Wings of Steele - Destination Unknown (Book 1) (9 page)

"This
came for you only minutes ago, sir..." he said, handing over
the envelope, "I got it here as soon as I could..." The
young man's voice trailed off, he always felt uncomfortable in this
office, too close to the top he decided.

"Sit
down, Special Agent Cummins," said the man behind the desk with
a sweep of his hand. "Coffee?"

The
young CIA agent was surprised by the offer but did not refuse. "Why,
yes sir, thank you very much." He sat at the table in the
center of the room, surveying the trappings of rank. The walls,
paneled in mahogany, were covered with souvenirs of foreign wars,
medals, decorations and commendations for every conceivable valor.
Behind the desk hung two large flags, the Stars and Stripes and the
flag of the CIA. A silk banner strung between them read;
John
8:32: "Ye shall know the truth and it shall set you free."

The
man behind the desk spoke into the comm before leaving and walking
out to the conference table in the middle of the room, "Maggie,
coffee for two please." Before he reached the table, Maggie
entered with coffee service for two. She poured the fresh, steaming
coffee into two white mugs emblazoned with the seal of the President
of The United States. "No interruptions, Maggie," said the
Director of South American Operations. "Yes, Mr. Miles,"
said the girl as she left the office.

Stephen
Miles could not bear to review bad news without a good cup of
coffee. "Ok, let's see what this is all about." The CIA
man of twenty odd years tore open the envelope after a sip of smooth
Colombian bean. Cup in hand, he read the confidential report. “Holy
shit," he said, staring at the paper trying to read between the
lines. He took a sip from the cup as he stood. "Ok Cummins, you
were there when this thing came in, weren't you?" Stephen's
back was turned to the agent as he slid the document into the
shredder, the pieces falling into a confidential burn-bag
underneath.

"Yes
sir, I was."

"What
other information came in," said the veteran, sitting back down
at the table. "That..." he said, pointing at the document
going through the shredder, "was pitifully brief."

The
young agent took a sip from his cup. "Yes sir. The details are
still coming in..." Stephen nodded, "but there wasn't much
more than that. At this point, quite a bit is supposition, like our
Latin Island operation has been compromised. That the B25 aircraft
owned by Miles Aviation, has disappeared with its cargo and crew..."
The young agent had suddenly made the name connection but tried not
to hesitate. He sipped briefly from his cup before going on, "Our
Latin operative is believed missing too." Stephen Miles rubbed
his face, he hated involving civilians in operations because when
things went wrong it always made damage control so much more
complicated. Agent Cummins continued, "There was also some
communication traffic about a number of San Juan Police Officers
killed - but that is unconfirmed and may be totally unrelated."

Stephen
groaned, rubbing his temples, this was getting more complicated by
the minute. "
Maggie!"

Stephen's
aide poked her head in the door, "Yes sir?"

"Get
Bob Wolf on the phone, tell him I want a plane, not one of mine and
not one of the
Company's
.
Tell him to rent one, a Lear maybe, something fast, but we need
complete anonymity..." he stood up, "and I need it
yesterday, got it?"

"Got
it," she replied, attempting to leave.

"Oh,
and tell Kevin to bring the car around. He and Mr. Cummins here,
will be going along."

"Yes
sir." She disappeared.

"Cummins,
go home and pack. Pack light. Call Maggie, she'll have your
directions for the plane... don't be late."

The
young man rose, straightening his jacket, "Yes sir."

The
Director stood at the window looking out over the city, his back to
the agent as he left the office. He had fixed his share of fuck-ups
in his career, he'd fix this one too. Dammit, he wanted that plane
back. And in one piece. Which means he had to find it before anyone
else did, no small task in an area littered with islands. And if he
hit the South American Continent, shit, he didn't even want to think
about that. His only hope was, that kid Steele... a skilled pilot,
resourceful too. To find that plane, meant thinking like a civilian,
a civilian on the run, with police and combat survival experience.
An extremely dangerous combination, he decided.

Maggie
knocked then entered. "Sir, Kevin is waiting."

Stephen
downed his coffee, "Thanks," he muttered, grabbing his
jacket and setting the coffee mug on the table. "Call you
later." He handed her the sealed burn-bag of shredded
documents, “Burn this for me, will you...?”

US
AIRCRAFT CARRIER, SHENANDOAH: BERMUDA TRIANGLE

The
Ensign walked down the seemingly endless hallway, lined with
officer's quarters, looking for one in particular. He found it and
knocked on the open doorway. The occupant was comfortably reclining,
fully clothed, on his bunk. He looked up from the book he was
reading. The lines on his face and the sparkle of silver in his
sandy blond hair gained him the nickname "Pappy" by some
of the other pilots.

