CHAPTER FOURTEEN
M.A.R.S Industries High-Security Research Facility
1431 Hours Zulu
Sinnesbieger entered the stateroom he shared with Elise and as she opened her mouth to greet him, he raised a finger to his lips. He led her into the bathroom and turned on the shower to create some white noise before speaking.
“Elise,” he said gravely in German, “I am working on a way to get us out of here, but that means I have to go away for a while.”
He hushed her as she tried to object. “I’m not finished yet. Sweetheart, I want you to be brave while I’m gone and stay safe. But, I’m also trying to bring as many men with me as I can, to keep them away from here. So, if you see a chance to escape, take it. Do you understand? Don’t wait for me.”
“But where will I go?” She asked. “We’re underwater and we must be miles away from anything!”
“That is what they have told us, but we don’t know for sure if it’s true. Elise, if you see daylight, run! I will find you. Promise me?”
“I promise,” she said.
“Good girl,” he said and gave her a peck on the cheek before grabbing his bag and heading out the door.
* * *
The Pit
1242 Hours Tango
“Hey, sir? You want to take a look at this?”
“What is it, Corporal?” Abernathy asked.
“Just look, sir.”
The General walked over and bent to study the image on the man’s monitor. The live satellite feed showed a close-up of the section of the Barents Sea where the oil rig had been – the same place where the tracking beacon hadn’t moved from since it arrived. Now, a large round dome-like structure was poking out of the water.
“What the hell? When did that appear, Corporal?”
“Just now, sir,” the young man replied.
As they watched, the top of the dome irised open and a tiltrotor aircraft that appeared large enough to carry an entire platoon of troops took off, headed for the mainland. The red blip that represented the beacon went also. Abernathy scratched his chin.
“How far away is our team?”
The Corporal checked his watch. “ETA is just under two hours, sir.”
That wasn’t good. If the craft taking off now was carrying troops ready to deploy the Marburg, and the Doctor was with them to supervise, it could be all over by the time the team arrived.
“Divert the team to intercept,” he ordered. “We’ll keep them updated of its position. And in the meantime, find out who that base belongs to. They owe us some answers.”
* * *
Somewhere Over Arctic Airspace
1945 Hours Zulu
Hauser’s butt was seriously beginning to ache. He’d made a point of getting up to stretch and walk around every couple hours but the duration of time between that and when he started to ache again was getting noticeably shorter. As he stood, he was nearly thrown across the hold into Specialist Graves as the C-17 made a sudden, sharp turn. He stumbled and managed to grab a hold of the seatbelt before he fell, hanging on for dear life. When the plane leveled out again, Wilkinson unbuckled himself and went forward to talk to the pilot.
“Troops, listen up!” He shouted when he came back, voice barely audible over the drone of the engines. “Change of plans! Looks as though the other shoe’s about to drop, so we’re following a craft that just took off from the base we came to find! The General believes it may be carrying troops to deploy the Marburg, so this new threat takes priority! Position updates are still incoming, so I’d buckle up if I were you!”
Hauser did as he was told and had to content himself with toughing out his discomfort.
* * *
Paris, France
0413 Hours Bravo
Sinnesbieger never grew tired of the sight of Paris by moonlight. From the first images he’d seen in books and movies as a child to his honeymoon with Elise’s mother, it never lost its charm. The banks of the Seine River were alight and the streets teemed with locals and tourists alike, enjoying the nightlife. And of course, the Eiffel Tower with its glowing framework lattice and its shining beacon crowning the top added a touch of majesty to the entire scene. Seeing it all firsthand from the air was an experience he would have cherished were he not being constantly reminded of their purpose here by the presence of the hooded man on his left, a mysterious raven-haired lady seated on his right and the veritable legion of armed men who accompanied them.
* * *
Ana Cisarovna wasn’t particularly happy about being where she was. Normally, any other girl should have been thrilled to visit Paris, but not as a glorified babysitter. McCullen had asked her to tag along on the Doctor’s little sortie in order to keep an eye on Smith and the other COBRA soldiers. Ever the paranoid type, and perhaps rightly so considering how he made his living, McCullen wanted someone there to make sure that the COBRAs didn’t try to take off with both the Doctor and the machine once they had it in their possession. He would have gone himself, he insisted, but that would have looked too conspicuous. And so, like a giggling idiot schoolgirl, Cisarovna had approached Mr. Smith and asked if she could tag along, ‘to sightsee.’
Also, it didn’t help matters knowing that the Doctor had handled the virus earlier. Sure, he’d been wearing a sealed environment suit, but the thought of contamination still terrified her inside. McCullen had spared her the full, gruesome details of what the disease could do, but even so, she wanted no part of it. Where she came from, one didn’t need viruses or even guns to get things done. If an underling spoke with the wrong people, you broke his fingers. If he failed to follow orders, you smashed his knee. For more serious offences, you might cut off an ear, or his nose, or other, more personal organs as the crime dictated. Simplicity was always best and all this meddling with genetics and DNA was far too complicated for her taste, not to mention the potential for disaster. Arms crossed in front of herself, she stared out the window as the City of Lights flashed by below.
* * *
G.I. Joe: The Shadow Warriors >> Finis!
Moderator: The Jugglers
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tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
by tammer » Sat Aug 29, 2009 9:21 pm
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paris, France
0441 Hours Bravo
A large transport truck hissed to a stop outside the headquarters of Seine Biosciences SA and as the rear gate rose, a line of people disembarked. Hauser watched them through binoculars from the passenger’s seat of a van they’d managed to acquire upon landing. Wilkinson was behind the wheel and he eased them to a stop on the other side of the street a discreet distance away. Behind him, in the back seat, sat O’Hara and Snake-Eyes. The rest of the team had split up into their individual fireteams and probably weren’t too far away.
Their rules of engagement had been amended as soon as their target plane’s destination became apparent. Being a highly populated city in a fellow NATO country, they couldn’t risk an international incident by putting civilians in harm’s way. Shooting down the smaller plane could have potentially released the virus into the atmosphere above the city, so that was a no go. Instead, their mission had changed from being an intercept and subdue to a follow and observe. That also went for their activities on the ground, so unless they were in direct danger or there was an imminent threat of the Marburg being released, they were to hold their fire.
“The guys in the back look a little chunky,” Hauser reported. “Probably wearing body armor. I count twelve of them. No weapons in sight but they could be carrying concealed. Okay, I see the Doctor, accompanied by one male and one female, no I.D. on either. The unidentified male seems to be wearing a mask.”
Using a digital camera fitted with a long-range telephoto lens, O’Hara snapped pictures of the group as they prepared to enter the building. The photos would be sent back to the Pit for analysis and, hopefully, identification.
As they watched, the group strolled casually into the building and produced bullpup carbines from under their windbreakers as the nighttime security guard rose to confront them. Quickly subduing the man, two of the foot soldiers took up positions by the desk while the rest of them followed the Doctor into the elevators at the other end of the lobby. Hauser turned to Snake-Eyes.
“That’s your cue,” he told him.
Snake-Eyes flashed him a thumbs-up and slipped out of the van, instantly disappearing into the shadows.
* * *
For a man of Snake-Eyes’ considerable skill, infiltrating an urban building undetected at night posed no real challenge. According to the display atop the elevator the main group had entered, they were on the fourth floor. Armed with that knowledge, all he had to do was locate the room they were in by following the Doctor’s tracking beacon on a PDA mounted on his wrist.
Sprinting lightly across the roof, loose gravel crunching beneath his boots, he found the side of the building closest to the beacon and clipped a carabiner securely to an anchor point before threading the rope through his rappelling harness. Easing himself over the edge, he slowly padded his way face-first down the side of the building until he was just above the fourth floor window. Then, with utmost care, he flipped himself upside down and lowered himself slowly to peek in the window. The room appeared to be an office of some sort, empty and dark. Removing a thin, flat strip of metal from a small sheath on his arm, he jimmied the window open and rolled inside.
Detaching himself from the harness, he closed the window and made his way to the door. Flattening himself to one side, he opened it a crack. Light spilled in from the hallway and voices wafted in with it. Unable to make out what they were saying, he plucked the microphone attachment from his PDA and extended it into the hall until the voices resolved into clarity in his earpiece.
“Please, be very careful with that!” A voice, undoubtedly the Doctor’s, said. “This machinery is extremely delicate!”
“What could you possibly need all these for?” A female voice asked with an accent that sounded Slavic, possibly Russian. “They are all exactly the same machine!”
“I need many of them working in parallel to speed up the process,” the Doctor explained. “Otherwise–”
“We haven’t time for this,” a scratchy husk of a voice cut in. “Suffice it to say we need them all. Now, get them loaded onto the truck!”
The grating scrape of something heavy being dragged over linoleum grew steadily louder as they approached the hall. Snake-Eyes retracted the microphone and shut the office door softly, poking a small fiber-optic camera under the crack to observe the happenings on the other side. On his PDA’s screen, a grainy black and white image came up and he maneuvered the tiny camera trying to get a good angle.
“Hey! What the hell is that?”
Snake-Eyes froze at the sound of the voice coming from the other side of the door, praying it wasn’t the camera the man had seen. No such luck as the man’s face filled the screen, bending over for a closer look. The view jostled as the man picked up the tiny camera, pulling Snake-Eyes’ arm with it. Reaching for his knife, he cut the camera loose and hoped the man would think it was just a bit of discarded wire.
“Leave it, man,” another voice said and Snake-Eyes silently willed the first man to take his advice.
“No, I’ve seen this before,” the first voice insisted. “Ever played Splinter Cell? It’s a snake cam!”
“What’s it do?”
“What do you think? It’s a camera that lets you see around corners and through tiny holes. I’m gonna check this out. Cover me.”
Snake-Eyes weighed his options. He briefly entertained the idea of doing a split-jump over the door just to see the look on the man’s face as he opened the door and glanced up, but thought better of it. There wasn’t time to go back out the window and up the rope either, so instead, he unholstered his suppressed pistol and hid behind the door as it opened.
Holding his breath as the man entered, weapon up and scanning, Snake-Eyes quietly thumbed back the hammer and mentally pictured the man’s location. The instant he showed his face…
“Anything?” Came the voice from the hall.
“Nothing yet, but–”
“What’s the holdup?” The raspy voice demanded. “I told you to get those to the truck!”
“Sorry, sir,” the first voice said, and the door shut.
Heading back to the window, Snake-Eyes signaled his teammates to expect activity around the truck.
* * *
“So, what’s the call, sir?” Wilkinson asked over the satellite audio link.
“What are they doing exactly?” Abernathy’s voice came back.
“They’re loading some equipment into a truck,” Wilkinson reported. “We’re not in direct danger but they did have weapons to subdue the security guards and now it looks like they’re getting ready to bug out.”
“Any sign of the Marburg?”
“Not as of yet, sir. Snake-Eyes’ recon seems to suggest that they only came here for the equipment.”
There was a pause as Abernathy absorbed the information. “Okay good, so maybe they’re not there to jumpstart Armageddon just yet. Tail them as they leave, then as soon as you’re clear of the population center, take ‘em down.”
Grins spread all around the van as, finally, the promise of action presented itself.
“Roger that, sir,” Wilkinson said.
* * *
Paris, France
0441 Hours Bravo
A large transport truck hissed to a stop outside the headquarters of Seine Biosciences SA and as the rear gate rose, a line of people disembarked. Hauser watched them through binoculars from the passenger’s seat of a van they’d managed to acquire upon landing. Wilkinson was behind the wheel and he eased them to a stop on the other side of the street a discreet distance away. Behind him, in the back seat, sat O’Hara and Snake-Eyes. The rest of the team had split up into their individual fireteams and probably weren’t too far away.
Their rules of engagement had been amended as soon as their target plane’s destination became apparent. Being a highly populated city in a fellow NATO country, they couldn’t risk an international incident by putting civilians in harm’s way. Shooting down the smaller plane could have potentially released the virus into the atmosphere above the city, so that was a no go. Instead, their mission had changed from being an intercept and subdue to a follow and observe. That also went for their activities on the ground, so unless they were in direct danger or there was an imminent threat of the Marburg being released, they were to hold their fire.
“The guys in the back look a little chunky,” Hauser reported. “Probably wearing body armor. I count twelve of them. No weapons in sight but they could be carrying concealed. Okay, I see the Doctor, accompanied by one male and one female, no I.D. on either. The unidentified male seems to be wearing a mask.”
Using a digital camera fitted with a long-range telephoto lens, O’Hara snapped pictures of the group as they prepared to enter the building. The photos would be sent back to the Pit for analysis and, hopefully, identification.
As they watched, the group strolled casually into the building and produced bullpup carbines from under their windbreakers as the nighttime security guard rose to confront them. Quickly subduing the man, two of the foot soldiers took up positions by the desk while the rest of them followed the Doctor into the elevators at the other end of the lobby. Hauser turned to Snake-Eyes.
“That’s your cue,” he told him.
Snake-Eyes flashed him a thumbs-up and slipped out of the van, instantly disappearing into the shadows.
* * *
For a man of Snake-Eyes’ considerable skill, infiltrating an urban building undetected at night posed no real challenge. According to the display atop the elevator the main group had entered, they were on the fourth floor. Armed with that knowledge, all he had to do was locate the room they were in by following the Doctor’s tracking beacon on a PDA mounted on his wrist.
Sprinting lightly across the roof, loose gravel crunching beneath his boots, he found the side of the building closest to the beacon and clipped a carabiner securely to an anchor point before threading the rope through his rappelling harness. Easing himself over the edge, he slowly padded his way face-first down the side of the building until he was just above the fourth floor window. Then, with utmost care, he flipped himself upside down and lowered himself slowly to peek in the window. The room appeared to be an office of some sort, empty and dark. Removing a thin, flat strip of metal from a small sheath on his arm, he jimmied the window open and rolled inside.
Detaching himself from the harness, he closed the window and made his way to the door. Flattening himself to one side, he opened it a crack. Light spilled in from the hallway and voices wafted in with it. Unable to make out what they were saying, he plucked the microphone attachment from his PDA and extended it into the hall until the voices resolved into clarity in his earpiece.
“Please, be very careful with that!” A voice, undoubtedly the Doctor’s, said. “This machinery is extremely delicate!”
“What could you possibly need all these for?” A female voice asked with an accent that sounded Slavic, possibly Russian. “They are all exactly the same machine!”
“I need many of them working in parallel to speed up the process,” the Doctor explained. “Otherwise–”
“We haven’t time for this,” a scratchy husk of a voice cut in. “Suffice it to say we need them all. Now, get them loaded onto the truck!”
The grating scrape of something heavy being dragged over linoleum grew steadily louder as they approached the hall. Snake-Eyes retracted the microphone and shut the office door softly, poking a small fiber-optic camera under the crack to observe the happenings on the other side. On his PDA’s screen, a grainy black and white image came up and he maneuvered the tiny camera trying to get a good angle.
“Hey! What the hell is that?”
Snake-Eyes froze at the sound of the voice coming from the other side of the door, praying it wasn’t the camera the man had seen. No such luck as the man’s face filled the screen, bending over for a closer look. The view jostled as the man picked up the tiny camera, pulling Snake-Eyes’ arm with it. Reaching for his knife, he cut the camera loose and hoped the man would think it was just a bit of discarded wire.
“Leave it, man,” another voice said and Snake-Eyes silently willed the first man to take his advice.
“No, I’ve seen this before,” the first voice insisted. “Ever played Splinter Cell? It’s a snake cam!”
“What’s it do?”
