Wings of Steele - Destination Unknown (Book 1) (37 page)

■ ■ ■

Jack
thought he could make out something about the bridge being
secured,
but he could not be sure. He flinched when the flash of an energy
beam destroyed part of a nearby crate. Fritz wanted some action but
Jack grabbed him by the collar, "No way buddy-boy..."
Peering between the crates, Jack found the source of the assault.
Shouldering the storage containers to widen the gap, he took aim and
waited... The pirate was good but he exposed himself to get another
shot. The two heavy .45 slugs passed through the breastplate of his
armor like butter, sending the soldier crashing to the deck. Their
armor, designed to shield against energy weapons, offered little
protection against the assault of a projectile weapon. The pirates
were learning that the hard way.

The
deck around the cruiser became a no-mans-land with little
hope
for survival, should one attempt to cross it. Several soldiers, well
armed and heavily armored, raced onto the deck in an attempt to
reach and take the tower hoping to gain the high ground. Firing as
they ran, their weapons blazed furious flashes of pure, concentrated
energy.

Defending
fire thickened and cover fire intensified to protect the
runners.
Two never made it a quarter of the way. The others pushed on,
weaving through the fire like they were dodging raindrops. Brian
could not believe they were still going... they were almost to the
tower...

■ ■ ■

"Are
you ready, Uncle?"

Professor
Edgars loaded a full magazine into the carbine, realizing it
would
be a terrible waste of precious ammunition. He nodded. "Together
now... ready, set,
GO!"
Derrik and the professor popped up from the protecting rim of the
tower's roof, firing at the runners. Empty shell casings showered
the roof with hollow pings as the M1s fired .30 cal. rain upon the
runners and the deck below. They fell, one by one, their armor
perforated like paper.

The
air erupted in retaliatory fire, the tower taking the brunt of
the
assault. Shards of scrap metal and pieces of cast-crete hailed the
landing deck like shrapnel.

Through
the haze of cordite and seared composites, Brian saw one of
the
two figures on top of the tower pitch backward by a well placed shot
from the pirates. Exposing himself to get a clear view, Brian
skillfully manipulated the trigger to nearly replicate full-auto
fire, almost literally cutting the culprit in two.

■ ■ ■

"Uncle?!"
Derrik knelt down.

"Oh,
Bloody Christ, that hurts..." The shot had taken his left arm
off
just
below the shoulder, mid-bicep.

Derrik
looked at the charred stump and the blackened carbine still
clutched
in the professor's right hand. "Oh Lord, Uncle..."

"Guess
I've been hit eh?" His breathing was in short gasps. "Ten
months
in Viet-Nam and not a scratch... Blast the luck."

"Don't
leave me, Uncle!" Derrik cradled the professor's head, "Don't
you
dare!"

"Sooo
woozy... Can't seem to... keep..." His eyes closed slowly, like
he
was falling asleep.

■ ■ ■

Paul,
Mike and Maria, using the Sweet Susie like a Trojan Horse, were to
gain entry to the cargo bay of the cruiser and prevent any remaining
members of the pirate crew from leaving and re-enforcing the
soldiers already outside on the landing pad. "Kill 'em, or keep
'em busy," is all Jack had said.

Predictably,
as soon as the fighting had started in the
Princess'
bay, the cargo workers abandoned their chores in the cruiser's bay
and attempted to obtain arms to attend the battle. They never made
it to the ramps. About a third of them lay dead in their own cargo
bay, their bodies ventilated by the .50 cal. guns of the Sweet
Susie. The survivors sat quietly on the floor, their empty hands
resting in their laps. These men were not soldiers or warriors like
others in the crew, they simply worked on a ship that happened to be
owned by a pirate. For them, there was no shame in surrender. In
fact, it was greatly preferred to death. Maria remained in the upper
turret, while Paul and Mike climbed out on the wings of the B25 to
increase their field of vision and prevent a sneak attack. They
chambered rounds into their M1s and waited.

"Sounds
like murder out there, Pappy..."

Paul
nodded solemnly, "Yeah." He was all too aware of the
shouts and
cries
in his headset. Making sense of them was totally impossible. He
longed to participate, to contribute what he could, to be able to
see with his own eyes what progress, if any, was being made. This
sitting was pure anguish.

■ ■ ■

"Pappy!"
Mike pointed over the nose of the plane.

Paul
spun around as a group of armed pirates poured out of a service
lift
descending from an upper level. Mike was already firing. Paul
dropped to one knee and aimed, dropping the leading soldier with
his first shot. The pirates spread out, finding what cover they
could and returned fire, hot magenta streaks of energy, knocking
Mike off the port wing. Paul began instinct firing, the empty brass
shell casings bouncing across the wing and cascading to the deck
below. "You Ok, kid?"

"Fine..."
Mike gritted his teeth and worked his way to the landing
gear,
"just fine." Resting his shoulder against the landing gear
to steady his carbine, he returned the pirates' fire. "Die, you
filthy sons of bitches,
die!
"
The pain across his ribs burned like a hot poker. He dared not look
at his injury. Instead, he blinked away the tears of pain and
concentrated on the anger, the fury which rose within him. The
effect of the .30 cal. rounds striking their destinations so
fascinated him, Mike almost forgot the agony burning in his side.