Though
he was only forty-two years old, he was still years older than most
of the other pilots who were barely in their twenties. He had also
flown extensive combat sorties in the Gulf War which made him
somewhat of a legend with the newer officers. All in all, the
Lieutenant Commander kind of enjoyed the attention because it had
never
been done with any disrespect intended.

"What
can I do for you Ensign?" he said, with his legendary smile,
the crinkles around his blue eyes deepening.

"Sorry
to bother you, Pappy, but the Skipper wants you in briefing right
away."

Lieutenant
Commander Paul Smiley looked at his watch, "What gives? I'm not
due to go up for another hour and a half."

The
Ensign shrugged, "Don't know, sir, but he said right away."

"Ok...
Warren too?"

"Yes
sir..." said the junior officer, "do you know where I
might find him?"

Smiley
swung his feet over the edge of the bunk. "Try the forward
lounge, he said something about a football game on TV."

"Thanks,
Pappy." The Ensign saluted and disappeared down the hallway,
leaving the pilot alone with his thoughts.

Being
called to briefing this far in advance of a scheduled patrol launch
meant you weren't going out for just a patrol, there was something
out there somewhere. Smiley dropped off his bunk to the deck. His
five-foot eleven-inch frame was solid and muscular, remaining so due
to the rigors of being a fighter jock. A graduate of the Navy's
Top
Gun
program, he had long since traversed the stage of being a cocky
young hot dog to a cool, calculating, tremendously skilled, fighter
pilot.

After
donning his flight gear and checking himself in the mirror, he
headed off to flight briefing. Lieutenant Commander Smiley met his
wingman, Lieutenant JG Mike
Mad
Dog
Warren, in the corridor just outside the briefing room. Mike Warren
was a wiry kid from Iowa with curly auburn hair. His freckled face
made him look much younger than his twenty-five years and his small
town, Midwestern upbringing, made him sound as naive as he looked.

Still,
despite his sedate childhood, his clear, brown eyes sparkled at the
thought of flying just about anything. Mike's enthusiasm was evident
in his flying. He had a strong aptitude, and the advanced combat
maneuvers Paul had taught him were coming along nicely.

Pappy
inspected Mike's flight gear. "Ready?"

"Yep."

"Ok...
let's go." They entered together.

Smiley
was surprised to see eight other pilots already there, each one a
combat veteran. In fact, the only one without combat was his wingman
Mike Warren. This could be... hmmm, hell, he didn't know what to
think. He sat down as they all did, when the Air Boss entered the
room.

"Ok
gentlemen, find a seat and button up your faces..." he waited
until everyone was seated and continued, "We have a situation
which dictates we must search for, locate and escort a possible
hostile aircraft, so listen up. Does everybody know what a World War
Two, B25 Mitchell Bomber, looks like..?" he watched the
nodding heads. "Ok fine, it seems late last night or early this
morning, the details aren't clear on this, an armed B25 called the
Sweet Susie, landed at the San Juan airport and logged some time in
at an abandoned hangar. Responding to an anonymous tip, the San Juan
Police went out to investigate. They were fired upon and in the
ensuing gun battle more than twenty officers were either killed or
wounded."

A
low chorus of whispers erupted from the pilots. The Commander never
looked up from his report, "Shut up ladies, and listen... In
their escape, they dynamited the hangar, destroying thousands of
dollars of equipment being stored there. Not to mention all the
criminal laws, they also violated numerous civil air traffic laws,
endangering countless lives." He paused before going on. "It
is also suspected that they have abducted a local woman. These are
dangerous, vicious, people. It is reported that they have a load of
drugs and guns in a plane capable of defending itself. Our job is to
find it and escort it back to the San Juan airport where there are
police and military units waiting for it. These people are
desperate, and hostage or no, if you locate them and are fired upon,
splash 'em... I don't want anyone returning with holes in their
aircraft. Understood?"

"
Aye
aye, sir...
"
was the sombre response that rippled through the group.

“
Dismissed...”
The pilots rose and were issued their search pattern orders as they
exited two by two, heading for the elevator that would carry them to
the hangar level, two floors below the flight deck.

Walking
through the hangar level, the pilots joked and jousted verbally,
exchanging good-natured insults and challenges. Pausing only
momentarily to be serious, the aviators wished one another luck
before dispersing to do pre-flight inspections of their aircraft.

As
Smiley and Warren strolled across the hangar deck, the senior
officer pointed out his wingman's plane sitting on the aircraft
lift. The engineer standing next to the F18 waved the two airmen to
the lift. The pilots stepped onto the platform and it moved smoothly
upwards. "Your bird's already topside Pappy. You guys'll launch
first."

Smiley
guessed the grizzled engineer's age over fifty. "Chief, what're
you still doin' way out here?"

