Ships of My Fathers (37 page)

The other guard nodded slowly. “Yeah, two years. Up on seven you say?”

Michael wanted to shake his head again but thought better of it. “Jesus Christ, people, they’re smugglers! Pirates!” He waved at the container next to him. “They’re picking up a shipment from Father Chessman. Look in there if you don’t believe me.”

Everyone laughed, all but Wheaton.

“What so funny?” Michael asked.

Elsa looked back at him. “Chessman is a myth, a story we tell fish like you to scare them.”

“God yes,” Victor said, still chuckling. “I remember those stories. He’s up with there with monsters in the tachyon field. No one believes in that nonsense.”

“I do.”

All eyes turned to Wheaton. “What?” Elsa asked.

“And even if I didn’t, I believe the boy,” he said. “So we’re going to take a look in these containers.”

“By whose authority?” Elsa demanded. “I’ve got the articles on my side.”

“By my authority,” he answered, walking towards the far end of the container. “And I’ve got the Navy on my side.”

“And when I call for your court martial, what name should I give them?”

He stopped mid-stride and turned to face her, pointing to the tag on his chest. “It’s right here. Lt. Commander Montgomery G. Wheaton. And no bitchy little civilian captain is going to intimidate old Monty.”

“Monty?”

“Yeah, Monty!” he replied, walking off.

Elsa closed her eyes and dropped her head. “Shit.” She turned to Maya, still standing by the other two guards, and nodded.

Michael saw Maya’s gun coming out too late to do anything but shout, “No!” Then too many things happened at once. Victor went down first, a bullet erupting out of his chest. Michael went flying forward as Leo pushed the wheelchair over and started firing at Walter Quinn. Elsa ran for the airlock ramp, and Wheaton dove for cover behind the nearest shipping container.

Michael struggled to crawl on the floor, but he was firmly attached to the wheelchair. Even lying on his side, he could barely move, twisted around with only his right hand free. He could see Victor lying nearby, his gun still in his holster, so he struggled towards it. Maya was firing towards Wheaton who was shouting something about marines. He heard shots continuing to fire behind him, but he ignored them.

Maya circled out into the broad expanse of the deck, still firing. Wheaton’s voice spiked mid-word into a pitiful yelp and then subsided into gasping whispers. Michael could not see him, but he could see the furious satisfaction on Maya’s face afterwards.

Michael kept pulling himself forward. Alarms were going off overhead, but Michael paid them no attention. Maya was headed in towards Wheaton, and Victor’s gun was still a meter away. He almost had it when he heard another voice, this time familiar enough to cut through the haze.

“Michael!”

It was Gabrielle.

He looked up and saw her running towards him, but he also saw Maya stop and turn. She raised her pistol, pivoting as she tracked the moving target. Michael yanked the pistol from Victor’s holster, aimed at Maya, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He fumbled around looking for the safety but did not see anything obvious.

Maya braced her gun with both hands. She was standing very still.

To hell with it. He grabbed the pistol by the barrel and gave it as hard a throw as he could.

A sick little grin was creeping onto Maya’s face when the butt of the pistol’s handle smacked into her temple. She turned slightly towards Michael, opened her mouth, and dropped to the floor. Her own pistol fell from her limp hand and clattered across the deck.

Gabrielle skidded to a stop, dropping to her knees beside Michael. He twisted as best as he could to look up at her. “I thought I told you not to come after me.”

She nodded. “Yeah, you said a lot of stupid things.”

A gray uniform appeared overhead. “Hey, kid, you okay?” It was the remaining legitimate guard, Walter Quinn.

He smiled and gave a thumbs up. “Aces.”

“I got the other one. What the hell was all that about?”

“Get some more people down here, and I’ll tell you. Get people you know.”

“You got that right, kid. Stay here.”

Michael looked back at Gabrielle. “So, stupid, huh?”

Whatever she answered was drowned out by a terrible cracking sound and then a sudden and strong wind. It was strong enough to knock Gabrielle onto him and pull them both across the deck towards the open airlock — the open airlock which was now suddenly venting to space. But just as quickly as it begun, it cut off with an ear-shattering metallic clang as the dockside airlock door slammed shut under the outbound pressure.

Gabrielle righted herself and looked around. “There they are. It’s Father and Commander Collins.”

“Your dad’s here?”

“Of course.”

He looked. Sure enough, Uncle Hans was running towards them with a Naval officer and twenty or thirty marines. Several of them branched off towards Monty and began calling for the medics.

Michael lay back on the deck. “I think I’ll go with security after all.”

Chapter 26

“You can lie to me all you want, but someday I’ll learn the truth. When that day comes, know that there will be a reckoning.” - Malcolm Fletcher

M
ICHAEL INSISTED ON GIVING HIS
statement to Walter Quinn as he was being transported down to the hospital on ring one. Several marines tagged along with them, but Michael ignored them. Some navy officer asked a few clarifying questions, but mostly Michael kept blabbering into Quinn’s recorder. He thought he had a lot to say, but it ran down surprisingly quickly: jumping ship at Latera, funny business about wake scans, becoming an unofficial prisoner, Elsa Watkins, the Winged Lady, Father Chessman, mysterious cargo, and fake security uniforms. Still, it drained the rest of his energy to say it all.

The emergency wing of the hospital was a confusion of lights, scanners, and unknown faces behind masks, but by the end of it, they declared him reasonably well. “The concussion seems mild, but I’m going to keep you here overnight for observation. The bruising around your ribs looks bad, but you got away without any breaks.”

“What about Monty?” he asked.

