Wings of Steele - Flight of Freedom (Book2) (16 page)

“Terra is the only one in this system that will hold life,” commented the Ensign at astrometrics.

Commander Ribundell nodded, “Yes, Captain Steele called it Earth... odd name,” she mused. “So where do we stand, Mr. RyeCyn?”

Lieutenant RyeCyn zoomed in the view screen on the west coast of Florida from his tactical station, “The landing party is gearing up, all hands are at battle stations and our landing zone is half-way between dusk and dawn...” A target box blipped at the landing point to illustrate the location.

“
It won't get any better than that. OK helm, take us in.” The Commander crossed her legs at the knee and sipped her coffee. “Shields up?”

“
Yes ma'am...” The screen returned to a normal view, the target box retreating to a miniscule mark on the picture, overlaid with the approach path arc, declination mapping and the orbit paths of the network of satellites circling the planet. The helmsman followed the plot line, navigating the UFW77 toward its entry point into the atmosphere and down to the surface. “It's like a floating junkyard up here...” The globe moved to the center of the screen as the nose of the ship swung and the ship left its twelve-thousand mile orbit.

Commander Ribundell sipped her coffee, “Do try not to hit any of them...” she commented, pulling up the ship's tactical screen on her command chair's console, knowing full well she didn't have to worry about the helmsman's abilities. Reviewing the system stats, she glanced up, “What's our ETA to the landing zone?”

“Forty-seven minutes...”

The Commander checked the ship's chronometer on her console and compared it with the call log from her comm pad, “Good, that fits right on schedule.” 

As the ship headed
down
toward the planet,
relatively speaking
, the navigation computer removed satellite orbit paths from the screen as they were passed, no longer relevant to the ship's course to the surface, the globe's image growing quickly.

Commander Ribundell pressed the comm button on her console, addressing her crew...

■ ■ ■

Chief Petty Officer Layora Cress sat on the deck near the 77's boarding ramp in full deployment gear, leaning casually back against a crate, her boots crossed at the ankles as she filed her prep report on an e-Pad. A phase rifle lay alongside her legs, her helmet sitting on top of it. The Chief paused and checked her chronometer, if they were on schedule, they had ten minutes to the landing zone. She reviewed the members of the crew she picked for the landing party and the equipment they would be taking with them. Unlike larger ships that would carry a contingent of Marines for ship's security and boarding or landing duties, the UFW77 was a corvette, basically the same size as a frigate only lighter and faster - with little room for more than the allotted crew. But there were members of that crew like the Chief and her team of about fifteen who were specially trained and equipped for duties like tonight's excursion. For this landing, the team would number six members including herself, because she fully expected things to be short and sweet. But she had six more members that would be ready and equipped, standing by in the 77's hold just in case things got complicated. From the same planet as Commander Ribundell, CPO Layora Cress had the same characteristic raven black hair and shining all-black eyes.

Standing next to the Chief, the big man looked down at her as she pulled her silken black hair back into a low bun. He set the butt of his plasma light machine gun on the toe of his boot and cradled the muzzle in the crease of his left elbow, his hands casually clasped at his belt line. Layora finished her hair and looked up at his hulking six foot, eight inch frame, “What's up, Truck?”

“
Chief, these people don't off-world, they don't have the technology...” he waved his hand, “except when the
Grays
take them for their little experiments. How are we going to communicate with them?” He had a voice befitting a big man, deep and mellow.

“
The Skipper has been communicating with the package with no issues, so I don't expect there to be a problem...”

He laid down his weapon and crouched next to her, “I wonder how that could be?”

Chief Cress shook her head, “I don't know, and it wasn't my place to ask.”

■ ■ ■

Approaching the west coast of Florida from three-hundred miles out in the Gulf of Mexico and about three-hundred feet off the water's surface, the 77 was traveling better than Mach 4, her 296 foot long bulk splitting the water below. At fifty miles out, Commander Ribundell had the helmsman decelerate hard, but the 77 was still doing over four-hundred when it passed a mile off the bow of a US Coast Guard cutter patrolling the coast, about ten miles out.