“What do you think? It’s a camera that lets you see around corners and through tiny holes. I’m gonna check this out. Cover me.”
Snake-Eyes weighed his options. He briefly entertained the idea of doing a split-jump over the door just to see the look on the man’s face as he opened the door and glanced up, but thought better of it. There wasn’t time to go back out the window and up the rope either, so instead, he unholstered his suppressed pistol and hid behind the door as it opened.
Holding his breath as the man entered, weapon up and scanning, Snake-Eyes quietly thumbed back the hammer and mentally pictured the man’s location. The instant he showed his face…
“Anything?” Came the voice from the hall.
“Nothing yet, but–”
“What’s the holdup?” The raspy voice demanded. “I told you to get those to the truck!”
“Sorry, sir,” the first voice said, and the door shut.
Heading back to the window, Snake-Eyes signaled his teammates to expect activity around the truck.
* * *
“So, what’s the call, sir?” Wilkinson asked over the satellite audio link.
“What are they doing exactly?” Abernathy’s voice came back.
“They’re loading some equipment into a truck,” Wilkinson reported. “We’re not in direct danger but they did have weapons to subdue the security guards and now it looks like they’re getting ready to bug out.”
“Any sign of the Marburg?”
“Not as of yet, sir. Snake-Eyes’ recon seems to suggest that they only came here for the equipment.”
There was a pause as Abernathy absorbed the information. “Okay good, so maybe they’re not there to jumpstart Armageddon just yet. Tail them as they leave, then as soon as you’re clear of the population center, take ‘em down.”
Grins spread all around the van as, finally, the promise of action presented itself.
“Roger that, sir,” Wilkinson said.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
by tammer » Sun Aug 30, 2009 9:00 pm
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Paris, France
0617 Hours Bravo
“I think we picked up a tail,” the COBRA driver said, frowning as he scrutinized the rearview mirror.
“Where?” Smith asked from the passenger seat.
“See that white van maybe three, four cars behind on the left? They’ve been with us for the past five turns.”
Smith craned his neck to study the truck’s mirror and finally spotted the van the driver was talking about. As they made their next turn, sure enough, the van followed.
“Lose them,” he ordered.
* * *
“Uh oh, I think we’ve been made,” Wilkinson said as the truck accelerated away ahead of them, weaving into heavier traffic. “Get on the line with Bravo and Charlie and have them form up with us. We’ve gotta get them out of the city before someone gets hurt.”
“On it,” O’Hara said, picking up the secure radio handset.
* * *
“They’re still on us,” the COBRA driver reported, his voice rising an octave as he made a sharp turn onto a cross street. “I’m going to try and get us out of this traffic.”
“No,” Smith said, “That’s what they want us to do. If they’re military or law enforcement, they’ll want to minimize civilian casualties, so the second we leave, we’re dead.”
“So what should I do?”
“Hold it steady,” he ordered, then slid open the door to address the troopers in the back.
* * *
“Aw, hell!” Wilkinson sputtered as the rear gate of the truck rolled up just enough to reveal a pair of COBRA foot soldiers with their weapons leveled. “Get down!”
He swung the wheel to one side as the troopers opened fire, stitching the side of their van with bullets. Streams of early morning sunlight lanced in through the holes as they punched through the thin metal and fiberglass of the door.
Hauser snatched his rifle from its hiding place, wedged between his seat and the front passenger door. He snapped the folding stock into place and flicked off the safety, coming up as the troopers in the truck paused to reload.
So much for the ROE…
He squeezed the trigger, sending two carefully aimed bursts towards the truck. Wilkinson’s erratic driving was throwing him off, however, and he only managed to shatter one of the truck’s wing mirrors. His next shot was a little better, scoring a direct hit on one of the troopers’ armored torsos and knocking him down. Setting his sights on the second one, he unleashed another burst, destroying the man’s knee. Hauser felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced back to see Snake-Eyes signaling him for cover. Before he could figure out what the man was trying to do, Snake-Eyes opened the van door and clambered out, onto the roof, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that they were still travelling at speed.
Hauser turned his attention back to the fleeing truck, just in time to see another trooper come forward, armed with a six-shot rotary grenade launcher.
“Um…” Hauser began.
“I see it!” Wilkinson hissed through clenched teeth.
Hauser emptied the rest of his magazine at the new threat, hoping to keep him occupied long enough for Snake-Eyes to complete his ludicrous stunt. As he was reloading, he heard the all too familiar thoonk of a 40mm grenade being launched.
“Incoming!” Wilkinson shouted a split second before the grenade detonated under their rear axle.
What happened next came too fast for Hauser to take in. As the blast lifted the van, pitching it forward to an alarming degree, Snake-Eyes made a running leap off the roof, sailing gracefully through the air with his arms and legs tucked in close to protect his body. As he tumbled, he unfolded himself into a forward lunge that took the grenadier completely by surprise. The man froze for a split second and that was all it took for Snake-Eyes to tackle him, knife in hand. The blade made short, messy work of him and then Hauser lost his line of sight as the van careened onto two wheels, eventually flipping over and rolling for a good fifty meters before skidding to a stop.
“Everyone alright?” Wilkinson asked as the dust settled. “Sound off!”
“I’m okay,” Hauser reported.
“Ditto,” O’Hara said.
A dark blue SUV pulled up to a stop beside them and the rear door swung open to reveal Corporal Alvin Kibbey, their communications expert, beckoning them over.
“You guys alright?” He called. “Get in, quick!”
The three of them freed themselves from their seatbelts and crawled out of the wreckage of their van, scrambling into the SUV where Sergeant Major LaFitte hit the gas before they’d even had a chance to close the door behind them.
“Snake-Eyes is alone on that truck!” Hauser said urgently. “He needs backup!”
“Don’t worry, Bravo’s on it,” Kibbey told him. “And we’ll catch up soon enough.”
He wasn’t lying. Less than thirty seconds later, they were back in the fight and close enough that Hauser could smell the cordite off the COBRAs’ guns. There wasn’t any sign of Snake-Eyes in the trailer though and Hauser scanned frantically, finally spotting a black shadow crawling along the top of the trailer, headed for the cab.
* * *
Snake-Eyes fought the crushing wind as he hauled himself forward towards the truck’s cab. Sucking breath in against the speed, he pulled himself hand over hand and finally got a grip on the forward edge of the trailer. Pistol in one tightly-clenched fist, he aimed and shot the lock off the driver’s side door. Then, in one smooth motion, he wrenched the door open and threw the driver out. He swung down into the cab and landed in the seat, instantly slamming on the brakes. So intent was he on slowing down the truck, he almost didn’t notice the hooded man next to him as he brought up a pistol of his own.
Lightning fast, Snake-Eyes struck out with his right hand and snagged the pistol by the barrel, twisting it away from himself. The man fired and the gun bucked, scorching Snake-Eyes’ hand and sending spider-webs of cracks coursing through the windshield from the hole the bullet had drilled. The slide snapped forward again, pinching his injured hand painfully but Snake-Eyes didn’t dare let go. As long as the slide didn’t return to battery, the man couldn’t fire again.
With his hand still firmly attached to the pistol, Snake-Eyes brought his elbow up and smashed the man in the face. He did it again and again until the man let go of the pistol, which Snake-Eyes then promptly tossed out of the cab. Perhaps seeing that Snake-Eyes was distracted by trying to control the speeding truck, the man opened the hatch that led into the trailer and slipped through.
* * *
Overhead, a throaty roar built into a crescendo then filled the sky, followed by the rrrrrip of a 20mm Vulcan cannon. Chunks of asphalt tore loose ahead of Fireteam Charlie’s SUV and showered the windshield as the COBRA tiltrotor craft screamed by above, gun pods blazing.
“Oh, great! Now they got air support!” Wilkinson said.
As they dodged the incoming fire, they watched as chains descended from the aircraft’s belly, which were quickly grabbed by COBRA troopers and attached to hardpoints on the trailer’s frame. Then, the aircraft started to pull up, the cab detaching automatically and continuing on its course, slowing in increments.
“Oh, no way they’re getting away that easy,” Hauser said and turned to LaFitte. “Get us closer.”
“What’re you planning to do?” LaFitte asked dubiously, but gunned the gas anyway.
“Something I saw in a movie once,” Hauser said and cracked open his door.
LaFitte must have anticipated what Hauser planned to try because he swung the SUV into a sharp bootlegger’s turn at the last second, giving Hauser the momentum he needed to leap under the rear gate as it rolled shut.
Hauser pushed himself off the deck with both arms and shook his head to clear it before looking up to find several weapons trained in his direction.
“Not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, huh?” One of the troopers said, then smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle.
* * *
Paris, France
0617 Hours Bravo
“I think we picked up a tail,” the COBRA driver said, frowning as he scrutinized the rearview mirror.
“Where?” Smith asked from the passenger seat.
“See that white van maybe three, four cars behind on the left? They’ve been with us for the past five turns.”
Smith craned his neck to study the truck’s mirror and finally spotted the van the driver was talking about. As they made their next turn, sure enough, the van followed.
“Lose them,” he ordered.
* * *
“Uh oh, I think we’ve been made,” Wilkinson said as the truck accelerated away ahead of them, weaving into heavier traffic. “Get on the line with Bravo and Charlie and have them form up with us. We’ve gotta get them out of the city before someone gets hurt.”
“On it,” O’Hara said, picking up the secure radio handset.
* * *
“They’re still on us,” the COBRA driver reported, his voice rising an octave as he made a sharp turn onto a cross street. “I’m going to try and get us out of this traffic.”
“No,” Smith said, “That’s what they want us to do. If they’re military or law enforcement, they’ll want to minimize civilian casualties, so the second we leave, we’re dead.”
“So what should I do?”
“Hold it steady,” he ordered, then slid open the door to address the troopers in the back.
* * *
“Aw, hell!” Wilkinson sputtered as the rear gate of the truck rolled up just enough to reveal a pair of COBRA foot soldiers with their weapons leveled. “Get down!”
He swung the wheel to one side as the troopers opened fire, stitching the side of their van with bullets. Streams of early morning sunlight lanced in through the holes as they punched through the thin metal and fiberglass of the door.
Hauser snatched his rifle from its hiding place, wedged between his seat and the front passenger door. He snapped the folding stock into place and flicked off the safety, coming up as the troopers in the truck paused to reload.
So much for the ROE…
He squeezed the trigger, sending two carefully aimed bursts towards the truck. Wilkinson’s erratic driving was throwing him off, however, and he only managed to shatter one of the truck’s wing mirrors. His next shot was a little better, scoring a direct hit on one of the troopers’ armored torsos and knocking him down. Setting his sights on the second one, he unleashed another burst, destroying the man’s knee. Hauser felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced back to see Snake-Eyes signaling him for cover. Before he could figure out what the man was trying to do, Snake-Eyes opened the van door and clambered out, onto the roof, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that they were still travelling at speed.
Hauser turned his attention back to the fleeing truck, just in time to see another trooper come forward, armed with a six-shot rotary grenade launcher.
“Um…” Hauser began.
“I see it!” Wilkinson hissed through clenched teeth.
Hauser emptied the rest of his magazine at the new threat, hoping to keep him occupied long enough for Snake-Eyes to complete his ludicrous stunt. As he was reloading, he heard the all too familiar thoonk of a 40mm grenade being launched.
“Incoming!” Wilkinson shouted a split second before the grenade detonated under their rear axle.
What happened next came too fast for Hauser to take in. As the blast lifted the van, pitching it forward to an alarming degree, Snake-Eyes made a running leap off the roof, sailing gracefully through the air with his arms and legs tucked in close to protect his body. As he tumbled, he unfolded himself into a forward lunge that took the grenadier completely by surprise. The man froze for a split second and that was all it took for Snake-Eyes to tackle him, knife in hand. The blade made short, messy work of him and then Hauser lost his line of sight as the van careened onto two wheels, eventually flipping over and rolling for a good fifty meters before skidding to a stop.
“Everyone alright?” Wilkinson asked as the dust settled. “Sound off!”
“I’m okay,” Hauser reported.
“Ditto,” O’Hara said.
A dark blue SUV pulled up to a stop beside them and the rear door swung open to reveal Corporal Alvin Kibbey, their communications expert, beckoning them over.
“You guys alright?” He called. “Get in, quick!”
The three of them freed themselves from their seatbelts and crawled out of the wreckage of their van, scrambling into the SUV where Sergeant Major LaFitte hit the gas before they’d even had a chance to close the door behind them.
“Snake-Eyes is alone on that truck!” Hauser said urgently. “He needs backup!”
“Don’t worry, Bravo’s on it,” Kibbey told him. “And we’ll catch up soon enough.”
He wasn’t lying. Less than thirty seconds later, they were back in the fight and close enough that Hauser could smell the cordite off the COBRAs’ guns. There wasn’t any sign of Snake-Eyes in the trailer though and Hauser scanned frantically, finally spotting a black shadow crawling along the top of the trailer, headed for the cab.
* * *
Snake-Eyes fought the crushing wind as he hauled himself forward towards the truck’s cab. Sucking breath in against the speed, he pulled himself hand over hand and finally got a grip on the forward edge of the trailer. Pistol in one tightly-clenched fist, he aimed and shot the lock off the driver’s side door. Then, in one smooth motion, he wrenched the door open and threw the driver out. He swung down into the cab and landed in the seat, instantly slamming on the brakes. So intent was he on slowing down the truck, he almost didn’t notice the hooded man next to him as he brought up a pistol of his own.
Lightning fast, Snake-Eyes struck out with his right hand and snagged the pistol by the barrel, twisting it away from himself. The man fired and the gun bucked, scorching Snake-Eyes’ hand and sending spider-webs of cracks coursing through the windshield from the hole the bullet had drilled. The slide snapped forward again, pinching his injured hand painfully but Snake-Eyes didn’t dare let go. As long as the slide didn’t return to battery, the man couldn’t fire again.
With his hand still firmly attached to the pistol, Snake-Eyes brought his elbow up and smashed the man in the face. He did it again and again until the man let go of the pistol, which Snake-Eyes then promptly tossed out of the cab. Perhaps seeing that Snake-Eyes was distracted by trying to control the speeding truck, the man opened the hatch that led into the trailer and slipped through.
* * *
Overhead, a throaty roar built into a crescendo then filled the sky, followed by the rrrrrip of a 20mm Vulcan cannon. Chunks of asphalt tore loose ahead of Fireteam Charlie’s SUV and showered the windshield as the COBRA tiltrotor craft screamed by above, gun pods blazing.
“Oh, great! Now they got air support!” Wilkinson said.
As they dodged the incoming fire, they watched as chains descended from the aircraft’s belly, which were quickly grabbed by COBRA troopers and attached to hardpoints on the trailer’s frame. Then, the aircraft started to pull up, the cab detaching automatically and continuing on its course, slowing in increments.
“Oh, no way they’re getting away that easy,” Hauser said and turned to LaFitte. “Get us closer.”
“What’re you planning to do?” LaFitte asked dubiously, but gunned the gas anyway.
“Something I saw in a movie once,” Hauser said and cracked open his door.
LaFitte must have anticipated what Hauser planned to try because he swung the SUV into a sharp bootlegger’s turn at the last second, giving Hauser the momentum he needed to leap under the rear gate as it rolled shut.
Hauser pushed himself off the deck with both arms and shook his head to clear it before looking up to find several weapons trained in his direction.
