Gabriel's Redemption (2 page)

Fat Man and Little Boy did as instructed; Gabriel’s neuretics confirmed the fields dropped. Little Boy motioned with a downwards nod of his head. “I have an envelope for you, it’s in my right inside pocket.” His eyes never left the muzzle of the pistol, the targeting laser dot placed squarely over his heart.

Gabriel slowly moved the pistol in Fat Man’s direction, the dot jumping from man to man. “You, right hand on top of your head, reach across with your left hand and take out the envelope. And please, it’s been a long night for me as well. Don’t give me a excuse to wake everyone else up with two bodies hitting the floor.”

Fat Man complied, obviously understanding the danger inherent in the nearly-silent and highly-lethal 7mm Heckart, and reached over in front of Little Boy, withdrawing a small beige envelope with a red seal from the other’s jacket pocket.

“Toss it over,” Gabriel commanded, weapon still pointed at the men.
 

Fat Man gave a snap of the wrist, and the envelope dropped neatly at Gabriel’s feet.
 

“Actual paper, huh? How quaint. What’s in it?” he asked, flicking the gun towards the envelope.

Little Boy sighed. “Commander Evan Gabriel, NAF Naval Special Forces, by order of the Director of Naval Intelligence of the North American Federation, you are hereby recalled to active duty.”
 

Fat Man grunted, finally speaking. “Something big’s come up. We’re here to take you back home, sir.” He cracked a grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Whether you like it or not.”
 

For the first time, Evan Gabriel’s pistol wavered. Of all the places he could have gone to hide out and escape the world, his childhood vacation retreat of Jamaica seemed to be the perfect backwater location -- the last place anyone would look for him. And now, it was all over.
 

“Let me get my shoes.”

Dozens of small, dark faces pressed against the grimy windows of Sangster International Airport’s main terminal. They stared out, mesmerized, as the tilt-turbine Combat Raven spooled up its engines, squatting on the cracked tarmac like a hungry tiger about to pounce on a gazelle. Dirt and debris scattered from the hot jet wash, peppering a nearby fuel truck with the sound of marbles being dropped onto a tin roof. The children watching murmured amongst themselves. Their eyes widened as the turbines reached a high-pitched whine. The pulsejet engines began to thrum a steady, low beat heard even in the deepest recesses of the dilapidated airport.

With a final burst of power, the Combat Raven leaped into the air on twin tongues of plasma. Ripples of heat made the tarmac shimmer as the aircraft blasted skyward. The children pointed excitedly as they watched the midnight blue bird of prey speed away over the crumbling cruise ship pier, engine nacelles rotating to horizontal. Within seconds it had shrunken to a tiny dot over the Caribbean.

Inside the aircraft, Evan Gabriel turned his face away from the viewport and scrunched down into a more comfortable position in the jumpseat. The Combat Raven was the heavily armed and shielded version of the NAF Aerospace Force Raven transport aircraft. Having to make room for the additional weaponry and sensor suites left very little in the way of personal comforts.

Normally able to seat 40 fully-suited and geared drop troopers in ten rows of four (with a convenient aisle down the middle; not so much for flight attendants to serve beverages as for a 220 pound soldier with his or her 40 pound pack to squeeze down), the Combat Raven stripped those cushioned seats out and replaced them with fold-down nylon webbing and carbotanium frame benches along each side. Down the center, ostensibly the aisle, rose a hump running the length of the interior, packed with electronic warfare equipment. At the rear was a weapons blister, a small glass bubble revealing the automated turret stashed below the craft, only a few inches protruding above the cabin floor. All the viewports save for two small ones on each side had been replaced for defensive armoring.

At the very rear, what used to be the restroom area on the transport aircraft, sat rows of consoles for countermeasures and radar/lidar stations; only one operator was present for this trip. The lone ECM tech sat facing away from the cabin with old-fashioned headphones covering his ears. He paid no attention to the additional cargo the Combat Raven had picked up, completely focused on what the sensor suite was giving him via video, audio, and neural input. Gabriel wondered idly what threats could even remotely be present in this backwater area of the Caribbean. Toronto had certainly sent a full package for his retrieval, including the two agents sitting across from him.

