham and Rear Admiral Tuulia.
I decided the best way to get lost for a while was to change clothes. The Station’s retail stores were on level nine. So I took the lift to where I could go shopping.
The young lady wrinkled her nose when I stepped into her shop. I guess a few weeks in space where body washing was minimal left one a bit rank. I apologized and explained my personal items were delayed by the closing of the Station.
She understood and helped me select a few a pairs of civilian slacks, shirts and shoes. After I paid, she suggested or rather insisted, I check in at the hotel level and take a shower.
It was a grand idea. I would have, except, I had two stops to make before checking in and taking care of myself.
The first stop was a uniform store. I assumed the tailor had a strong constitution as he didn’t mention my manly aroma. He simply fitted me for a duty uniform and a set of dress whites. Stop one done, I departed the shop to wait on directions to my next stop.
There was a coffee shop next door and the freshly brewed coffee pulled me towards it. Then, I spied a pair of Shore Patrolmen a few stores away. The draw of a hot cup made me almost chance it. I caught my reflection in the shop’s window.
Wrinkled flight suit with sweat stains under the arms and scuffed boots. Although I didn’t know the uniform of the day, I was smart enough to know, I wasn’t wearing it.
I turned my back on the Shore Patrol, crossed to the other side of the shopping deck and took a lift up two levels. The view was grand as I leaned over the rail. Below me and across a large expanse, the Patrol wandered by the stores.
Behind me, the ornate entrance of a hotel beckoned. Across the air space, a more modest entrance and no doubt a less expensive hotel sat. I looked over at the modest hotel, turned back to the elegant entrance and decided.
“Good afternoon, Sir. How may I be of assistance?” the man behind the counter asked.
“I need a suite for three, maybe four days,” I replied.
He didn’t say it but he was straining hard to keep from asking. I gathered this from the way he’d fixated on my rank insignia. An overpriced hotel as this one didn’t usually, if ever, get a lowly Lieutenant checking in and asking for a suite.
“I’ll be checking in as a Merchant Fleet Navigator,” I informed him.
After swiping my PID, he suddenly got very busy. It’s funny how when you flash credentials, people treat you differently. While he was ordering maid service to double check the rooms, and catering to be sure there was a fruit basket and champagne in the sitting room, I sent Doctor Iñaki Uxue a message.
“Have suite at the best digs I could find,’ I typed, ‘Did you locate the Admiral?’
A bell captain appeared and motioned me to follow him. We entered the dark wood paneled lift and he punched in a code for the penthouse.
‘He’s being held under guard on the JAG deck,’ Fire Dove informed me, ‘No visitors.’
‘Thanks. Room for you in the penthouse when you need it,’ I replied.
‘Alert,’ he sent.
The Bell captain walked me through the five-bedroom suite but I was oblivious to most of it. The absurdity of holding a senior Naval officer in isolation was so upsetting, I missed the tour. I ran my PID over his, leaving him a healthy tip, before shoving him out the door. I can open my own champagne, besides, I needed to clean up quickly and visit a Read Admiral.
The Judge Advocate General’s deck was one of the first sections in the Navy’s area of Orbital Station. I didn’t enter it as there’d be too many questions asked of a man dressed in civilian clothing. After a walk by to check on security, I ducked into a restroom.
While I slid on the Clan trousers and pulled the Clan doublet over my head, I had a thought.
‘I don’t remember a blockbuster video where the super hero uses public restrooms to change into their super hero garb.’
I stepped out of the restroom, invisible in the Clan gear.
Down the corridor and around a bend, I encountered my first barrier. A reinforced glass door. Beyond the glass sat a low ranking Navy guard. She was sitting with her back stiff. If anyone cared to look, she seemed braced for action. But, I recognized the artificial posture. The reality was she was bored and sat uncomfortably in order to keep herself awake. She just needed a little entertainment.
I pulled a one hundred Peseta bill from under the doublet, put a slight bend in it and launched it. The bill fluttered to the deck. No response from the guard.
I got on my hands and knees and blew at the bill. The bend caught the air and it scooted across the deck. I lifted my head. No response.
Bending down again, I blew harder at the bill. It jumped, rolled and came to rest a meter and a half from the door. The guard stood and looked around.
She’d found some entertainment. After a few more searches to be sure she was alone, she walked around the desk. To her, it was an errant bill being pushed by the Station’s air handling system; a large and tempting amount, for a low paid Navy lady.
I smiled as she opened the reinforced glass door, propped it, and ran to retrieve the money. By then, I was inside and moving down the hallway deeper into the JAG section.
There were doors to offices on one side and hearing rooms on the other. It wasn’t until I turned a corner that I spotted Haitham’s accommodations. It might have been Tuulia’s but I couldn’t imagine two male guards for the Navigator. She was, more than likely, in the room further down the hallway where a single female sailor stood watch.
One thing struck me as strange. They used Navy personnel to guard the prisoners. Traditionally, it was the Marine Corps’ job to secure brigs and holding cells. Why had the JAG commander decided not to use Marines?
If they had been Marines, my actions would have failed. Kick a Marine and he’d quickly return the kick and be right back at his station with little lag time.
I delivered a low side snap kick to one of the Navy guys. He grabbed his shin and glared in the direction of the attack. The only person there was the other guard. So he walked away from his post to confront his partner.
I reached out, opened the door, stepped in and closed the door behind me. Rear Admiral Haitham’s apartment had a sitting room with a work station in one corner. Although the wires still dangled, all the electronics had been removed. He truly was being held incommunicado. On the far side of the sitting room, one door le
d to a bedroom, and another to a large body cleaning facility.
I spotted Rear Admiral Haitham. He was stretched out on his bed with an arm covering his face.
Chapter 38
“Excuse the intrusion, Admiral,” I said as I pulled back my hood, “May I have a word?”
He lifted his forearm just enough to peer at me. It took a few seconds before recognition set in and he dropped his arm back onto his face.
“I’m a little busy right now, Lieutenant Piran,” he said in a strained tone, “It seems I’m a traitor, a renegade, and a negligent BattleShip captain. Why else would I have brought the Andre El Aitor back all broken and damaged?”
“Because you fought a space battle against an invading and possibly superior force?” I suggested, “What happened, Sir?”
“Rear Admiral Remigio happened,” he said sliding his legs off the bed and standing, “But you’re a Junior officer. I shouldn’t be talking about an Admiral to you.”
“Who else do you have, Sir?” I asked holding out my arms to indicated the empty room, “Seems I’m the only friend you have. Oh, and why is the Navy guarding your door? Why not Marines?”
“Alright J-Pop, from one Navy aviator to another,” he said walking to a bar and splashing three fingers of Tom Keller into a glass, “You want one?”
“No thank you Admiral,” I said turning down the brandy, “I may have things to do later.”
He tasted the drink, shuffled to a sofa, and plopped down. Admiral Haitham wasn’t the same man I first meet when he was the Assistant Chief of Flight Operations on a BattleShip. The charges against him, and possibly the treatment he’d received, had hurt him. From a hard charging, by the book leader, he’d been reduced to a man with no career path and no future plans.
Most of my observations were based on his eyes. They were downcast and he only glanced at me occasionally. The rest of the time we talked, he stared at the carpet. It wasn’t that interesting a rug. Also, he slouched. The Admiral Haitham I knew never stooped, not even when he realized the Constabulary Carrier had more flight assets than the Ander El Aitor. The charges had taken the fight out of him.
Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 29