“Not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, huh?” One of the troopers said, then smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
by tammer » Mon Aug 31, 2009 8:52 pm
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Paris, France
1637 Hours Bravo
“I’m doing everything I can,” Abernathy’s voice said over the phone, “But don’t expect any miracles.”
After almost ten hours in custody, O’Hara had finally been allowed her phone call and had managed to get in touch with General Abernathy. Shortly after their high-speed chase ended, RAID, the French National Police’s answer to SWAT, had shown up with weapons at the ready. Under orders not to harm any locals, the Americans had surrendered quietly and had been taken to a detention facility. Thankfully, they hadn’t been put in with the general population but rather she, Wilkinson, Kibbey, LaFitte and the rest of Fireteam Charlie were put in special holding cells designed for foreign detainees of interest. There was no sign of Snake-Eyes or Fireteam Bravo, which O’Hara hoped meant they had gotten away.
“They’ve got Hauser, sir,” O’Hara informed the General. “We can’t just sit on our hands over here. We’ve got to get him back.”
“I understand that,” Abernathy said. “But I’ve got the State Department breathing down my neck about using American operatives to conduct covert military action in a friendly host country, and of course, the President is going to have to disavow all knowledge of your actions, so I’ve got my hands full trying to cover your asses and dodge a Federal investigation at the same time. The French government is really raising a stink about this and of course our side has to play along. I’m doing what I can to call in favors and pull some strings but there are no guarantees.”
O’Hara sighed heavily. She’d joined the unit precisely so she could escape all the government bureaucracy and red tape.
“Have you been able to get in touch with Snake-Eyes or Bravo?” She asked instead.
“No,” Abernathy said, “They’ve gone dark. But I’ll pass on the word if they report in. In the meantime, you’re on your own over there. We’ve been put on a short leash pending the ‘investigation,’ so even that C-17 we borrowed has been recalled.”
O’Hara’s jaw went slack. “Are you serious?”
Abernathy sighed irritatedly and O’Hara wondered briefly if he’d even had a chance to sleep yet.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said, “But it’s out of my hands. All we’ve got access to is what’s in the Pit and I have no way of getting it to you.”
Behind her, a guard rapped on the glass and gestured that her time was up.
“Damn, gotta go,” O’Hara said. “The guard’s kicking me off.”
“Okay,” Abernathy said. “You guys sit tight. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“We know, sir,” O’Hara said, and signed off.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
Hauser could think of a couple places he’d rather be. A beach in Hawaii, perhaps, or the Presidential suite at the New York Plaza Hotel. Hell, even a dive bar in Detroit would be nice. As it was, he’d been unceremoniously dumped, naked and bruised, in a tiny room that was kept just slightly too cold… not enough to give him hypothermia, but just enough to be noticeably uncomfortable. His experiences at SERE told him this was just the ‘softening up’ phase and the worst was yet to come.
The nakedness was supposed to make him feel exposed, vulnerable and ashamed, wearing down his mental resolve, while the cold was just a precursor for the bodily discomforts to come. Sleep deprivation would probably be next, along with denial of food and water. From there, well… It was probably best not to dwell on it. Either way, he doubted his captors would adhere to the terms of the Geneva Convention. Instead, Hauser seated himself calmly, cross-legged on the floor, and mentally recited the starting lineup of the 1946 St. Louis Cardinals to keep his mind occupied.
* * *
Paris, France
2354 Hours Bravo
Skulking in the shadows of a highway overpass, Snake-Eyes considered his options carefully. The prison where Abernathy informed him that his colleagues were being kept was protected by a three-ring concentric barrier. The first ring was a simple chain link fence topped with razor wire. Then, roughly fifteen meters in, lay a concrete wall with a guard tower at both the northeast and southwest corners. Beyond that was a high inner fence with a perimeter of motion-activated floodlights and security cameras placed at regular intervals atop high metal poles. All of those he could bypass with relative ease, but the grounds around the prison offered no cover for his approach. He would have to try something risky. Walking back to the SUV driven by the members of Fireteam Bravo, he outlined his plan and they set off.
Driving past the prison, Snake-Eyes rolled out of the moving car just as they passed the northwest corner of the perimeter, at the point furthest from both towers. He tucked and rolled, coming to a stop at the base of the chain link fence. Producing a small bottle of acid, he sprayed some on the metal, instantly dissolving a hole just large enough for him to crawl through. The thought of destroying the fence bothered him, since after all it was keeping potentially dangerous inmates in, but in the end, the COBRA threat outweighed such concerns.
The concrete wall presented somewhat more of a challenge since it was smooth and featureless, providing no hand holds with which to climb. He made his way to the lowest section of the wall and gathered his feet under himself. With a tremendous leap and with arms outstretched, he managed to get his hands over the top edge and hoisted himself up. At the top, he paused for a moment, drawing his suppressed pistol and shooting out the two nearest clusters of lights. Then, he swung his leg over and dropped into a crouch several meters below. When he was sure he hadn’t been spotted, he made his way up to the final inner fence, using the acid to once again gain access. From there, it was a simple matter of picking the lock on a maintenance door and slipping in.
Inside, the labyrinthine corridors were painted stark white while the doors were black and a pair of exposed ventilation ducts ran overhead. Harsh, fluorescent lighting cast down a sterile glow at two meter intervals. Snake-Eyes had no idea where the others were being held but from a satellite image he’d acquired, he had developed a search pattern. The facility wasn’t large at any rate, just over fifty thousand square meters, and he figured if he swept the place methodically, he could be out in under three hours.
Leaving the general cell blocks for last, he decided to begin with the temporary holding cells where new arrivals were kept while waiting to be processed. It took him nearly half an hour of dodging multiple roving guard patrols and sneaking past duty stations before he finally reached the block he was looking for. The entrance was locked behind a heavy steel door, a window of reinforced safety glass inset into the frame providing the only view inside. Breaking out the picks once again, he made short work of the lock and stepped through, propping the door open behind himself in case he needed to escape quickly.
The first door he came across was again made of heavy steel and labeled “Articles Confisqués” – Impounded Items. Opening it for a peek inside, Snake-Eyes found a large room with floor-to-ceiling metal mesh lockers holding everything the authorities had confiscated from the inmates. One of the lockers was reserved for firearms and he noticed several of their standard-issue SCAR rifles inside, their magazines removed and trigger locks installed. He made a mental note to come back for them later and backed out the door to continue his search.
He finally found his friends in the second last cell as he peered through a peephole mounted in the door. The lock, however, was electric and the door buzzed loudly as he hit the switch. Grimacing at the loss of noise discipline, he heaved the door open to find six startled faces looking back at him. Waving them urgently forward, he smiled under his mask as his teammates hustled out of the cell and followed his pointing finger to the room where their belongings were held. They were geared up and ready to go in less than two minutes.
Leading them back the way he’d come, they got maybe a third of the way before running into a squad of guards, no doubt alerted by the unauthorized cell access. Armed with truncheons, the guards charged at the group who, without magazines for their rifles, were all but defenseless. Without missing a beat, Snake-Eyes unsheathed a pair of collapsible steel batons from his belt and snapped them open with a flourish. His teammates wisely backed off to give him space.
While a perfectly capable hand-to-hand fighter, Snake-Eyes preferred the batons for their psychological deterrent factor. Many times, an opponent would hesitate to engage as soon as they heard the metallic snapping sound of the baton’s sections locking into place. This wasn’t the case with the guards and so Snake-Eyes was forced to carry through with his threat.
He didn’t want to hurt them, since after all they were only doing their jobs. Fortunately for them, they were wearing riot helmets, thus making the probability of a fatal strike that much lower. Instead, Snake-Eyes aimed for the hands, knees and ribs, aborting all attacks as soon as the target went down. The fight barely lasted ninety seconds and he holstered the batons, surrounded by crumpled, moaning figures who clutched their injuries and made no move to impede the group as they left.
* * *
Paris, France
1637 Hours Bravo
“I’m doing everything I can,” Abernathy’s voice said over the phone, “But don’t expect any miracles.”
After almost ten hours in custody, O’Hara had finally been allowed her phone call and had managed to get in touch with General Abernathy. Shortly after their high-speed chase ended, RAID, the French National Police’s answer to SWAT, had shown up with weapons at the ready. Under orders not to harm any locals, the Americans had surrendered quietly and had been taken to a detention facility. Thankfully, they hadn’t been put in with the general population but rather she, Wilkinson, Kibbey, LaFitte and the rest of Fireteam Charlie were put in special holding cells designed for foreign detainees of interest. There was no sign of Snake-Eyes or Fireteam Bravo, which O’Hara hoped meant they had gotten away.
“They’ve got Hauser, sir,” O’Hara informed the General. “We can’t just sit on our hands over here. We’ve got to get him back.”
“I understand that,” Abernathy said. “But I’ve got the State Department breathing down my neck about using American operatives to conduct covert military action in a friendly host country, and of course, the President is going to have to disavow all knowledge of your actions, so I’ve got my hands full trying to cover your asses and dodge a Federal investigation at the same time. The French government is really raising a stink about this and of course our side has to play along. I’m doing what I can to call in favors and pull some strings but there are no guarantees.”
O’Hara sighed heavily. She’d joined the unit precisely so she could escape all the government bureaucracy and red tape.
“Have you been able to get in touch with Snake-Eyes or Bravo?” She asked instead.
“No,” Abernathy said, “They’ve gone dark. But I’ll pass on the word if they report in. In the meantime, you’re on your own over there. We’ve been put on a short leash pending the ‘investigation,’ so even that C-17 we borrowed has been recalled.”
O’Hara’s jaw went slack. “Are you serious?”
Abernathy sighed irritatedly and O’Hara wondered briefly if he’d even had a chance to sleep yet.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said, “But it’s out of my hands. All we’ve got access to is what’s in the Pit and I have no way of getting it to you.”
Behind her, a guard rapped on the glass and gestured that her time was up.
“Damn, gotta go,” O’Hara said. “The guard’s kicking me off.”
“Okay,” Abernathy said. “You guys sit tight. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“We know, sir,” O’Hara said, and signed off.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
Hauser could think of a couple places he’d rather be. A beach in Hawaii, perhaps, or the Presidential suite at the New York Plaza Hotel. Hell, even a dive bar in Detroit would be nice. As it was, he’d been unceremoniously dumped, naked and bruised, in a tiny room that was kept just slightly too cold… not enough to give him hypothermia, but just enough to be noticeably uncomfortable. His experiences at SERE told him this was just the ‘softening up’ phase and the worst was yet to come.
The nakedness was supposed to make him feel exposed, vulnerable and ashamed, wearing down his mental resolve, while the cold was just a precursor for the bodily discomforts to come. Sleep deprivation would probably be next, along with denial of food and water. From there, well… It was probably best not to dwell on it. Either way, he doubted his captors would adhere to the terms of the Geneva Convention. Instead, Hauser seated himself calmly, cross-legged on the floor, and mentally recited the starting lineup of the 1946 St. Louis Cardinals to keep his mind occupied.
* * *
Paris, France
2354 Hours Bravo
Skulking in the shadows of a highway overpass, Snake-Eyes considered his options carefully. The prison where Abernathy informed him that his colleagues were being kept was protected by a three-ring concentric barrier. The first ring was a simple chain link fence topped with razor wire. Then, roughly fifteen meters in, lay a concrete wall with a guard tower at both the northeast and southwest corners. Beyond that was a high inner fence with a perimeter of motion-activated floodlights and security cameras placed at regular intervals atop high metal poles. All of those he could bypass with relative ease, but the grounds around the prison offered no cover for his approach. He would have to try something risky. Walking back to the SUV driven by the members of Fireteam Bravo, he outlined his plan and they set off.
Driving past the prison, Snake-Eyes rolled out of the moving car just as they passed the northwest corner of the perimeter, at the point furthest from both towers. He tucked and rolled, coming to a stop at the base of the chain link fence. Producing a small bottle of acid, he sprayed some on the metal, instantly dissolving a hole just large enough for him to crawl through. The thought of destroying the fence bothered him, since after all it was keeping potentially dangerous inmates in, but in the end, the COBRA threat outweighed such concerns.
The concrete wall presented somewhat more of a challenge since it was smooth and featureless, providing no hand holds with which to climb. He made his way to the lowest section of the wall and gathered his feet under himself. With a tremendous leap and with arms outstretched, he managed to get his hands over the top edge and hoisted himself up. At the top, he paused for a moment, drawing his suppressed pistol and shooting out the two nearest clusters of lights. Then, he swung his leg over and dropped into a crouch several meters below. When he was sure he hadn’t been spotted, he made his way up to the final inner fence, using the acid to once again gain access. From there, it was a simple matter of picking the lock on a maintenance door and slipping in.
Inside, the labyrinthine corridors were painted stark white while the doors were black and a pair of exposed ventilation ducts ran overhead. Harsh, fluorescent lighting cast down a sterile glow at two meter intervals. Snake-Eyes had no idea where the others were being held but from a satellite image he’d acquired, he had developed a search pattern. The facility wasn’t large at any rate, just over fifty thousand square meters, and he figured if he swept the place methodically, he could be out in under three hours.
Leaving the general cell blocks for last, he decided to begin with the temporary holding cells where new arrivals were kept while waiting to be processed. It took him nearly half an hour of dodging multiple roving guard patrols and sneaking past duty stations before he finally reached the block he was looking for. The entrance was locked behind a heavy steel door, a window of reinforced safety glass inset into the frame providing the only view inside. Breaking out the picks once again, he made short work of the lock and stepped through, propping the door open behind himself in case he needed to escape quickly.
The first door he came across was again made of heavy steel and labeled “Articles Confisqués” – Impounded Items. Opening it for a peek inside, Snake-Eyes found a large room with floor-to-ceiling metal mesh lockers holding everything the authorities had confiscated from the inmates. One of the lockers was reserved for firearms and he noticed several of their standard-issue SCAR rifles inside, their magazines removed and trigger locks installed. He made a mental note to come back for them later and backed out the door to continue his search.
He finally found his friends in the second last cell as he peered through a peephole mounted in the door. The lock, however, was electric and the door buzzed loudly as he hit the switch. Grimacing at the loss of noise discipline, he heaved the door open to find six startled faces looking back at him. Waving them urgently forward, he smiled under his mask as his teammates hustled out of the cell and followed his pointing finger to the room where their belongings were held. They were geared up and ready to go in less than two minutes.
Leading them back the way he’d come, they got maybe a third of the way before running into a squad of guards, no doubt alerted by the unauthorized cell access. Armed with truncheons, the guards charged at the group who, without magazines for their rifles, were all but defenseless. Without missing a beat, Snake-Eyes unsheathed a pair of collapsible steel batons from his belt and snapped them open with a flourish. His teammates wisely backed off to give him space.
While a perfectly capable hand-to-hand fighter, Snake-Eyes preferred the batons for their psychological deterrent factor. Many times, an opponent would hesitate to engage as soon as they heard the metallic snapping sound of the baton’s sections locking into place. This wasn’t the case with the guards and so Snake-Eyes was forced to carry through with his threat.
He didn’t want to hurt them, since after all they were only doing their jobs. Fortunately for them, they were wearing riot helmets, thus making the probability of a fatal strike that much lower. Instead, Snake-Eyes aimed for the hands, knees and ribs, aborting all attacks as soon as the target went down. The fight barely lasted ninety seconds and he holstered the batons, surrounded by crumpled, moaning figures who clutched their injuries and made no move to impede the group as they left.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
by tammer » Tue Sep 01, 2009 9:53 pm
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
Hauser’s worst fears had come to pass – literally. It was quite common for interrogators to use a captive’s own phobias against him, exploiting ones usually shared by the majority of the human race. These included such fears as darkness, drowning, enclosed spaces and, naturally, pain. A blindfold over Hauser’s eyes easily took care of the first fear while repeatedly dunking his head into a bucket of water and holding it there had taken care of the second. His tiny cell where he spent what little of his time when he wasn’t being tortured took care of the third, and when he didn’t respond to either of those methods, they moved on to the fourth.