They had introduced themselves on the drive to the airport as Javier (Little Boy) and Hugh (Fat Man), no last names given. They were out of the NAF capitol of Toronto, listed as diplomatic attachés, obviously on the payroll of SpecFor. Javier had prattled on the entire one hour ride about himself; he had been with the government since college, his wife worked in an appliance store selling extended warranties (she had just been promoted from cashier, Javier had said with an odd pride), no kids, no plans other than waiting for his next paycheck.
 

Hugh had talked much more infrequently, and had seemed antsy being cooped up in the armored diplomatic groundcar, gritting his teeth at each jounce of the suspension. On board the aircraft, he now seemed relaxed, almost serene, obviously more at home in the air, and Gabriel guessed he had seen a lot of action in his time. He sat with his eyes slitted as Javier continued to ramble on in falsetto. He was too large to be a pilot, so Gabriel pegged him as former drop trooper. From his apparent young age, probably a veteran of the recent Aguaguerras Conflict in Brazil.

Gabriel had just started to drift off with the drone of the engines when Hugh spoke up, interrupting Javier’s discourse on his recent stock purchases. “Commander,” he rumbled. “Javier tells me you are the same Gabriel from Eden.”

“That’s right,” Gabriel answered with a weary voice. “But I’m retired now, at least until you guys showed up.” He rubbed his eyes, hoping the agents would get the hint to let him rest for the hour-long flight. And the last thing he wanted to talk to anyone about was Eden.

“Dishonorable discharge, that’s what they say,” said Javier, nudging Hugh with his elbow. “But we know the true story.”

Gabriel opened one eye and pinned Javier with his stare. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” the falsetto continued, an odd paradox with the low-pitched throbs of the pulsejets. “You were railroaded. You and your team never had a chance, it was a suicide mission. No way out of that school, no way to save the kids, your team, even yourself. But you did three out of those four, and they pinned the remaining mess on you.”

Gabriel opened his other eye and leaned forward. “You don’t know shit. Leave it be,” he said in a low voice. After a long few seconds of staring, he leaned back and closed his eyes and crossed his arms to indicate that the discussion was over.
 

He could still smell the scorched wood and melted metal, and hear the moans of his wounded men, as they placed the last charge and pulled back. His leg tingled unconsciously where the Geltex had burned through his armor. The dull thrum of the pulsejets became heavy weapons fire as he finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

The supersonic flight from Jamaica to Toronto was mostly uneventful, save for a detour around a drug interdiction mission over the Bahamas. Gabriel had his neuretics hack into the pilot’s conversation as the Coast Guard requested fire support on a drug runner’s submarine that was armed with surface-to-air missiles. The Combat Raven’s pilot had regretfully and politely declined, her mission being not only at the behest of the office of Naval Intelligence, but also completely off the books. Gabriel closed his hacked pipe just as she was instructing the ECM tech to wipe clean the Coast Guard’s systems of their presence and all data and voice transmissions.

At Mach 3.2, flight time was just under an hour, landing at Toronto’s Downsview Naval Aerospace Station just after eight in the morning. Upon touching down, the Combat Raven was met by a tow vehicle, which quickly hauled the aircraft into a secure hangar, its fuselage ticking as it cooled. The hangar doors slid shut and two armed sentries took up station outside.

The hatch popped with a hiss and the three men emerged onto the wheeled stairs the ground crew had rolled in. Hugh descended the stairs first, jacket open and eyes scanning. Javier followed, and waved to the figures emerging from a door at the far end of the hangar.
 

Gabriel paused at the top and zoomed his right eye to scan the arriving group. Two people in officer’s uniforms, one man and one woman, flanked by NAFN Marines. His neuretics automatically began searching its memory to pin down the woman, but the man he knew on sight, and his skin crawled. Vice Admiral Llewelyn MacFarland, better known to friend and enemies as Dredge.

Gabriel’s implant flashed a dot in his Mindseye periphery, signaling a match found in its search, but Gabriel shunted it aside and shifted his focus to MacFarland. Once his direct commanding officer during the Canary Islands invasion of 2168, then-Captain MacFarland had sent then-Lieutenant Gabriel and his team into a meat grinder later called Francisco’s Stand. MacFarland sat back in a safe and secure command tent while his men fought an unwinnable battle, suffering 90% casualties before the cease fire.
 