The
intensity and accuracy of the gunfire produced by Mike and Pappy
surprised
the pirates, who could find no reliable protection through which the
M1's rounds could not pass. Completely obscured from sight, pirates
were dropping like flies, their lives stolen by weapons they would
consider not only ancient but totally inferior, as well.

■ ■ ■

A
pirate, the fight brought to him in his own cargo bay, huddled low
behind
the stacked containers and crates stolen from the Princess Hedonist.
"Ragnaar...!" He called.

"Over
here, my brother!" came the reply over the din.

Deeter
looked to his left and saw an energy weapon firing blindly
over
the tops of the crates. Ragnaar was not the only one who had adopted
this posture. "Ragnaar, what do we do..." He looked at the
lifeless bodies of his shipmates laying about him. "These
Humans fight without fear, and their weapons... so accurate!"

"True,
my brother! They fight like the demons of Hellion possess their
very
souls!" Ragnaar fired blindly from cover, shredding the
starboard wingtip of the Sweet Susie. "I swear I killed the one
who fell from the wing, but
still
he fights!" Ragnaar was, although not human, a man. And as men
went, he was on the rather large size. Herculean to be a little more
precise. And although he had the confidence of a Cerulian Lion, he
was not used to seeing someone he thought to be a corpse, up and
fighting.

Deeter
had no desire to die, but he decided if he was to die, it
would
not be hiding like a coward in his own ship. "I say we move
against them! It is our only chance for victory!"

"I
agree. Let us not waste another second on talk!" Ragnaar
removed
and
checked the energy clip which powered his rifle. Finding it low, he
replaced it with a fresh one. "I am ready!" The soldiers
passed the word on a rallying advance.

■ ■ ■

Mike
leaned against the port landing gear of the B25 and tried to
inhale
deeply to ease the pain in his ribs. The searing pain came and went,
making him woozy and affecting both his balance and vision. There
seemed to be a minor lull, which gave the pilots time for quick
introspection.

"You
Ok, kid?"

Mike
evened his breathing. "Still here Pappy, think we got `em
all?"
His voice was pained.

"Don't
know, kid. How's your ammo?"

Mike
pulled the clip from his carbine and examined it, "Oh, about
twenty
rounds or so. How `bout you?"

Paul
was checking his own. "That's all you've got? I've got almost
two
full mags left!" His voice became fatherly, "Look, take
it..." he never finished the sentence.

Deeter,
Ragnoss and the remaining pirates, executed their plan,
storming
the B25 and showering it with bright magenta, streaks of fire.
Encouraged by the shouts of their crew mates, Maria's prisoners rose
and turned toward the plane. Quick on the trigger, the harsh
vibrating bark of Maria's twin .50 cal. guns changed their minds.

One
arm wrapped around the strut of the landing gear to keep from
toppling,
Mike fought to focus as he fired, being careful to conserve
ammunition. Paul was forced to flatten himself prone against the
starboard wing, close to the fuselage to avoid the vicious wave of
energy pulses.

Paul
fired fiercely at his now limited field of vision. Having lost
the
advantage of height, Paul tried to drop to the floor to keep Mike
from being overrun but the intensity of the pirate's attack kept him
confined. Maria could not help. Her prisoners, prone on the deck,
watched and waited for the chance to escape if her gun turret turned
away.

Mike
heard the familiar poing of the last spent shell casing
leaving
the M1s magazine. His stomach fell. He let go of the strut and
dropped to the deck. "I'm done, Pappy..."

Paul
felt sick inside, "Hold on, kid." He prepared to drop to
the
floor
to protect his friend. The B25 shuddered violently and lurched,
listing to the port side. Paul knew they would try to overrun Mike's
undefended position and if he couldn't retrieve his friend quickly,
there would be no hope. Paul tried calling his wingman on the com,
but there was no answer. Paul fired rapidly and emptied his clip,
trying to beat the attackers into retreat.

The
pirates, their number diminished, but their fervor strong, closed
on
the plane. Paul rammed his last clip into the carbine and prepared
to die. "If they get me, darlin', gun `em all... every single
one..." His southern accent seemed to be stronger under stress.

Maria
looked over her shoulder, she couldn't see him. She couldn't
believe
it was going to end like this. "Ok, Pappy." She
desperately tried to call Jack on her com unit for help, but got
nothing.

Paul
took a deep breath and rolled off the wing. He hit the deck in
a
crouch and rolled backwards uncontrolled. It saved his life, the
pirates couldn't hit him. He scurried to the starboard landing gear
amidst a brutal slew of pirate fire and rubbed his swelling left
ankle. Mike's motionless form lay almost ten feet from the blackened
port landing gear, its tire shredded and flat.

The
pirates were so close, Paul could see their faces. He chose his
targets
carefully, gritting his teeth to remain calm, fighting the urge to
run and preserve life and limb. He twice killed pirate soldiers
trying to flank him, but as his ammunition dwindled, he realized his
luck was going with it... “I'd give my left nut for an M249
right about now,” he breathed. “Or a nice big M60...”

Bursts
of gunfire erupted behind him, coming from the cargo ramps,
and
Paul snuggled down beside the wheel of the Sweet Susie's gear.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Paul said a short prayer.
"Well, so much for Lady Luck..." Blazing magenta streaks,
whizzed by him from behind, striking crates forward of the plane.
That was unnerving enough, but it was the war cry, a long, deep,
roaring howl, which made his blood run cold. "Christ Almighty!
What the hell was
that
..?"