Still naked and tied up in an uncomfortable metal chair with an opaque black bag over his face and his feet soaked in a bucket of frigid salt water, his captors had hooked up a car battery with one lead in the bucket of water and were taking turns jabbing him at random intervals with the other live end. Unable to see, he could never anticipate and brace himself for each blow. Rather, the low-voltage shocks always came out of nowhere, wrenching a scream out of him each time. Clearly, the bastards were enjoying this, since they’d been at it for almost half an hour and still had yet to ask him a question.
As the not-quite-interrogation session dragged on, Hauser retreated into himself, reciting the SERE code of conduct over and over like a mantra until the physical world receded into a dull nuisance in the background.
I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. I will never surrender of my own free will…
* * *
Just Outside of Paris, France
0114 Hours Bravo
Fireteam Charlie’s SUV was seriously overcrowded, with eleven bodies crammed into a space designed only to seat seven. On the upside, Team Two was now nearly back to its full operational strength, with the exception of Hauser. If they had their way, that would be fixed soon but the reality was looking much bleaker.
O’Hara had filled them in on the situation Stateside and how they couldn’t count on any logistical support. All they had was themselves and whatever they happened to be carrying with them. A quick inventory produced ten rifles and sidearms, six of which had to share ammo with the other four, the SUV they were currently driving and the clothes on their backs. With that, they had to rescue one of their own from a hidden underwater base some thirty-five hundred kilometers away. Fortunately, the word ‘impossible’ was not in the unit’s lexicon.
Snake-Eyes’ PDA confirmed that the COBRA strike team had indeed returned to the Barents Sea base, the tracking beacon planted on the Doctor still transmitting loud and clear. However, with their current wanted status and the entire country on high alert, they couldn’t well get on a plane and follow them. Their best bet was to drive out of the country and catch a plane elsewhere, and so they were currently en route to Luxembourg. Luckily for them, as fully-implemented members of the Schengen Agreement, France and Luxembourg had open borders with no checkpoints, thus making their egress easier.
After almost five hours of non-stop driving, where everyone who could took the opportunity to sleep, they arrived at Findel International Airport just outside Luxembourg City. Ditching the van among the myriad others in the parking lot, they split into two teams, each with the goal of separately breaching the airport’s security and then reforming to commandeer a plane. O’Hara joined Bravo while Wilkinson joined Charlie and Snake-Eyes struck out on his own as an advance scout.
The airport itself wasn’t particularly big, with only two terminals serving just over one and a half million passengers yearly. Aside from being the only international airport in the country, Findel was also home to a handful of cargo-only airlines as well as some charter services. One of these smaller planes was to be their target tonight.
Having parked near the southwest end of the runway where the smaller hangars were, a simple chain link fence topped with three strands of canted barbed wire was all that stood between the team and their prize. Snake-Eyes’ small can of acid had been nearly exhausted after the prison raid, so he drew his knife and detached its sheath from his belt, clipping the two together to form a makeshift set of wire cutters. With very little effort, he snipped through the strands of barbed wire and vaulted over the fence. Signaling back to O’Hara, she acknowledged the breach and sent word back to Wilkinson for when his team made their approach.
Continuing forward while O’Hara and Bravo negotiated the fence, Snake-Eyes ducked into the shadow of the closest hangar and watched as some workers busily fueled a cargo carrier. That would be their ride, he decided, as soon as they had finished gassing her up. O’Hara and Bravo joined up with him shortly after and he explained his idea.
They leapt out and held the workers at gunpoint, forcing them to fill the plane’s tanks to capacity. By the time Wilkinson and Charlie had arrived, the plane was fueled and ready to go with the workers tied up and gagged in a corner.
“So, who knows how to fly this thing?” Wilkinson asked.
They were, after all, ground pounders by profession and as far as he knew, neither of them had any formal pilot training.
“I’ve played Flight Simulator a lot,” Kibbey offered after a long, awkward silence.
“Sold,” Wilkinson said. “Get in.”
Only a couple of fold-down seats were available in the hold, the rest of the space reserved for cargo, and as the team played Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who would get them, Kibbey made his way into the cockpit. Taking a seat behind the yoke, Kibbey studied the instruments carefully before laying a hand on anything. Only when he was confident that he knew what he was doing did he power up the plane and guide them out to the runway. Without clearance from the tower, Kibbey was painfully aware that he’d have to make the take-off quickly or else they risked running into another plane.
No sooner had the thought occurred to him and he’d lined the plane up on the runway, did a dull roar gradually rise from somewhere behind them – someone coming in for a landing. He didn’t bother to try and figure out what was happening, just released the brake and gunned the throttle, praying that they’d be fast enough to outrun the incoming jet.
“Hold on tight!” He yelled back into the hold.
Teeth gritted, he coaxed the plane to go faster as they rattled over the tarmac. The roar behind them was only growing louder and with each passing second, their successful take-off was looking less and less likely. He squeezed his eyes shut and hauled back on the yoke, his white-knuckled death-grip threatening to shatter the instrument in his hand. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, their plane seemed to grow lighter until finally the wheels came off the ground and they were away. Below them, a passenger airliner shot past, the tip of the vertical stabilizer on its tail just barely missing the underbelly of their tiny craft. Taking deep, calming breaths, Kibbey loosened his grip on the yoke and set about bringing them around onto the right heading for Murmansk.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
Hauser’s worst fears had come to pass – literally. It was quite common for interrogators to use a captive’s own phobias against him, exploiting ones usually shared by the majority of the human race. These included such fears as darkness, drowning, enclosed spaces and, naturally, pain. A blindfold over Hauser’s eyes easily took care of the first fear while repeatedly dunking his head into a bucket of water and holding it there had taken care of the second. His tiny cell where he spent what little of his time when he wasn’t being tortured took care of the third, and when he didn’t respond to either of those methods, they moved on to the fourth.
Still naked and tied up in an uncomfortable metal chair with an opaque black bag over his face and his feet soaked in a bucket of frigid salt water, his captors had hooked up a car battery with one lead in the bucket of water and were taking turns jabbing him at random intervals with the other live end. Unable to see, he could never anticipate and brace himself for each blow. Rather, the low-voltage shocks always came out of nowhere, wrenching a scream out of him each time. Clearly, the bastards were enjoying this, since they’d been at it for almost half an hour and still had yet to ask him a question.
As the not-quite-interrogation session dragged on, Hauser retreated into himself, reciting the SERE code of conduct over and over like a mantra until the physical world receded into a dull nuisance in the background.
I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. I will never surrender of my own free will…
* * *
Just Outside of Paris, France
0114 Hours Bravo
Fireteam Charlie’s SUV was seriously overcrowded, with eleven bodies crammed into a space designed only to seat seven. On the upside, Team Two was now nearly back to its full operational strength, with the exception of Hauser. If they had their way, that would be fixed soon but the reality was looking much bleaker.
O’Hara had filled them in on the situation Stateside and how they couldn’t count on any logistical support. All they had was themselves and whatever they happened to be carrying with them. A quick inventory produced ten rifles and sidearms, six of which had to share ammo with the other four, the SUV they were currently driving and the clothes on their backs. With that, they had to rescue one of their own from a hidden underwater base some thirty-five hundred kilometers away. Fortunately, the word ‘impossible’ was not in the unit’s lexicon.
Snake-Eyes’ PDA confirmed that the COBRA strike team had indeed returned to the Barents Sea base, the tracking beacon planted on the Doctor still transmitting loud and clear. However, with their current wanted status and the entire country on high alert, they couldn’t well get on a plane and follow them. Their best bet was to drive out of the country and catch a plane elsewhere, and so they were currently en route to Luxembourg. Luckily for them, as fully-implemented members of the Schengen Agreement, France and Luxembourg had open borders with no checkpoints, thus making their egress easier.
After almost five hours of non-stop driving, where everyone who could took the opportunity to sleep, they arrived at Findel International Airport just outside Luxembourg City. Ditching the van among the myriad others in the parking lot, they split into two teams, each with the goal of separately breaching the airport’s security and then reforming to commandeer a plane. O’Hara joined Bravo while Wilkinson joined Charlie and Snake-Eyes struck out on his own as an advance scout.
The airport itself wasn’t particularly big, with only two terminals serving just over one and a half million passengers yearly. Aside from being the only international airport in the country, Findel was also home to a handful of cargo-only airlines as well as some charter services. One of these smaller planes was to be their target tonight.
Having parked near the southwest end of the runway where the smaller hangars were, a simple chain link fence topped with three strands of canted barbed wire was all that stood between the team and their prize. Snake-Eyes’ small can of acid had been nearly exhausted after the prison raid, so he drew his knife and detached its sheath from his belt, clipping the two together to form a makeshift set of wire cutters. With very little effort, he snipped through the strands of barbed wire and vaulted over the fence. Signaling back to O’Hara, she acknowledged the breach and sent word back to Wilkinson for when his team made their approach.
Continuing forward while O’Hara and Bravo negotiated the fence, Snake-Eyes ducked into the shadow of the closest hangar and watched as some workers busily fueled a cargo carrier. That would be their ride, he decided, as soon as they had finished gassing her up. O’Hara and Bravo joined up with him shortly after and he explained his idea.
They leapt out and held the workers at gunpoint, forcing them to fill the plane’s tanks to capacity. By the time Wilkinson and Charlie had arrived, the plane was fueled and ready to go with the workers tied up and gagged in a corner.
“So, who knows how to fly this thing?” Wilkinson asked.
They were, after all, ground pounders by profession and as far as he knew, neither of them had any formal pilot training.
“I’ve played Flight Simulator a lot,” Kibbey offered after a long, awkward silence.
“Sold,” Wilkinson said. “Get in.”
Only a couple of fold-down seats were available in the hold, the rest of the space reserved for cargo, and as the team played Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who would get them, Kibbey made his way into the cockpit. Taking a seat behind the yoke, Kibbey studied the instruments carefully before laying a hand on anything. Only when he was confident that he knew what he was doing did he power up the plane and guide them out to the runway. Without clearance from the tower, Kibbey was painfully aware that he’d have to make the take-off quickly or else they risked running into another plane.
No sooner had the thought occurred to him and he’d lined the plane up on the runway, did a dull roar gradually rise from somewhere behind them – someone coming in for a landing. He didn’t bother to try and figure out what was happening, just released the brake and gunned the throttle, praying that they’d be fast enough to outrun the incoming jet.
“Hold on tight!” He yelled back into the hold.
Teeth gritted, he coaxed the plane to go faster as they rattled over the tarmac. The roar behind them was only growing louder and with each passing second, their successful take-off was looking less and less likely. He squeezed his eyes shut and hauled back on the yoke, his white-knuckled death-grip threatening to shatter the instrument in his hand. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, their plane seemed to grow lighter until finally the wheels came off the ground and they were away. Below them, a passenger airliner shot past, the tip of the vertical stabilizer on its tail just barely missing the underbelly of their tiny craft. Taking deep, calming breaths, Kibbey loosened his grip on the yoke and set about bringing them around onto the right heading for Murmansk.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER NINETEEN
by tammer » Wed Sep 02, 2009 7:23 pm
CHAPTER NINETEEN
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0903 Hours Zulu
With the high-throughput genome sequencer set up in the lab to his satisfaction, Sinnesbieger became more industrious than ever. Naturally, he had no intentions of developing the virus his captors wanted, but rather he was engineering his escape. Unknown to his captors, he had managed to swipe a sample of vesicular stomatitis virus from the lab in Paris and he planned to use it to gain freedom for Elise and himself.
A common laboratory virus used by researchers to study viral evolution among other things, VSV was a relative of the rabies virus with a low mortality rate among humans. In the past, research had shown promise in treating hemorrhagic fevers such as Marburg by using VSV as a kill vehicle. By fusing a surface protein from the Marburg onto the VSV, it was theoretically possible to infect the virus with another, less-deadly virus and thus mitigate the former’s effects. It had yet to be tested practically, but with his life and Elise’s hanging in the balance, it was worth a shot. Smiling inwardly, he set about mapping the surface proteins on the Marburg sample and hoping to find a suitable one for his purposes.
* * *
The Pit
0216 Hours Tango
Abernathy sat alone in the darkened Ops Center, refusing to give up on his team even though the cards were clearly stacked against them. In private, the President had assured him that everything was being done to extract his people but that for political reasons, the administration was shocked, shocked, by the actions of these rogue Americans and was taking the necessary steps to ensure such things never happened again. Small comfort, of course, but at least he hadn’t tried to shut down the unit entirely. As it was, the Pit was only manned by a skeleton crew who currently had other duties to attend to.
Just over twelve hours ago, Snake-Eyes and Fireteam Two-Bravo had reported in and Abernathy had informed them of the situation. He still hadn’t heard back from them so he knew something was going down, but his limited resources didn’t allow him to know just what that was. So, he was forced to wait on the sidelines, unable to help.
When the communications board lit up, he was over in a flash, patching the audio through the Ops Center’s speakers.
“Abernathy.”
“Good to hear your voice, sir,” Wilkinson said.
“Likewise. What’s your situation?”
“Well, we’re not in jail anymore. We’ve got Snake-Eyes and Bravo to thank for that. We managed to acquire a plane and we’re currently en route to Murmansk to continue our original mission, but we’re critically low on supplies.”
Abernathy’s eyebrows rose, impressed. “Well, like I told O’Hara, all we’ve got is what’s in the Pit and there’s no way I can get it to you in time. What’s your ETA at Murmansk?”
There was a long pause as Wilkinson presumably went to check. “They’re telling me two hours, give or take, sir.”
Abernathy chewed his lip, mentally rifling through his list of contacts in the area. Who might he know that still owed him a favor?
“I’ll make a few calls,” Abernathy promised. “Just tell me what you need.”
“At the very least, a boat, some membrane dry suits, thermal undersuits, closed-circuit rebreathers, full-face diving masks, fins and all the 5.56 and .45 ACP you can get your hands on.”
“Alright,” Abernathy said after he’d copied down the list. “I’ll see what I can do. Let me know when you’re on the ground and I’ll give you instructions from there.”
“Will do, sir. Out.”
* * *
Somewhere Over Russian Airspace
1121 Hours Zulu
Kibbey, despite his many simulated hours in the air, had trouble deciphering the aircraft’s instruments in real life and so had no sense of direction once they were above the clouds. To fix that, he’d set up his laptop beside him, the GPS software running overlaid on top of a satellite map of the globe. It wasn’t perfect, but it did the trick. Now, as the icon that represented their plane approached the destination marked on the map, Kibbey set about looking for a wide clear field or something where they could land. His experience with the airliner at Findel had rattled him enough that he didn’t want to risk landing unauthorized at another live airport.
Coming in low, he spotted a promising site next to what looked like a major road. He cut his speed and lowered the landing gear, extending the flaps as the plane bled off speed. Easing the yoke forward, he brought them down in a semi-controlled descent, realizing too late that the field was probably too short to land safely. The front wheels buckled as they touched down on the uneven ground and the plane pitched forward until its nose broke dirt, carving a shallow furrow as it ground to a stop just inches away from the tree line.