The
engineer smiled a crooked smile. "Well, I got seven kids, n'it
seems like every time I go home, another one pops out! This's the
only place I git any peace 'n quiet!" He guffawed at his own
joke, slapping the pilot on the shoulder. Smiley laughed too, the
thought of seven kids all in one house seemed simply unbelievable.
The Chief climbed onto the tow truck as the lift squeaked to a stop.
"Your bird's over there." He said, pointing the way, as he
started the motor on the truck. The pilot waved.

Warren
waved back as he followed his aircraft. They would be on their own
now until they were in the air.

Paul
Smiley examined his Hornet inch by inch. He handed the line
assistant his helmet to climb the ladder to the cockpit and paused
to run his hand gently across the Desert Storm logo, just below the
cockpit. He was proud of that logo and what it stood for, along with
the four kill badges to the right.

The
line assistant buckled him in and handed the pilot his flight
helmet.
After
switching on all systems, Paul spun up the engines. While they
warmed, he proceeded through his lengthy pre-flight checklist. By
the time he finished, Mike Warren's Hornet had just left the
catapult and Smiley got the nod to roll. He released the brakes,
slowly rolling to the catapult under direction of the Line Boss.
Smiley closed and latched the canopy, stopping at the Boss's signal.

Several
more F-18s sat behind him on the deck, their engines warming,
waiting their turn. The catapult linkage connected to the nose wheel
of his Hornet, he waited, watching the Line Boss. The Boss was the
Maestro
of the deck. That deck and everything on it belonged to him.
Conducting deck traffic like an orchestra, the LB controlled
aircraft, deck equipment and men alike. Everyone watched him, a
missed que could spell disaster.

A
blast panel rose from the deck behind the plane to protect the
fighters waiting next in line. The Boss rotated his hand in the air
and Smiley throttled up, the catapult holding his aircraft in place.
Exchanging the thumbs up signal with the LB, the pilot's hands left
the controls to hold onto the grips on either side of the canopy.
The line-controlled F18 is control sensitive on takeoff, so it's
carrier-launched hands-off.

The
Boss took a quick look around, saluted the pilot sharply from his
crouched position and as his arm dropped, the catapult fired,
shooting the Hornet across the deck and out over the ocean. As soon
as he was over the water, Smiley took the controls and steered the
F18 into a climbing turn, out of the traffic pattern. He breathed
deeply in his mask and grinned – any day flying was the best
time of your life. He raised his landing gear. "Blue One to
STC, feet wet, proceeding as planned..."

“
Roger
Blue One,” replied the traffic control officer from the
carrier, “Happy trails.”

"Blue
One to Blue Two... location?"

“
Blue
Two, coming around on your port side, Pappy.”

Paul
Smiley glanced over his left shoulder, "Roger Blue Two... come
to a heading of two-four-zero, let's climb to Angels 10."

“
Roger
Blue One." The two pilots pointed their aircraft on course and
before long, began their search. "Why d'you suppose they sent
the Navy on a mission like this?" Warren asked his senior
officer, over a more private air to air channel.

Surveying
the sky and glancing at his scope, Pappy shrugged mentally, "I
guess there really isn't anyone else." It was about as good an
answer as any. The pilots flew along in virtual silence except for
occasional radio traffic and updates to the carrier.

SWEET
SUSIE, SOUTH OF THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE :
HIDE
N' SEEK

Having
switched seats, Brian and Jack munched happily on the ham sandwiches
Maria had passed to the cockpit, and Fritz watched with interest as
they ate. The Shepherd nudged Jack's elbow and he tore off a piece,
handing it to the dog.

"How're
you doin' back there?” Jack called.

“
Fine,”
she replied popping up in between them. “How are your ribs?”

“
Colorful...”

"Wow...
wook at dat coud formafin!" Brian mumbled, his mouth full of
ham sandwich.

Jack
looked at his copilot's bulging cheeks instead. "Really?”
he said sarcastically, “Tower, message garbled, please
repeat...” he chided. “How about you swallow and try
that again.” The copilot smiled sheepishly. Fritz stared
intently, hoping some of it would fall on the floor.

■ ■ ■

In
the search for the B25, Blue flight was the first to encounter
anything in the sky that day. "I got a bogie, Pappy..."
called Mike Warren. "Damn it's gone."

"Where?"

"On
the edge of my scope, bearing one-seven-nine." Warren peered
out over the port wingtip of his F18, knowing he wouldn't see it
from this distance.

“
Ok,
Mad Dog, let's go check it out. Head up one-seven-nine. Blue One to
STC, did you copy?"

"Roger,
Blue One. Keep us informed."

The
two Navy jets did a wing-over and swung to their new heading,
throttling up. "I got my blip back again..." called Mike.

"Yep,"
replied Commander Smiley, "I got it too. Maintain course and
speed." They flew on in formation. The two Hornets quickly
closed the gap, approaching the B25 from behind and above. Ten
minutes passed.