The doctor looked confused. “The Navy officer? They took him to surgery. I’ll find out what I can, but in the meantime, you’ve got some visitors. Shall I send them in?”

He nodded and regretted it only a little. Whatever they had given him for the pain was effective. Pity it would not be effective against angry uncles.

But it was not Hans that came through, nor was it Gabrielle. It was another Navy man. He was not in a ship uniform, but more of a semi-formal affair you might expect to see around base. As he approached, Michael recognized the gold crescent of a Commander. The patch read Samuel Collins. He walked in slowly and stood by the bed.

“Hello, Mr. Fletcher. Are you feeling well?”

“Well enough,” he replied hoarsely. His throat was dry. “You were at the docks, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you heard anything about Lt. Commander Wheaton?”

“I believe he’s still in surgery, but the last I heard was they had stopped the bleeding. It’s going to take some work to repair his lung, but it sounds like he’s going to be all right.”

“Good. Are you a friend of his?”

He gave his head a noncommittal tilt. “He’s something of an acquaintance, but the truth is I’m here for you.”

Michael’s eyes went wide. “What did I do?”

Collins smiled. “It’s not like that, not at all. No, Mr. Fletcher, you made an information request some time back for Malcolm Fletcher’s war records, and one incident in particular.”

It came back to Michael slowly. With all the insanity of the
Jaguar
, he had forgotten filing the request on Tortisia. “Yes, a border incident… I can’t remember the number.”

“CasRb-733,” Collins replied. “I came looking for you.”

“Well, lucky for you I came back through Arvin.”

Collins shook his head. “Quite the opposite, actually. I went looking for you at Latera. That’s how I met up with your uncle and cousin. In truth, you led us on quite the merry chase.”

As exhausted as he was, Michael still felt his face redden in embarrassment. “Sorry about that, but why would you go all that way just to answer an old records request? I mean, all I was hoping for was some mail.”

Collins smiled down at him. “I’ll explain soon enough, but it is enough to say that the request caught my eye. They told me you’ll be here overnight for observation. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Michael nodded. “Tomorrow then. You’ll have the records?”

“Hopefully more. The marines are already on board the
Blue Jaguar
, so I’m going to go check in with them.”

And with that he walked out, only to be replaced by Gabrielle rushing into the room. She flew to his bedside and hugged him fiercely. “Dear God, Michael, when you get better, I am going to thrash you so hard.”

He hugged her back feebly. “I hear you.”

She sat up. “I was so worried about you, and that was before I heard what kind of ship you ended up on. And look at what they did to you!”

He chuckled, vaguely aware that Hans had come through the door. “Well, you should see the other guy. Your friend Collins tells me they’re entertaining the marines right now.”

“Well good,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Hans said from foot of the bed.

Michael looked out at him. “I’m sorry I left you like that, sir. I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble.”

Hans shook his head. “No, Michael. I’m sorry I gave you cause to leave.”

Michael nodded. He did not know what to say.

Hans took it for what it was. “Well, we’ll talk more when you’re better.”

“Yeah, and thanks for coming.”

Hans shrugged. “You’re family,” he said. That was it. He gave a brief smile and left.

Gabrielle watched him go, and then turned back to Michael. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s being stoic. So tell me, what’s all this I’m hearing about Father Chessman? Who is he?”

Michael shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Michael never saw the doctor the next morning, but the nurse said that the doctor had cleared him for discharge. He got up and dressed. Gabrielle had thoughtfully brought along one of his old
Heavy Heinrich
uniforms. He noted, however, that she had not brought his old
Sophie’s Grace
uniform.

He was searching the console for news on the previous day’s events when the nurse came in with a wheelchair. He took one look at it and said, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Sorry, hospital policy.” She wiggled it back and forth, giving it a little tilt. “Come on, it could be fun.”

He shook his head twice. “The last time I was in a wheelchair, it was not fun, so policy or not, I think I’ll walk.”

She shrugged and put it back outside the door. “At least let me walk you out.”

“What’s the news on Lt. Commander Wheaton?” he asked, following her into the hall. “I heard he came through his surgery, but nothing else.”

“He’s doing well,” she answered. “He’s over there in room two-twenty.”

Michael did not wait for her to offer. He simply changed course: three doors down and left. Inside, the man was reclining in bed, looking dejectedly at the remains of his breakfast.

“Lt. Commander,” Michael called from the door.

He looked over. “Ah, Michael. Come on in.”

Michael walked to the bed, leaving his nurse at the door. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Pretty good. Not hungry enough to eat that, but pretty good. And you? You got beat pretty good I hear.”

“Beat, yes, but not beaten. I’m sorry I called you in on this, but thanks for coming anyway.”

Wheaton shook his head. “No, you did the right thing. It was smart.”

“Well, thanks anyway. I guess that makes us even.”

“Even?” He looked away for a moment. “Maybe, maybe I still owe you, or at least the Navy does.”

“What do you mean?”

“That cargo, you know, the Father Chessman stuff? It was stolen Navy missiles, a hundred sixty of them. Top of the line, ship-to-ship stuff.”

Michael’s jaw dropped. “What, like gravity warheads?”

“Sorry, classified.”

Michael shrugged. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Wheaton waved him off. “It’s not like that. They wouldn’t tell me either, but when your intelligence friend got the news, he went nuts.”

“Intelligence?”

“Yeah, that Commander Collins fellow. Naval Intelligence, but pretty sharp for a desk jockey. He came by this morning, said he was waiting for you.”

Michael nodded. The records request, Malcolm’s history, the death of his mother. It was about to become much more real. “Then I had best not keeping him waiting. You get better soon.”