“Nice landing,” O’Hara jabbed.
Kibbey shrugged. “Hey, as long as you can walk away…”
The team quickly disembarked, abandoning the plane where it lay, and made their way into the cover of the trees. There, they contacted General Abernathy and he informed them that an old retired SEAL buddy of his had agreed to help out, procuring the supplies they needed and granting them the use of his boat. They just had to meet him up near the coast.
That presented somewhat of a problem since they had no transport besides the plane, which wasn’t going anywhere soon without some major repairs. Snake-Eyes had an idea and stalked off towards the roadway. Before long, a transport truck came by heading in the direction of the airport. Rolling under it, Snake-Eyes hitched a ride on the undercarriage and returned half an hour later behind the wheel of a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter minibus. All of them clambered aboard and they set off for the coast.
* * *
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0903 Hours Zulu
With the high-throughput genome sequencer set up in the lab to his satisfaction, Sinnesbieger became more industrious than ever. Naturally, he had no intentions of developing the virus his captors wanted, but rather he was engineering his escape. Unknown to his captors, he had managed to swipe a sample of vesicular stomatitis virus from the lab in Paris and he planned to use it to gain freedom for Elise and himself.
A common laboratory virus used by researchers to study viral evolution among other things, VSV was a relative of the rabies virus with a low mortality rate among humans. In the past, research had shown promise in treating hemorrhagic fevers such as Marburg by using VSV as a kill vehicle. By fusing a surface protein from the Marburg onto the VSV, it was theoretically possible to infect the virus with another, less-deadly virus and thus mitigate the former’s effects. It had yet to be tested practically, but with his life and Elise’s hanging in the balance, it was worth a shot. Smiling inwardly, he set about mapping the surface proteins on the Marburg sample and hoping to find a suitable one for his purposes.
* * *
The Pit
0216 Hours Tango
Abernathy sat alone in the darkened Ops Center, refusing to give up on his team even though the cards were clearly stacked against them. In private, the President had assured him that everything was being done to extract his people but that for political reasons, the administration was shocked, shocked, by the actions of these rogue Americans and was taking the necessary steps to ensure such things never happened again. Small comfort, of course, but at least he hadn’t tried to shut down the unit entirely. As it was, the Pit was only manned by a skeleton crew who currently had other duties to attend to.
Just over twelve hours ago, Snake-Eyes and Fireteam Two-Bravo had reported in and Abernathy had informed them of the situation. He still hadn’t heard back from them so he knew something was going down, but his limited resources didn’t allow him to know just what that was. So, he was forced to wait on the sidelines, unable to help.
When the communications board lit up, he was over in a flash, patching the audio through the Ops Center’s speakers.
“Abernathy.”
“Good to hear your voice, sir,” Wilkinson said.
“Likewise. What’s your situation?”
“Well, we’re not in jail anymore. We’ve got Snake-Eyes and Bravo to thank for that. We managed to acquire a plane and we’re currently en route to Murmansk to continue our original mission, but we’re critically low on supplies.”
Abernathy’s eyebrows rose, impressed. “Well, like I told O’Hara, all we’ve got is what’s in the Pit and there’s no way I can get it to you in time. What’s your ETA at Murmansk?”
There was a long pause as Wilkinson presumably went to check. “They’re telling me two hours, give or take, sir.”
Abernathy chewed his lip, mentally rifling through his list of contacts in the area. Who might he know that still owed him a favor?
“I’ll make a few calls,” Abernathy promised. “Just tell me what you need.”
“At the very least, a boat, some membrane dry suits, thermal undersuits, closed-circuit rebreathers, full-face diving masks, fins and all the 5.56 and .45 ACP you can get your hands on.”
“Alright,” Abernathy said after he’d copied down the list. “I’ll see what I can do. Let me know when you’re on the ground and I’ll give you instructions from there.”
“Will do, sir. Out.”
* * *
Somewhere Over Russian Airspace
1121 Hours Zulu
Kibbey, despite his many simulated hours in the air, had trouble deciphering the aircraft’s instruments in real life and so had no sense of direction once they were above the clouds. To fix that, he’d set up his laptop beside him, the GPS software running overlaid on top of a satellite map of the globe. It wasn’t perfect, but it did the trick. Now, as the icon that represented their plane approached the destination marked on the map, Kibbey set about looking for a wide clear field or something where they could land. His experience with the airliner at Findel had rattled him enough that he didn’t want to risk landing unauthorized at another live airport.
Coming in low, he spotted a promising site next to what looked like a major road. He cut his speed and lowered the landing gear, extending the flaps as the plane bled off speed. Easing the yoke forward, he brought them down in a semi-controlled descent, realizing too late that the field was probably too short to land safely. The front wheels buckled as they touched down on the uneven ground and the plane pitched forward until its nose broke dirt, carving a shallow furrow as it ground to a stop just inches away from the tree line.
“Nice landing,” O’Hara jabbed.
Kibbey shrugged. “Hey, as long as you can walk away…”
The team quickly disembarked, abandoning the plane where it lay, and made their way into the cover of the trees. There, they contacted General Abernathy and he informed them that an old retired SEAL buddy of his had agreed to help out, procuring the supplies they needed and granting them the use of his boat. They just had to meet him up near the coast.
That presented somewhat of a problem since they had no transport besides the plane, which wasn’t going anywhere soon without some major repairs. Snake-Eyes had an idea and stalked off towards the roadway. Before long, a transport truck came by heading in the direction of the airport. Rolling under it, Snake-Eyes hitched a ride on the undercarriage and returned half an hour later behind the wheel of a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter minibus. All of them clambered aboard and they set off for the coast.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY
by tammer » Thu Sep 03, 2009 3:24 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
“What is your name?”
Hauser followed with his good eye as the hooded man paced back and forth in front of him. They had removed his blindfold, but his other eye had swollen shut, leaving him with just the one. The line of questioning was still relatively benign – name, rank, service number, date of birth – nothing he wasn’t allowed to give otherwise as a prisoner of war. However, since he officially didn’t exist, he wasn’t sure if even those details could be given.
“I’m no one. I don’t exist,” he said.
“Special Forces, then,” the man guessed. “Or CIA? I know you’re American.”
“Der Schein trügt,” Hauser said in idiomatic German. Appearances can be deceiving.
The man stopped pacing, examining Hauser closely.
“You’re trying to confuse me,” he said finally, “Trying to throw me off, but I’ve nailed you for what you are. You know what gave you away? Your attitude. You carry yourself like an American, with a sense of entitlement. Like you think you’re the best but you can’t, for the life of you, understand why nobody else can see that. Why aren’t they heaping you with praise?”
Hauser said nothing. The more the man talked, the less questions he’d have to answer. It didn’t last.
“How did you find this facility?” The man asked. “I’m assuming those were your teammates who died on the oil rig?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hauser lied.
“No?” He asked, leaning in closer. “So it doesn’t bother you that they didn’t go down fighting? That they died in an impersonal, ignominious blaze, completely unaware of the shadow of death that was stalking them? That what little remains of their bodies will never be recovered?”
Hauser’s eye twitched slightly, and the man caught it, straightening up with a self-satisfied air.
“I thought so. You see, this location was chosen for its remoteness, with almost no through traffic and a Russian naval bastion to the south to discourage curious civilians. How is it that you, that is to say whoever you work for, managed to find us?”
He eyed Hauser expectantly, then seemed to deflate a little when it became apparent Hauser wouldn’t respond.
“Perhaps you’re not yet ready to talk,” the man said. “No matter. I’ll come back when you are.”
The man spun the wheel on the hatch and swung it open to step out. He was barely out the door when two COBRA troopers entered carrying the now-familiar bucket of water and car battery. The hatch swung shut behind them with a solid clang.
* * *
The Russian Coast
1324 Hours Zulu
With his full beard and shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, Commander Hector Delgado, U.S. Navy (Retired) looked less like an American serviceman and more like a Russian fisherman. As Team Two’s van pulled up to his little seaside shanty, they found Delgado outside chopping wood with a well-worn axe. Dressed in a dark blue and white striped telnyashka, a knitted undershirt typical of Russian sailors, and a pair of blue Levi’s 501 jeans, the juxtaposition between eastern and western styles was odd but fitting if what Abernathy had told them about the man was true. According to the General, Delgado had moved to Russia after he retired because, in his own words, ‘I’ve spent my entire career ready to go to war with these people, to kill their fathers, brothers and sons over an ideological difference. Now that we’re allies, I kind of owe it to them to see what they’re really about.’
As the team stepped out of their van and approached the man, he put down the axe and fixed them all with his steely blue eyes.
“I am but mad north-north-west,” he said.
“When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw,” Wilkinson replied, completing the code phrase Abernathy had given them.
Delgado smiled warmly. “So you’re the guys the Hawk sent, huh? C’mon inside.”
He led them to the cottage, a simple log cabin with beautifully-carved filigrees of wood framing the windows. Inside, a stone fireplace blazed cheerily, casting a flickering glow along the walls. Piled on the floor of the main room were stacks of gear which Delgado walked over to and exhibited for them.
“I managed to get my hands on some surplus IDA71 rebreathers,” he said, picking up one of the olive-colored metal boxes. “Oldies but goodies. Should keep you supplied with oxygen for up to four hours underwater.”
Next, he showed them their dry suits, fins and masks. “I hope these are okay. They’re the best I could do on such short notice and they ought to keep you warm enough, but I wouldn’t stay in too long with these.”
Moving on, he tore a blanket off a modest stack of ammo crates. “5.56 NATO is rare in these parts, for obvious reasons, so this is my own personal stash. It’s not much, but you can take whatever you need. Same goes for the .45.”
Lastly, he led them into another room where they found a bonus that they hadn’t asked for but would make their job much easier.
“Underwater scooters,” Delgado said. “With only four hours of air, you’re going to need to make the most of your time. I figured you could use these.”
The team geared up and when they were ready, Delgado led them out to his boat – a rusting old purse seiner moored to a wooden dock extending into the sea behind the cottage.
“I don’t know where you’re going and I’m not going to ask,” he said as they boarded, “But it’s important to the Hawk, so that’s good enough for me. I wish I could come with you, but God knows, the flesh is weak. All the same, good luck out there.”
He tossed them a salute which they returned. Then, unmooring the boat, they set off northward into the icy waters of the Barents Sea.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
“What is your name?”
Hauser followed with his good eye as the hooded man paced back and forth in front of him. They had removed his blindfold, but his other eye had swollen shut, leaving him with just the one. The line of questioning was still relatively benign – name, rank, service number, date of birth – nothing he wasn’t allowed to give otherwise as a prisoner of war. However, since he officially didn’t exist, he wasn’t sure if even those details could be given.
“I’m no one. I don’t exist,” he said.
“Special Forces, then,” the man guessed. “Or CIA? I know you’re American.”
“Der Schein trügt,” Hauser said in idiomatic German. Appearances can be deceiving.
The man stopped pacing, examining Hauser closely.
“You’re trying to confuse me,” he said finally, “Trying to throw me off, but I’ve nailed you for what you are. You know what gave you away? Your attitude. You carry yourself like an American, with a sense of entitlement. Like you think you’re the best but you can’t, for the life of you, understand why nobody else can see that. Why aren’t they heaping you with praise?”
Hauser said nothing. The more the man talked, the less questions he’d have to answer. It didn’t last.
“How did you find this facility?” The man asked. “I’m assuming those were your teammates who died on the oil rig?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hauser lied.
“No?” He asked, leaning in closer. “So it doesn’t bother you that they didn’t go down fighting? That they died in an impersonal, ignominious blaze, completely unaware of the shadow of death that was stalking them? That what little remains of their bodies will never be recovered?”
Hauser’s eye twitched slightly, and the man caught it, straightening up with a self-satisfied air.
“I thought so. You see, this location was chosen for its remoteness, with almost no through traffic and a Russian naval bastion to the south to discourage curious civilians. How is it that you, that is to say whoever you work for, managed to find us?”
He eyed Hauser expectantly, then seemed to deflate a little when it became apparent Hauser wouldn’t respond.
“Perhaps you’re not yet ready to talk,” the man said. “No matter. I’ll come back when you are.”
The man spun the wheel on the hatch and swung it open to step out. He was barely out the door when two COBRA troopers entered carrying the now-familiar bucket of water and car battery. The hatch swung shut behind them with a solid clang.
* * *
The Russian Coast
1324 Hours Zulu
With his full beard and shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, Commander Hector Delgado, U.S. Navy (Retired) looked less like an American serviceman and more like a Russian fisherman. As Team Two’s van pulled up to his little seaside shanty, they found Delgado outside chopping wood with a well-worn axe. Dressed in a dark blue and white striped telnyashka, a knitted undershirt typical of Russian sailors, and a pair of blue Levi’s 501 jeans, the juxtaposition between eastern and western styles was odd but fitting if what Abernathy had told them about the man was true. According to the General, Delgado had moved to Russia after he retired because, in his own words, ‘I’ve spent my entire career ready to go to war with these people, to kill their fathers, brothers and sons over an ideological difference. Now that we’re allies, I kind of owe it to them to see what they’re really about.’
As the team stepped out of their van and approached the man, he put down the axe and fixed them all with his steely blue eyes.
“I am but mad north-north-west,” he said.
“When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw,” Wilkinson replied, completing the code phrase Abernathy had given them.
Delgado smiled warmly. “So you’re the guys the Hawk sent, huh? C’mon inside.”
He led them to the cottage, a simple log cabin with beautifully-carved filigrees of wood framing the windows. Inside, a stone fireplace blazed cheerily, casting a flickering glow along the walls. Piled on the floor of the main room were stacks of gear which Delgado walked over to and exhibited for them.
“I managed to get my hands on some surplus IDA71 rebreathers,” he said, picking up one of the olive-colored metal boxes. “Oldies but goodies. Should keep you supplied with oxygen for up to four hours underwater.”
Next, he showed them their dry suits, fins and masks. “I hope these are okay. They’re the best I could do on such short notice and they ought to keep you warm enough, but I wouldn’t stay in too long with these.”
Moving on, he tore a blanket off a modest stack of ammo crates. “5.56 NATO is rare in these parts, for obvious reasons, so this is my own personal stash. It’s not much, but you can take whatever you need. Same goes for the .45.”
Lastly, he led them into another room where they found a bonus that they hadn’t asked for but would make their job much easier.
“Underwater scooters,” Delgado said. “With only four hours of air, you’re going to need to make the most of your time. I figured you could use these.”
The team geared up and when they were ready, Delgado led them out to his boat – a rusting old purse seiner moored to a wooden dock extending into the sea behind the cottage.
“I don’t know where you’re going and I’m not going to ask,” he said as they boarded, “But it’s important to the Hawk, so that’s good enough for me. I wish I could come with you, but God knows, the flesh is weak. All the same, good luck out there.”
He tossed them a salute which they returned. Then, unmooring the boat, they set off northward into the icy waters of the Barents Sea.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
by tammer » Fri Sep 04, 2009 9:04 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Washington D.C.
1016 Hours Quebec
“I’ve got to admit, this was certainly one of the stranger requests I’ve ever gotten,” Hartigan said, cradling the telephone handset between ear and shoulder as he spoke. “You know, most school kids just ask for a signed photo or something. This was definitely a first.”
After handing off the envelope containing a lock of his hair and of the President’s to a M.A.R.S courier, Hartigan had decided to phone up his old boss just to share the news that the package was on its way.
“Well, we McCullens are a unique bunch. You ought to know that better than anyone,” McCullen said.