Three years later, MacFarland had cheerfully busted Lieutenant Commander Gabriel back down to Lieutenant Junior Grade for what he termed “insubordination”, but what most others called justice. This after Gabriel caught MacFarland personally working over some locals in Brazil, locals he had labeled in the official paperwork as insurgents, but were in reality poor farmers suffering through the same water crisis as the rest of South America. They were trying their best to eke out a living, but happened to be in the way of MacFarland’s off-the-books golf course for his officers; only Gabriel’s whistleblowing had saved their village.

And then there was the Eden disaster… He descended the metal steps, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes as the group approached. The only reason MacFarland had ever kept his rank was because of his father-in-law’s political connections within the NAF and various multinational corporations, who some say were the real power behind the world’s governments. And here he is, a damned Admiral of all things, in charge of Naval Intelligence, running the same old power plays.

He reached the bottom of the steps, Javier and Hugh flanking the railings, and brought up his neuretics’ search results. Lieutenant Renay Gesselli, NAF Naval Intelligence. Four year degree from Princeton in political science, doctorate from University of Barcelona in communication. Currently stationed at Alizares Naval Base in Mexico City, department listed as classified, no further information. Interesting, thought Gabriel. His neuretics didn’t hit too many roadblocks they couldn’t overcome. He made a mental note to burn through later.

“Commander Gabriel, good to see you again, son!” boomed MacFarland as the group reached the foot of the stairs. The Marines stopped next to the SpecFor agents and stood at parade rest. “Didn’t think we could find you, eh?” He held out his hand.

Gabriel glanced down at the outstretched hand, considered whether to go for the combat knife strapped to his ankle and lop it off, then thought better of it. “
Dredge
,” he said with barely contained rancor. “And this is?” he queried, turning to Gesselli and letting the hand hang in space.

MacFarland frowned and took his hand back. “Commander Evan Gabriel, this is Lieutenant Renay Gesselli, my chief of staff.”

“Commander, a pleasure,” Gesselli said in a lilting tone. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m looking forward to working with you on this.” She held her hand out, which Gabriel took politely.

“I’m looking forward to finding out just what the hell is going on,” he replied, motioning behind him with his chin. “Your men didn’t say a word the entire trip.” He heard Javier clear his throat and Hugh shift on his feet.

“Yes, right. Well, we don’t have a lot of time,” said MacFarland gruffly. “Let’s get up to my office. I have a holo briefing set up, it’ll fill you in.” He spun on his heel and walked back in the direction they came in. The Marine escorts quickly fell in step behind him. Gesselli gave Gabriel a wry smile, almost a smirk, returned his hand he had neglected to release from hers, and turned to follow.

Gabriel pursed his lips in a frown, more curious than annoyed at this point. He looked over his shoulder to the two SpecFor men who were still standing at the stairs.

“You’re on your own, Commander,” said Javier. “We’ll wait for you here. Sorry again about that, uh, discussion.”
 

Hugh inclined his head in a troopers’ casual acknowledgement. “See you soon, sir.”

Gabriel shook his head and slowly followed the retreating officers.

Gabriel followed MacFarland and Gesselli into the briefing room, a sparsely-decorated circular chamber with a long holotable at the center surrounded by a dozen or so high-backed leather chairs. The dark walls were covered in a heavy fabric, obviously sound and signal dampening, with only a few portraits of past NAF presidents adorning them.

“Please take a seat, Commander,” said Gesselli, indicating a chair with a flexscreen tube on the table in front of it.

Gabriel caught the slight emphasis on his previous, and no longer technically valid, rank. He detected a tone of what, sarcasm? Malice? Annoyance? Something was under the surface there, he was sure of it, but he knew it would take some time to figure her out. Being drop-dead gorgeous was throwing him off his game a bit.

Gesselli sat across from him and cast a quick smirk his way as he eased into the chair. The leather was crisp, seemingly brand new, crinkling a bit as he shifted his position. He picked up the tube and rolled out the flexscreen panel, which remained blank, revealing nothing of the upcoming briefing.

MacFarland sat heavily at the head of the table and placed both hands on the gray table surface. “I’m sorry at our methods of meeting, but we’ve got a situation that requires the utmost in discretion, and we’re very time sensitive at this point. And you,” he pointed at Gabriel. “Even with the, uh, discharge, you are still bound by NAF covert ops regulations to report.”