“
Commander,” Lieutenant RyeCyn turned from his console, “that appeared to be a military vessel...”

The communications officer was monitoring as many possible signal bands as she could. “I think I've got them Skipper...” She cocked her head, “Yep, definitely military. They can't identify us but they did see us. They've requested for something called a helicopter to help search for us.”

Lieutenant RyeCyn was monitoring the cutters position, “They're turning toward our direction...”

“
Thirty seconds,” called the navigator. Approaching the landing zone hot, the helmsman zeroed the throttle, applied breaking jets hard and swung the stern parallel to the beach, the entire ship coasting sideways the last hundred yards or so floating on the anti-gravity field. “Preparing to deploy landing legs...”

“
Belay that helm,” ordered Ribundell , “keep us on the AG, no legs.” The ship coasted in over the beach and came to a stop with a couple quick puffs from the braking jets. Lights on her command console winked on, indicating the starboard waist cargo doors were opening and the ramp deploying. She stood up and paced the stations on the bridge. “Keep an open channel to the team...”

■ ■ ■

Special Agent Doug Mooreland was getting bored with this assignment, every single time they came back to this damn house it was the same fucking thing. Nothing. Leaning against the SUV parked on the grass, he fired up a cigarette.

SETI had originally caught the incoming transmissions from space and DARPA had noticed a sharp incline in chatter around the SETI community - there seemed to be some real excitement there. Enough to pique DARPA's interest and get their attention. But trying to decrypt the signal was unsuccessful... in the process, the cryptologists were the first to realize the signal was going both ways, coming in from deep space and going back out... And
that
was a staggering bit of information. It fell squarely upon the NSA's shoulders to find whoever was responsible and bring them in - quietly, with any equipment they found,
intact
. It took them the better part of a month to track the signal here to Steele's beach house. But this Steele character never showed up, just his sister.

Some digital digging turned up a major FBI / CIA boondoggle connected with this family but it was well covered up and nobody was talking - somewhere, someone was pulling some pretty well-connected strings and Steele was off the grid. They originally had considered talking to the parents but they seemed so far removed from it all. The real action seemed to stem from here but none of it made any sense... the kind of power and equipment needed for sending and receiving these kinds of signals would be substantial - there was nothing like that here... but the signals kept happening.

Doug Mooreland shook his head, either the Steele chic was getting back out before they got there, or there was a hidden cubbyhole somewhere they were missing. They couldn't simply tear the house apart - the assignment didn't give them that kind of latitude. It was still supposed to be a secret operation, although their constant visits were pretty obvious.

They were stationed right across the street for God's sake, how could they possibly miss her? Still leaning against the SUV he took another drag on his cigarette listening to the radio chatter. Thirty minutes ago they caught a brief transmission to space, an email went out and a short cryptic phone call to the parents in Chicago. His team had gotten to the house in less than three minutes, but as usual there was nothing in the house. Doug had a sudden impulse to light it on fire as he fiddled with the lighter in his pocket.

He remembered the first night in, it had been a mess. Blood everywhere. One guy with his brains blown all over the hallway floor, another bled to death on the beach a hundred feet from the Steele house and the third they'd caught trying to bind his wounds at Dr. Brodermeyer's house a few doors away. Good God, another bloody nightmare there, Brodermeyer and the maid both shot to death. They'd thought of handing the Russian over to the FBI but decided to hold onto him for a while - no telling what he might know, or how he was connected to the Steele gig. He hadn't said anything yet - he was a hardass, but he
would
, with time. The NSA had their ways... subtle,
mind bending
ways. Oh yeah, he'd tell them everything. In any event, the Russian was not likely to ever see the light of day again.