“I suppose,” Hartigan agreed. “But that being said, I don’t think I’ve ever met your brother, so I only have your example to go on.”
“He never really showed much interest in the family business anyway,” McCullen said, “So there is that. But my father always prized originality above all else, no matter if it applied to cutting edge defense systems or to the way you buttered your bread. Think outside the box, he’d always tell us.”
“Well, in that case, your family legacy is in good hands,” Hartigan said. “How old is your niece, anyway? This sounds like a rather ambitious project.”
“She just started secondary school and wants to make a lasting impression,” McCullen said. “After all, ambition is another McCullen family trait.”
“Now, that much I know,” Hartigan said, grinning. “If she’s anything like you, I’m starting to worry I might one day walk down the street and run into a copy of myself.”
McCullen laughed. “Give it a few years.”
Hartigan laughed too. “Alright. Well, I’m sure you’re just as busy as I am so I won’t keep you any longer. Good hearing from you, and I wish your niece success with her project.”
“I’ll pass that along, thanks,” McCullen said. “Take care, Zach.”
“Likewise. Bye.”
* * *
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0946 Hours Zulu
Sinnesbieger had been awake for the past twenty-six hours but fought sleep the way a drowning man might similarly struggle against the inevitable. It occurred to him that in his younger days, he could have gone without sleep for much longer, but such was the cost of aging. In any case, that was what coffee was for. Fortunately, the Marburg strain he was studying was unique and thus he stood a better chance of finding something that he could exploit. He’d spent the better part of the last day sequencing the Marburg’s genetic makeup and as he drew nearer to a solution, became less willing to put it off for any reason - especially one as petty as sleep.
As the results came back, he pored over them intently, trying to identify the best way to employ the VSV virus against it. He knew he was running out of time as earlier that morning, his captor had delivered a hair sample that presumably belonged to their target. He would be expecting results, and soon. Also, with the handful of conspicuous cameras placed all over the lab, Sinnesbieger knew he had to look busy at all times.
He had made a big show of preparing the hair sample for sequencing, going through a needlessly complicated procedure in order to do so. Then, he’d set the sequencer to run at its slowest possible speed to buy himself more time. The vaccine he was preparing only needed enough for two doses – himself and Elise – but it still had yet to be perfected in practice. That knowledge of the time melting away was more effective than the coffee.
* * *
The Barents Sea
1004 Hours Zulu
Despite at least ten hours left on their voyage before they got within range of the COBRA base and a four hour swim to look forward to after that, Team Two’s morale was high. General Abernathy had warned them against seeking revenge but even so, it felt good to be bringing the hurt to the enemy for a change. With eleven of them aboard, plus all their gear, the conditions were cramped but everyone made do. To pass the time, they loaded magazines, cleaned their weapons vigilantly to prevent corrosion from the salt air and rehearsed the assault plan verbally and mentally, until each person could do their part in their sleep.
General Abernathy’s intel hadn’t yet been able to discover who owned the base, its construction having been subcontracted out to various shell companies and probably paid for from a secret slush fund, so blueprints were out of the question. Still, the team was trained to be adaptable and when thrust head-first into an unknown situation, could all be counted on to do their jobs. In this case, Element Black consisting of Wilkinson, O’Hara, Snake-Eyes, Kibbey and Hinton would be responsible for locating and extracting Hauser while Element Gold consisting of LaFitte, Graves, Weems, McConnell, Metzger and Collins would find and secure the Marburg. They would enter together and secure their escape route before splitting up to perform their respective tasks.
Checking in with General Abernathy one last time before the mission began, their rules of engagement were confirmed – weapons free. As they sailed on, the choppy seas and salt spray did little to wither their resolve.
* * *
Washington D.C.
1016 Hours Quebec
“I’ve got to admit, this was certainly one of the stranger requests I’ve ever gotten,” Hartigan said, cradling the telephone handset between ear and shoulder as he spoke. “You know, most school kids just ask for a signed photo or something. This was definitely a first.”
After handing off the envelope containing a lock of his hair and of the President’s to a M.A.R.S courier, Hartigan had decided to phone up his old boss just to share the news that the package was on its way.
“Well, we McCullens are a unique bunch. You ought to know that better than anyone,” McCullen said.
“I suppose,” Hartigan agreed. “But that being said, I don’t think I’ve ever met your brother, so I only have your example to go on.”
“He never really showed much interest in the family business anyway,” McCullen said, “So there is that. But my father always prized originality above all else, no matter if it applied to cutting edge defense systems or to the way you buttered your bread. Think outside the box, he’d always tell us.”
“Well, in that case, your family legacy is in good hands,” Hartigan said. “How old is your niece, anyway? This sounds like a rather ambitious project.”
“She just started secondary school and wants to make a lasting impression,” McCullen said. “After all, ambition is another McCullen family trait.”
“Now, that much I know,” Hartigan said, grinning. “If she’s anything like you, I’m starting to worry I might one day walk down the street and run into a copy of myself.”
McCullen laughed. “Give it a few years.”
Hartigan laughed too. “Alright. Well, I’m sure you’re just as busy as I am so I won’t keep you any longer. Good hearing from you, and I wish your niece success with her project.”
“I’ll pass that along, thanks,” McCullen said. “Take care, Zach.”
“Likewise. Bye.”
* * *
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
0946 Hours Zulu
Sinnesbieger had been awake for the past twenty-six hours but fought sleep the way a drowning man might similarly struggle against the inevitable. It occurred to him that in his younger days, he could have gone without sleep for much longer, but such was the cost of aging. In any case, that was what coffee was for. Fortunately, the Marburg strain he was studying was unique and thus he stood a better chance of finding something that he could exploit. He’d spent the better part of the last day sequencing the Marburg’s genetic makeup and as he drew nearer to a solution, became less willing to put it off for any reason - especially one as petty as sleep.
As the results came back, he pored over them intently, trying to identify the best way to employ the VSV virus against it. He knew he was running out of time as earlier that morning, his captor had delivered a hair sample that presumably belonged to their target. He would be expecting results, and soon. Also, with the handful of conspicuous cameras placed all over the lab, Sinnesbieger knew he had to look busy at all times.
He had made a big show of preparing the hair sample for sequencing, going through a needlessly complicated procedure in order to do so. Then, he’d set the sequencer to run at its slowest possible speed to buy himself more time. The vaccine he was preparing only needed enough for two doses – himself and Elise – but it still had yet to be perfected in practice. That knowledge of the time melting away was more effective than the coffee.
* * *
The Barents Sea
1004 Hours Zulu
Despite at least ten hours left on their voyage before they got within range of the COBRA base and a four hour swim to look forward to after that, Team Two’s morale was high. General Abernathy had warned them against seeking revenge but even so, it felt good to be bringing the hurt to the enemy for a change. With eleven of them aboard, plus all their gear, the conditions were cramped but everyone made do. To pass the time, they loaded magazines, cleaned their weapons vigilantly to prevent corrosion from the salt air and rehearsed the assault plan verbally and mentally, until each person could do their part in their sleep.
General Abernathy’s intel hadn’t yet been able to discover who owned the base, its construction having been subcontracted out to various shell companies and probably paid for from a secret slush fund, so blueprints were out of the question. Still, the team was trained to be adaptable and when thrust head-first into an unknown situation, could all be counted on to do their jobs. In this case, Element Black consisting of Wilkinson, O’Hara, Snake-Eyes, Kibbey and Hinton would be responsible for locating and extracting Hauser while Element Gold consisting of LaFitte, Graves, Weems, McConnell, Metzger and Collins would find and secure the Marburg. They would enter together and secure their escape route before splitting up to perform their respective tasks.
Checking in with General Abernathy one last time before the mission began, their rules of engagement were confirmed – weapons free. As they sailed on, the choppy seas and salt spray did little to wither their resolve.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
by tammer » Sat Sep 05, 2009 10:39 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Barents Sea
2027 Hours Zulu
Killing the engines and leaving the seiner to drift, the members of Team Two shrugged into their dry suits and rebreather units. In swim-buddy pairs, they checked over each other’s equipment to make sure everything was mounted and configured properly for the dive. The COBRA base was still maybe a hundred kilometers away but the boat made for a larger target, so instead it came down to a long, frigid swim. At least they had the scooters.
Heaving the scooters overboard, they sank several meters into the water then stayed neutrally buoyant as the team dove in after them. Visibility wasn’t great in the murky depths but following the tracking beacon would keep them on course. Starting up the scooters, they fell into a ragged formation and began churning steadily towards their objective.
Forty-five minutes later, they abandoned the scooters and continued forward under their own power. If the base were equipped with sonar or hydrophones, they probably would have picked up the engine noise – an unacceptable risk. Individual divers would be much harder to spot.
Just under half an hour after that, something loomed in the water up ahead of them, dark and solid. As they neared, multiple domed hulls slid lazily into focus, looking like a cluster of giant metal mushrooms connected together by lattices of tunnels. Interior lights spilling out of portholes dotted the surface of each dome and they dove deeper to avoid them. Passing under the structures to look for a way in, they found a moon pool opening under one of the outlying structures and swam towards it.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
What felt like days of continuous brutal beatings without sleep or food was taking its toll on Hauser. He was suffering from the onset of the crazies, where delirium threatened to overwhelm his grasp of reality. As it was, he had taken to bursting loudly into song whenever his interrogators asked him a question.
“Oh, they’ve got no time for glory in the Infantry,” he intoned in a rich tenor. “Oh, they’ve got no use for praises loudly sung!” How ironic! “But in every soldier’s heart in all the Infantry, shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!”
A vicious right hook to the mouth only tripped him up for a second.
“Shines the name! Rodger Young!” He belted on, “Fought and died for the men he marched among! In the everlasting annals of the Infantry glows the last deed of Private Rodger Young!”
An alarmed pounding at the door didn’t faze him either and he kept singing as the hooded man opened the hatch and had a harried conversation with the man outside.
“We’ve got trouble,” the hooded man told the other trooper as he came back, shouting to be heard over Hauser’s racket. “You stay here and watch him. Anyone comes through that door, kill them!”
With that, the hooded man slipped out and shut the hatch behind him. The remaining man grabbed a greasy rag and stuffed it in Hauser’s mouth, succeeding only in muffling, but not stopping, the sound.
* * *
The reports of gunfire were deafening in the sealed metal corridors of the base as O’Hara traded fire with a pair of COBRA troopers. Hunkered down behind a ninety-degree bend at the other end of the hall, the troopers had a perfect kill zone since the path O’Hara had planned to take offered no cover. The walls were arched at the top, unbroken by doorways or any outcroppings that she could hide behind. As long as those troopers held their position, they could easily take her down if she tried to move from where she was. Wilkinson, Kibbey and Snake-Eyes, kneeling directly across from her, weren’t faring much better and behind her, Hinton’s heavy machine gun was too large to be practical in such close quarters, so that didn’t help.
Complicating matters further, since their ammo was limited, they had to make every shot count but the COBRAs, presumably much better equipped, were under no such restrictions. They liberally hosed Element Black’s positions with fire, forcing them to keep their heads down.
“We could really use a grenade right about now,” O’Hara muttered.
No sooner had the words left her mouth did a small metal cylinder the size of a beer can come bouncing down the hall, rolling to a stop beside her. Stunned, she stared at it dumbly for a split second before her brain registered the threat.
Snake-Eyes, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate and with lightning fast reflexes, scooped up the grenade and flung it back in the COBRAs’ direction where it detonated. O’Hara winced as the pressure wave smashed into her eardrums, her hearing abruptly reduced to a high-pitched ringing noise that slowly faded to reveal wet, dying sounds coming from the COBRA position.
They advanced cautiously, weapons up and scanning through the acrid smoke until the bloodied remains of the COBRA troopers came into view, their weapons mangled, pieces strewn about the slick, gore-splattered corridor. Pushing on, they descended deeper into the complex, checking each door as they went.
* * *
Element Gold had run into a small snag. As they were clearing a section of rooms that appeared to be living suites, they had discovered one housing a terrified young girl who had been hiding as they entered but then flung herself at them with blinding ferocity as soon as they pulled back the shower curtain in the bathroom.
LaFitte, on point, had reflexively loosed a shot but fortunately hadn’t managed to raise his weapon fully from its low-ready position. As Sergeant Collins tended to her wounded leg, they found out she was Doctor Sinnesbieger’s daughter and had thought they’d come to kill her. After reassuring her of their good-guy status and administering some morphine for the pain came the moment of truth – deciding what to do with her.
Their mission brief had not specifically covered hostages other than Hauser, since no others had been confirmed to have been taken. All they had was the Doctor’s panicked rumor from St. Petersburg and his refusal to elaborate, but then his involvement in the Paris heist had called his true motives into question. On the one hand, bringing the girl with them would be quite dangerous for all of them. With her wound slowing her down and all the bullets flying, that was a colossally bad idea. But to leave her here was an open invitation for any COBRA troopers to come in and shoot her. They mulled it over, losing precious time, until LaFitte solved the problem by moving the girl to a different room, then stripping off his ballistic vest and giving it to her.
“I can’t give you a gun,” he told her, catching her gaze lingering on his sidearm. “But if you stay out of sight, you should be okay. Wait here and one of us will be back for you.”
“Wait!” She called after him as he turned to leave. “Promise me you won’t hurt my father!”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, that’s not why we’re here.”
Rejoining his team in the corridor, they set off to find the Marburg.
* * *
___________________________________
And since this chapter was late today, here's a COBRA advertisement poster for you. I'm sorry!
The Barents Sea
2027 Hours Zulu
Killing the engines and leaving the seiner to drift, the members of Team Two shrugged into their dry suits and rebreather units. In swim-buddy pairs, they checked over each other’s equipment to make sure everything was mounted and configured properly for the dive. The COBRA base was still maybe a hundred kilometers away but the boat made for a larger target, so instead it came down to a long, frigid swim. At least they had the scooters.
Heaving the scooters overboard, they sank several meters into the water then stayed neutrally buoyant as the team dove in after them. Visibility wasn’t great in the murky depths but following the tracking beacon would keep them on course. Starting up the scooters, they fell into a ragged formation and began churning steadily towards their objective.
Forty-five minutes later, they abandoned the scooters and continued forward under their own power. If the base were equipped with sonar or hydrophones, they probably would have picked up the engine noise – an unacceptable risk. Individual divers would be much harder to spot.
Just under half an hour after that, something loomed in the water up ahead of them, dark and solid. As they neared, multiple domed hulls slid lazily into focus, looking like a cluster of giant metal mushrooms connected together by lattices of tunnels. Interior lights spilling out of portholes dotted the surface of each dome and they dove deeper to avoid them. Passing under the structures to look for a way in, they found a moon pool opening under one of the outlying structures and swam towards it.
* * *
Location Unknown
Time Unknown
What felt like days of continuous brutal beatings without sleep or food was taking its toll on Hauser. He was suffering from the onset of the crazies, where delirium threatened to overwhelm his grasp of reality. As it was, he had taken to bursting loudly into song whenever his interrogators asked him a question.
“Oh, they’ve got no time for glory in the Infantry,” he intoned in a rich tenor. “Oh, they’ve got no use for praises loudly sung!” How ironic! “But in every soldier’s heart in all the Infantry, shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young!”
A vicious right hook to the mouth only tripped him up for a second.
“Shines the name! Rodger Young!” He belted on, “Fought and died for the men he marched among! In the everlasting annals of the Infantry glows the last deed of Private Rodger Young!”
An alarmed pounding at the door didn’t faze him either and he kept singing as the hooded man opened the hatch and had a harried conversation with the man outside.
“We’ve got trouble,” the hooded man told the other trooper as he came back, shouting to be heard over Hauser’s racket. “You stay here and watch him. Anyone comes through that door, kill them!”
With that, the hooded man slipped out and shut the hatch behind him. The remaining man grabbed a greasy rag and stuffed it in Hauser’s mouth, succeeding only in muffling, but not stopping, the sound.
* * *
The reports of gunfire were deafening in the sealed metal corridors of the base as O’Hara traded fire with a pair of COBRA troopers. Hunkered down behind a ninety-degree bend at the other end of the hall, the troopers had a perfect kill zone since the path O’Hara had planned to take offered no cover. The walls were arched at the top, unbroken by doorways or any outcroppings that she could hide behind. As long as those troopers held their position, they could easily take her down if she tried to move from where she was. Wilkinson, Kibbey and Snake-Eyes, kneeling directly across from her, weren’t faring much better and behind her, Hinton’s heavy machine gun was too large to be practical in such close quarters, so that didn’t help.
Complicating matters further, since their ammo was limited, they had to make every shot count but the COBRAs, presumably much better equipped, were under no such restrictions. They liberally hosed Element Black’s positions with fire, forcing them to keep their heads down.
“We could really use a grenade right about now,” O’Hara muttered.
No sooner had the words left her mouth did a small metal cylinder the size of a beer can come bouncing down the hall, rolling to a stop beside her. Stunned, she stared at it dumbly for a split second before her brain registered the threat.
Snake-Eyes, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate and with lightning fast reflexes, scooped up the grenade and flung it back in the COBRAs’ direction where it detonated. O’Hara winced as the pressure wave smashed into her eardrums, her hearing abruptly reduced to a high-pitched ringing noise that slowly faded to reveal wet, dying sounds coming from the COBRA position.
They advanced cautiously, weapons up and scanning through the acrid smoke until the bloodied remains of the COBRA troopers came into view, their weapons mangled, pieces strewn about the slick, gore-splattered corridor. Pushing on, they descended deeper into the complex, checking each door as they went.
* * *
Element Gold had run into a small snag. As they were clearing a section of rooms that appeared to be living suites, they had discovered one housing a terrified young girl who had been hiding as they entered but then flung herself at them with blinding ferocity as soon as they pulled back the shower curtain in the bathroom.
LaFitte, on point, had reflexively loosed a shot but fortunately hadn’t managed to raise his weapon fully from its low-ready position. As Sergeant Collins tended to her wounded leg, they found out she was Doctor Sinnesbieger’s daughter and had thought they’d come to kill her. After reassuring her of their good-guy status and administering some morphine for the pain came the moment of truth – deciding what to do with her.
Their mission brief had not specifically covered hostages other than Hauser, since no others had been confirmed to have been taken. All they had was the Doctor’s panicked rumor from St. Petersburg and his refusal to elaborate, but then his involvement in the Paris heist had called his true motives into question. On the one hand, bringing the girl with them would be quite dangerous for all of them. With her wound slowing her down and all the bullets flying, that was a colossally bad idea. But to leave her here was an open invitation for any COBRA troopers to come in and shoot her. They mulled it over, losing precious time, until LaFitte solved the problem by moving the girl to a different room, then stripping off his ballistic vest and giving it to her.
“I can’t give you a gun,” he told her, catching her gaze lingering on his sidearm. “But if you stay out of sight, you should be okay. Wait here and one of us will be back for you.”
“Wait!” She called after him as he turned to leave. “Promise me you won’t hurt my father!”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, that’s not why we’re here.”
Rejoining his team in the corridor, they set off to find the Marburg.
* * *
___________________________________
And since this chapter was late today, here's a COBRA advertisement poster for you. I'm sorry!
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
by tammer » Sun Sep 06, 2009 9:49 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
M.A.R.S Industries High-Security Research Facility
2108 Hours Zulu
Sinnesbieger knew something was amiss when he discovered that the two guards assigned to him at all times, who usually stood vigilantly just outside the lab’s airlock, were nowhere to be found. Sealed behind Level 4 biosafety precautions, he usually had no idea what went on outside as he worked, but when he had decided to exit for a much-needed coffee, he found himself alone in the hallway. Looking left and right, he ventured out experimentally to see if maybe they had just stepped out of sight for a moment, but when he made it all the way to the stairs without attracting any attention, he realized that this might well be his opportunity to escape.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced along the corridors, back to the suite he shared with Elise. Just outside, he found the bodies of two guards crumpled one on either side of the door, lifeless and bloodied. Fearing the worst, he flung open the door and charged into the room.
“Elise!” He called desperately.
No answer.
Panicking, he checked under the beds and opened the closet – Elise’s two favorite hiding spots as a child – then entered the bathroom. On the floor of the tub, he found a splatter of blood and a spent shell casing, along with signs of a struggle. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
Mind numb and heart hardened with resolve, he stalked resolutely back towards the lab. Did these people think they could hurt his daughter and he’d be too timid to fight back? He’d show them what it meant to cross him. He didn’t bother to don his biohazard suit, simply opening the airlock and striding completely unprotected into the lab. At this point he didn’t even care anymore. With Elise gone, his life had no meaning and all he had to do was survive just long enough to complete his new self-appointed mission.
The crate of Marburg sat out of the way on the floor where he’d left it. He knelt and flipped open the latches, withdrawing one of the plastic vials. Clutching it tightly in his fist, he turned and tramped back the way he’d come, seeking the man in the hood.
* * *
As he headed away from the interrogation room towards where the battle was raging, Mr. Smith fumed at McCullen’s incompetence. It wasn’t as though the man didn’t know the location of the base had been compromised. That was all the more reason for his people to be extra vigilant in watching for intruders instead of letting them get this far. Now, it was COBRA troopers picking up their slack and some of them paying a heavy price for it.
“What’s the situation?” Smith asked Colborne, who had emerged from a different corridor dressed in full battle gear and was heading in the same direction.
“For now, we seem to have the advantage of knowing the terrain, but no telling how long that’s going to last,” Colborne said. “I haven’t been able to get a straight answer as to how many there are but I figure there’s at least ten of them operating on two separate fronts. We first ran into them in the diver access pod which is their most likely point of entry. They split up from there and now we’re on full alert, keeping our eyes peeled. I don’t think they know exactly where everything is, so they’re searching room by room, which is slowing them down.”
Smith nodded. “I’m willing to bet they’re looking for their comrade. Maybe you should send a few more men over there to back up Mr. Powell. I left him alone in there with the prisoner before I fully understood the threat.”
“On it,” Colborne said, reaching for his radio.
Smith took a left at the next intersection and headed for the lab.
* * *
Primum non nocere, Sinnesbieger thought bitterly. First, do no harm.
The foremost precept that had been drilled into him since his earliest years of medical schooling and which he’d since viewed as a guiding principle in his life seemed as outdated as the language in which it had first been written.
Do no harm.
Do no harm.
Do know harm.
The thought was as alien to him now as anything and with the ember of rage in his belly slowly fanning into an inferno, ethics didn’t even enter into the equation. All that mattered was that the man suffer in death, screaming in agony as his own tainted blood leaked from every orifice and pore in his body. It didn’t bother Sinnesbieger that he would suffer the same fate.
Prowling the corridors like the Angel of Death, Sinnesbieger finally spotted his quarry rounding the corner not five meters in front of him.
“You!” Sinnesbieger bellowed, his voice as unrecognizable to his own ears as the hooded man’s rasp.
Startled, but with a warrior’s keen instincts, the hooded man’s hand dropped to the holster on his belt, managing to unsnap the clasp just as the Doctor lunged. The two of them collapsed together in a heap with Sinnesbieger clawing at the man’s face while the other struggled to free his weapon. The cloth hood tore away and for the first time, Sinnesbieger gazed into the face of his own personal demon, the man’s features contorted in a mixture of surprise and bloodlust.
The pistol finally cleared the holster and the man fired point-blank into Sinnesbieger’s belly but with a strength born of madness and rage, the Doctor did not relent. Holding his enemy down with his weight, Sinnesbieger brought the vial up to show his former captor.
“Remember my face as you die,” Sinnesbieger growled. “And when you arrive in Hell, tell the Devil who sent you.”
With that, Sinnesbieger unscrewed the cap and blew the fine dust into the man’s face.
* * *
M.A.R.S Industries High-Security Research Facility
2108 Hours Zulu
Sinnesbieger knew something was amiss when he discovered that the two guards assigned to him at all times, who usually stood vigilantly just outside the lab’s airlock, were nowhere to be found. Sealed behind Level 4 biosafety precautions, he usually had no idea what went on outside as he worked, but when he had decided to exit for a much-needed coffee, he found himself alone in the hallway. Looking left and right, he ventured out experimentally to see if maybe they had just stepped out of sight for a moment, but when he made it all the way to the stairs without attracting any attention, he realized that this might well be his opportunity to escape.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced along the corridors, back to the suite he shared with Elise. Just outside, he found the bodies of two guards crumpled one on either side of the door, lifeless and bloodied. Fearing the worst, he flung open the door and charged into the room.
“Elise!” He called desperately.
No answer.
Panicking, he checked under the beds and opened the closet – Elise’s two favorite hiding spots as a child – then entered the bathroom. On the floor of the tub, he found a splatter of blood and a spent shell casing, along with signs of a struggle. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
Mind numb and heart hardened with resolve, he stalked resolutely back towards the lab. Did these people think they could hurt his daughter and he’d be too timid to fight back? He’d show them what it meant to cross him. He didn’t bother to don his biohazard suit, simply opening the airlock and striding completely unprotected into the lab. At this point he didn’t even care anymore. With Elise gone, his life had no meaning and all he had to do was survive just long enough to complete his new self-appointed mission.
The crate of Marburg sat out of the way on the floor where he’d left it. He knelt and flipped open the latches, withdrawing one of the plastic vials. Clutching it tightly in his fist, he turned and tramped back the way he’d come, seeking the man in the hood.
* * *
As he headed away from the interrogation room towards where the battle was raging, Mr. Smith fumed at McCullen’s incompetence. It wasn’t as though the man didn’t know the location of the base had been compromised. That was all the more reason for his people to be extra vigilant in watching for intruders instead of letting them get this far. Now, it was COBRA troopers picking up their slack and some of them paying a heavy price for it.
“What’s the situation?” Smith asked Colborne, who had emerged from a different corridor dressed in full battle gear and was heading in the same direction.
“For now, we seem to have the advantage of knowing the terrain, but no telling how long that’s going to last,” Colborne said. “I haven’t been able to get a straight answer as to how many there are but I figure there’s at least ten of them operating on two separate fronts. We first ran into them in the diver access pod which is their most likely point of entry. They split up from there and now we’re on full alert, keeping our eyes peeled. I don’t think they know exactly where everything is, so they’re searching room by room, which is slowing them down.”
Smith nodded. “I’m willing to bet they’re looking for their comrade. Maybe you should send a few more men over there to back up Mr. Powell. I left him alone in there with the prisoner before I fully understood the threat.”
“On it,” Colborne said, reaching for his radio.
Smith took a left at the next intersection and headed for the lab.
* * *
Primum non nocere, Sinnesbieger thought bitterly. First, do no harm.
The foremost precept that had been drilled into him since his earliest years of medical schooling and which he’d since viewed as a guiding principle in his life seemed as outdated as the language in which it had first been written.
Do no harm.
Do no harm.
Do know harm.
The thought was as alien to him now as anything and with the ember of rage in his belly slowly fanning into an inferno, ethics didn’t even enter into the equation. All that mattered was that the man suffer in death, screaming in agony as his own tainted blood leaked from every orifice and pore in his body. It didn’t bother Sinnesbieger that he would suffer the same fate.
Prowling the corridors like the Angel of Death, Sinnesbieger finally spotted his quarry rounding the corner not five meters in front of him.
“You!” Sinnesbieger bellowed, his voice as unrecognizable to his own ears as the hooded man’s rasp.
Startled, but with a warrior’s keen instincts, the hooded man’s hand dropped to the holster on his belt, managing to unsnap the clasp just as the Doctor lunged. The two of them collapsed together in a heap with Sinnesbieger clawing at the man’s face while the other struggled to free his weapon. The cloth hood tore away and for the first time, Sinnesbieger gazed into the face of his own personal demon, the man’s features contorted in a mixture of surprise and bloodlust.
The pistol finally cleared the holster and the man fired point-blank into Sinnesbieger’s belly but with a strength born of madness and rage, the Doctor did not relent. Holding his enemy down with his weight, Sinnesbieger brought the vial up to show his former captor.
“Remember my face as you die,” Sinnesbieger growled. “And when you arrive in Hell, tell the Devil who sent you.”
With that, Sinnesbieger unscrewed the cap and blew the fine dust into the man’s face.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
by tammer » Mon Sep 07, 2009 1:29 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Barents Sea
2149 Hours Zulu
A smart businessman always knew when to cut his losses and McCullen was, if anything, a smart businessman. After witnessing the fate of Mr. Smith on his office’s bank of video monitors, he had decided to jump ship and with Cisarovna in tow, the two of them had made their way to the auxiliary docking pod where his private submarine waited. Churning away from the base at top speed, McCullen reflected on the recent turn of events.
With Smith set to be out of the picture completely within a matter of days, the only other person who knew the full extent of McCullen’s involvement in the plot was already taken care of. As for the rest, well… he wasn’t one to leave loose ends untied. Reaching over to the control console, McCullen inserted a small key on a chain around his neck into the keyhole below a shatterproof transparent box. Turning the key, the box flipped open and the red button it protected lit up. He turned to look at Cisarovna.
“Would you care to do the honors?” He asked.
With a cold smile, she answered by reaching over and stabbing down the button hard, holding it for three seconds. Behind them rumbled the many muffled crumps of explosions as the charges at the base of each support piling blew.
* * *
LaFitte and the rest of Element Gold were nearing the lab when they ran into an all-out brawl between two equally battered men taking place in the hallway. One of the combatants LaFitte recognized as Doctor Sinnesbieger, while the other man he had never seen before. The Doctor was grievously wounded, several bloody holes punched through his stomach and chest, but it hardly seemed to slow him. The two of them wrestled for control of a large nickel-plated handgun and as soon as LaFitte saw the weapon, he raised his own and fired a warning shot.
“Both of you! Drop the gun, now!” He commanded.
The two men both turned to look and taking advantage of the Doctor’s momentary lapse in concentration, the other man dealt a savage strike with his elbow to the side of the Doctor’s head, snatching the gun as he fell. LaFitte held his fire as he noticed that the slide was locked back, indicating the gun was empty. Still, the other man held it out in front of him like a talisman to ward off harm.
“Drop the gun!” LaFitte repeated. “Last warning!”
“What does it matter?” The man rasped and LaFitte recognized the voice Snake-Eyes had recorded back in Paris as belonging to the COBRAs’ head honcho. “I’m dead anyway.”
He flicked his gaze down and LaFitte’s eyes followed, coming to rest on an empty plastic vial on the ground, its cap lying crushed a few feet away.
Icy tendrils of dread crept into LaFitte’s stomach. “Is that–?”
The man nodded. “It’s as you feared.”
“Stay back!” LaFitte called to the rest of his team. “The virus has been released. Try not to breathe in too hard.”
Fumbling for his rebreather mask, LaFitte stretched it down over his face and watched the rest of his team do the same. It probably wouldn’t protect them but if they had already been infected, at least it might prevent others from being exposed. The team backed away slowly.