Clearing his mind, Doug took another drag on the cigarette, exhaling, watching the cloud swirl away in the damp onshore breeze hitting his back, the streetlight turning it orange. When the light flickered, he hardly noticed, lost in his thoughts, until it went out completely. He looked at it curiously.

“Doug...”
The voice was soft but insistent. After all, it
was
one o'clock in the morning.
“Doug..!”

He flicked the remainder of his cigarette out into the street and keyed his radio to respond, before realizing it was dead. He whirled to search for the sound of the voice, his silenced H&K MP5 finding his hand. He adjusted the sling and moved around the SUV to meet the shadow of an agent standing at the corner of the house overlooking the beach. “What the hell is going on? My radio's dead...”

Ignoring his comment, the other agent urgently motioned him over, never taking his eyes off the beach, “You've
got
to see this...”

Doug Mooreland hurried over and took a knee next to the other agent, his submachine gun casually resting on his thigh, fully expecting to see skinny-dippers at the water's edge. All the lights on all the homes up and down the beach were out. He blinked hard to clear the streetlight impressions from his eyes, focusing on the large shadowy shape on the sand. “What the
fuck?
” As his eyes adjusted he realized there was red light coming from an opening in its side and a ramp extending down to the sand. He wasn't seeing it clearly enough yet and his mind was doing its best to fill in the blanks. “Oohh... It's a Marine Corps hovercraft...”

The other agent would have looked down at him disdainfully if he could have taken his eyes off it. “That thing is the length of a football field,” he hissed, “it's the size of a destroyer, are you blind?”

Doug Mooreland rubbed his eyes and began to see it more clearly as six armored figures descended the ramp, “holy shit...” Crouching, the other agent cleared the corner of the house and advanced on the landing party, his weapon at the ready. Doug grabbed for his leg and missed, “where the fuck are you going...?” A sizzling, concentrated blue-white flash came from the direction of the landing party and tossed the agent back towards Doug, laying him out, almost within his reach. Doug Mooreland lurched forward, grabbing the agent's tactical vest by the collar and pulled him back toward the protection of the corner of the house, a blue-white streak slashing past him, another hitting the wall in front of him, tendrils of electricity spreading out across the surface. Behind cover, Doug checked the man over but found no visible injury, the man's eyes looking up at him, his muscles twitching. “You OK?” he whispered. The agent's eyes rolled around, his mind searching for words, he spoke but it was all gibberish and Doug couldn't make heads or tails of it. “Just relax; I think you're going to be OK...” Rising to his feet, Doug released the safety on the H&K and peeked cautiously around the corner peering through the sights, but the figures were gone. He stared at the ship for a moment seeing it clearly now, realizing it was hovering quietly over the sand, the only discernible sounds being a low hum and the noise of the surf. He could clearly see the gun turrets and small windows, wondering if anyone inside could see him, when something else caught his eye out on the water maybe five or six miles out, the shape of a ship heading toward shore. He turned and moved toward the front door of the house and could see another team of five agents running down the street toward the house, their stalled SUV sitting in the street about a half a block behind them. Not knowing the situation inside the house, he decided to wait for the arrival of the other team.

■ ■ ■

Chief Petty Officer Layora Cress was the first one off the 77's ramp onto the beach, followed closely by the rest of her team. “Phase weapons only...
Truck
, the big gun only if we have to.”

“
Gotcha Chief.” The big man slung the light plasma machine gun behind him and drew his sidearm.

Looking left under direction of one of the 77's turret gunners, the Chief acknowledged the message. “I see them, thanks.” She continued to move toward the target house, “Spread out people, two targets left side...” A Petty Officer and Seaman paused, knocking down the advancing target, allowing the second to recover the first then driving him back to cover with a few choice shots, allowing the rest of the landing party to clear the beach. They hustled to catch up, running across the soft sand in their armor. The Seaman stayed at the foot of the deck on the sand to defend their egress, two sharpshooters lying prone in the doorway of the 77 at the top of the ramp, covering the beach in both directions.