“Wait!” The man called after them. “Don’t leave me like this!”
He raised the empty pistol to his own head and LaFitte got the message. Zeroing in on the man’s heart, LaFitte tightened his finger on the trigger.
With a violent roar and the sudden shrieking of tearing metal, the entire base shook and listed alarmingly. A distant rushing noise grew into a rumble and waves of icy water came flooding through the corridors, quickly washing over everyone and everything until they were completely submerged. Already wearing their rebreathers, LaFitte and his team were merely buffeted violently against the metal walls but came out no worse for wear. The COBRA commander, on the other hand, was not so lucky. The force of the torrent combined with the sudden shock of cold water had left him struggling feebly, trying to swim up to a small pocket of air trapped in one of the nooks in the corridor.
There was nothing any of them could do for the man. Under water, their rifles only had a range of several feet at best and even then, the bullet’s stopping power was reduced immensely. Reluctantly, they had to leave the man to nature’s mercy.
“We’ve got to go back for the girl!” Lafitte said over the mask’s built-in radio, and he kicked off, leading the way.
* * *
In all his years, Hauser never would have figured drowning would be his way to go. Blown up by an IED, maybe. Or picked off by an enemy sniper. But drowning? C’mon! Either way, with his arms and legs bound to a metal chair and with a rag stuffed in his mouth, he couldn’t swim up for air as much as he wanted to.
The idiot guard who’d been assigned to watch him had opened the sealed hatch when the explosions hit, probably trying to figure out what was going on outside but totally compromising the little airtight haven they’d had in the process. Hauser hoped the man drowned first. He deserved it, the idiot.
A shadow loomed by the door and Hauser cursed that the man was still alive. How unfair. But then as it entered, the shadow resolved itself into somebody else, dressed in a black dry suit and fins with a full-face breathing mask. The figure swam over to Hauser and plucked the rag out of his mouth, taking off the mask and placing it against Hauser’s face. The clearing valve depressed and air flooded into the mask, Hauser sucking in greedy lungfuls. As he did so, he saw Wilkinson’s face through the water-streaked glass of the visor as the man drew a diving knife and severed the ropes tying him down. Hauser took one last lungful of air then handed the mask back to Wilkinson and together they swam out the door.
In the hallway, Hauser found four others waiting for them. He flashed them an OK gesture and got a chorus of thumbs-up in return. Wilkinson handed him the mask again and he took it, voices coming in over the team’s radio net as the mask cleared.
“Good to see you, Hauser,” O’Hara’s voice came through. “This certainly wasn’t supposed to be part of the rescue but if you follow us, I think there were some SCUBA tanks and suits back where we came in.”
“Lead the way,” Hauser said and handed the mask back to Wilkinson.
They buddy-breathed all the way back until they came to a hole in the wall where a linking corridor had been shorn away.
“Crap, that wasn’t how we left it,” O’Hara said.
One of the others, presumably Snake-Eyes, tapped O’Hara on the shoulder and pointed. Just below them, the entire diver access pod hung precariously from a scrap of twisted metal above the yawning black abyss.
“Okay, be right back,” O’Hara said, swimming out the hole.
Again, Snake-Eyes stopped her and, waggling a finger, swam out in her place and kicked hard, propelling himself down into the wrecked pod. They watched with gritted teeth as the pod swung lazily back and forth, threatening to snap free at any second. Hauser willed Snake-Eyes to hurry.
What seemed like an eternity later, Snake-Eyes reemerged from the husk, his arms laden with two diving cylinders, a suit, a mask and a pair of fins. Hauser hurriedly put them on as soon as Snake-Eyes returned and was happily sucking air through a hose not too long after. Of course, he was no longer tied into the team’s radio net but using hand signals, they beckoned him to follow them to freedom.
* * *
The Barents Sea
2149 Hours Zulu
A smart businessman always knew when to cut his losses and McCullen was, if anything, a smart businessman. After witnessing the fate of Mr. Smith on his office’s bank of video monitors, he had decided to jump ship and with Cisarovna in tow, the two of them had made their way to the auxiliary docking pod where his private submarine waited. Churning away from the base at top speed, McCullen reflected on the recent turn of events.
With Smith set to be out of the picture completely within a matter of days, the only other person who knew the full extent of McCullen’s involvement in the plot was already taken care of. As for the rest, well… he wasn’t one to leave loose ends untied. Reaching over to the control console, McCullen inserted a small key on a chain around his neck into the keyhole below a shatterproof transparent box. Turning the key, the box flipped open and the red button it protected lit up. He turned to look at Cisarovna.
“Would you care to do the honors?” He asked.
With a cold smile, she answered by reaching over and stabbing down the button hard, holding it for three seconds. Behind them rumbled the many muffled crumps of explosions as the charges at the base of each support piling blew.
* * *
LaFitte and the rest of Element Gold were nearing the lab when they ran into an all-out brawl between two equally battered men taking place in the hallway. One of the combatants LaFitte recognized as Doctor Sinnesbieger, while the other man he had never seen before. The Doctor was grievously wounded, several bloody holes punched through his stomach and chest, but it hardly seemed to slow him. The two of them wrestled for control of a large nickel-plated handgun and as soon as LaFitte saw the weapon, he raised his own and fired a warning shot.
“Both of you! Drop the gun, now!” He commanded.
The two men both turned to look and taking advantage of the Doctor’s momentary lapse in concentration, the other man dealt a savage strike with his elbow to the side of the Doctor’s head, snatching the gun as he fell. LaFitte held his fire as he noticed that the slide was locked back, indicating the gun was empty. Still, the other man held it out in front of him like a talisman to ward off harm.
“Drop the gun!” LaFitte repeated. “Last warning!”
“What does it matter?” The man rasped and LaFitte recognized the voice Snake-Eyes had recorded back in Paris as belonging to the COBRAs’ head honcho. “I’m dead anyway.”
He flicked his gaze down and LaFitte’s eyes followed, coming to rest on an empty plastic vial on the ground, its cap lying crushed a few feet away.
Icy tendrils of dread crept into LaFitte’s stomach. “Is that–?”
The man nodded. “It’s as you feared.”
“Stay back!” LaFitte called to the rest of his team. “The virus has been released. Try not to breathe in too hard.”
Fumbling for his rebreather mask, LaFitte stretched it down over his face and watched the rest of his team do the same. It probably wouldn’t protect them but if they had already been infected, at least it might prevent others from being exposed. The team backed away slowly.
“Wait!” The man called after them. “Don’t leave me like this!”
He raised the empty pistol to his own head and LaFitte got the message. Zeroing in on the man’s heart, LaFitte tightened his finger on the trigger.
With a violent roar and the sudden shrieking of tearing metal, the entire base shook and listed alarmingly. A distant rushing noise grew into a rumble and waves of icy water came flooding through the corridors, quickly washing over everyone and everything until they were completely submerged. Already wearing their rebreathers, LaFitte and his team were merely buffeted violently against the metal walls but came out no worse for wear. The COBRA commander, on the other hand, was not so lucky. The force of the torrent combined with the sudden shock of cold water had left him struggling feebly, trying to swim up to a small pocket of air trapped in one of the nooks in the corridor.
There was nothing any of them could do for the man. Under water, their rifles only had a range of several feet at best and even then, the bullet’s stopping power was reduced immensely. Reluctantly, they had to leave the man to nature’s mercy.
“We’ve got to go back for the girl!” Lafitte said over the mask’s built-in radio, and he kicked off, leading the way.
* * *
In all his years, Hauser never would have figured drowning would be his way to go. Blown up by an IED, maybe. Or picked off by an enemy sniper. But drowning? C’mon! Either way, with his arms and legs bound to a metal chair and with a rag stuffed in his mouth, he couldn’t swim up for air as much as he wanted to.
The idiot guard who’d been assigned to watch him had opened the sealed hatch when the explosions hit, probably trying to figure out what was going on outside but totally compromising the little airtight haven they’d had in the process. Hauser hoped the man drowned first. He deserved it, the idiot.
A shadow loomed by the door and Hauser cursed that the man was still alive. How unfair. But then as it entered, the shadow resolved itself into somebody else, dressed in a black dry suit and fins with a full-face breathing mask. The figure swam over to Hauser and plucked the rag out of his mouth, taking off the mask and placing it against Hauser’s face. The clearing valve depressed and air flooded into the mask, Hauser sucking in greedy lungfuls. As he did so, he saw Wilkinson’s face through the water-streaked glass of the visor as the man drew a diving knife and severed the ropes tying him down. Hauser took one last lungful of air then handed the mask back to Wilkinson and together they swam out the door.
In the hallway, Hauser found four others waiting for them. He flashed them an OK gesture and got a chorus of thumbs-up in return. Wilkinson handed him the mask again and he took it, voices coming in over the team’s radio net as the mask cleared.
“Good to see you, Hauser,” O’Hara’s voice came through. “This certainly wasn’t supposed to be part of the rescue but if you follow us, I think there were some SCUBA tanks and suits back where we came in.”
“Lead the way,” Hauser said and handed the mask back to Wilkinson.
They buddy-breathed all the way back until they came to a hole in the wall where a linking corridor had been shorn away.
“Crap, that wasn’t how we left it,” O’Hara said.
One of the others, presumably Snake-Eyes, tapped O’Hara on the shoulder and pointed. Just below them, the entire diver access pod hung precariously from a scrap of twisted metal above the yawning black abyss.
“Okay, be right back,” O’Hara said, swimming out the hole.
Again, Snake-Eyes stopped her and, waggling a finger, swam out in her place and kicked hard, propelling himself down into the wrecked pod. They watched with gritted teeth as the pod swung lazily back and forth, threatening to snap free at any second. Hauser willed Snake-Eyes to hurry.
What seemed like an eternity later, Snake-Eyes reemerged from the husk, his arms laden with two diving cylinders, a suit, a mask and a pair of fins. Hauser hurriedly put them on as soon as Snake-Eyes returned and was happily sucking air through a hose not too long after. Of course, he was no longer tied into the team’s radio net but using hand signals, they beckoned him to follow them to freedom.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
by tammer » Tue Sep 08, 2009 11:39 am
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
2204 Hours Zulu
Elise pressed her hand to her forehead where she had caught the corner of the dresser when it tumbled as the wall became the new floor. It came away bloody but without a mirror, she couldn’t tell how bad it was. In any case, the injection she’d been given for her leg let her feel no pain. As her brain reoriented its perception of up and down, she was glad to notice that the wall with the door was now down, so at least she wasn’t trapped. Clambering over upturned furniture to reach it, she spun the wheel on the hatch and it dropped away to reveal a flooded corridor beneath. Instinctively, she backed away, trying to figure out how she might escape from this ordeal.
The man whose bulletproof vest she was wearing had told her to stay put, but certainly he hadn’t counted on this. Or had he? Was this part of their plan? The internal debate raged on with the logical part of her brain telling her that she should stay put and not wander off where nobody knew where she was. Alternatively, the self-preservation part of her brain screamed at her to save herself. Paralyzed with indecision, she was startled when a head poked out of the water below, its face hidden behind a SCUBA mask. A hand peeled the mask away and she recognized her rescuer’s face.
“Can you swim?” He called up to her.
“Yes!” She called back.
“Okay, good! This whole place is coming apart and there’s no telling how long it’ll hold together. We need to leave now!”
Seating herself on the door frame, feet dangling over the edge, she slipped off into the water and sucked in a ragged breath as the cold shot through her.
“We’ll try to escape upwards,” her rescuer said. “Hopefully we can get out closer to the surface so you don’t need any extra air.”
With a steady breaststroke, Elise followed the others on the surface for air until they reached an intersecting corridor that led up relative to the pod’s new orientation. A railing ran the length of the corridor and Elise grabbed hold, heaving herself out of the water and climbing up as best she could. When the rest of the team had emerged, she noticed something wasn’t quite right.
“Where’s my father?” She asked, wide-eyed.
She got her implied answer when they had trouble meeting her gaze.
“I’m sorry,” the man said solemnly. “We were too late.”
“What happened?” She demanded, tears welling up in her eyes.
He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times. “It’s a long story. Now isn’t the best time.”
They continued upwards, but Elise couldn’t help but feel that she was leaving a significant part of herself behind.
* * *
With the last of his strength, Mr. Smith managed to wrestle the lab’s airlock door open and drag himself inside. Cycling the lock, the inner door opened and spilled him out onto the lab’s floor along with a significant portion of the water that until just recently he’d been drowning in. On hands and knees, he coughed up the water he’d swallowed and collapsed, rolling over onto his back to rest as he sucked air into his burning lungs.
So, this was to be his tomb, he thought glumly as he stared up at the ceiling. Well, be that as it may, he certainly wasn’t going to take it lying down. Ignoring the shrieking protest of his cold-numbed joints and muscles, he struggled to his feet using a nearby table for leverage. When his body had limbered up somewhat, he set about exploring the lab. He’d read the Material Safety Data Sheets on Marburg and knew that it would be roughly three days before the first symptoms set in. Of course, that was assuming he couldn’t find a way to end it all before then.
The lab was strewn about with computer printouts and the Doctor’s illegibly scribbled research notes. Most of the equipment was trashed, having been thrown to the ground by the base’s sudden and violent shift. As he toed through the debris, kicking aside broken glassware and other detritus, he came across a plastic syringe, still capped, that was filled with a clear liquid. Perfect, he thought, and now if only he could find some sort of sedative, or at the very least a quick-acting poison, to inject himself with. Or perhaps that was what the liquid inside was.
Examining the syringe closely, he noticed that written in permanent marker along the barrel were words that resembled VACCINE TEST #1. With the Doctor’s atrocious handwriting, he couldn’t be sure but it wasn’t like he had anything to lose by trying. Rolling up his sleeve, he clenched and unclenched his fist a few times to locate a vein and when he found one, slid the needle in and depressed the plunger. Then, grabbing a toppled chair off the floor, he righted it and sat down, waiting to see if Death would claim him.
* * *
The Barents Sea
2247 Hours Zulu
When they found Commander Delgado’s drifting seiner, Element Black hurriedly boarded and set sail back to the remains of the base to look for Element Gold.
“Gold, Gold, this is Black. Come in, over,” Wilkinson called over the shared freq as they started up the engine.
“Gold here,” LaFitte’s voice came back. “What’s your situation?”
“We got Duke and found our ride home. We’re en route now to pick you up. How about you?”
“Uh, well, there’s a possibility we’ve been exposed,” LaFitte said hesitatingly. “A small sample was unleashed before we arrived on scene. No telling if we breathed any in or not but we’d better be kept under quarantine just to be safe.”
“Roger,” Wilkinson said, concerned. “What about the rest of the Marburg?”
“Probably on the bottom by now,” LaFitte said. “But we did find a survivor – the Doctor’s daughter.”
“Has she been exposed too?”
“I don’t think so. She wasn’t there when we were and we put our masks on as soon as we found out about the leak. She is wounded though.”
“Okay, sit tight,” Wilkinson said. “We’ll be there soon.”
When they arrived, they found the seven of them floating on the surface of the water, spread-eagled on their backs to take advantage of their natural buoyancy and to conserve energy. With the scooters gone, there was slightly more room on deck and Element Gold was given a wide berth but even so, they kept their masks on. As they all headed back towards land, they put in a call to General Abernathy.
“I’ve got our two Osprey’s en route to pick you guys up,” the General said. “You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to secure them aerial refuellings but they’re on their way nonetheless. Should land in the next several hours, so you guys sit tight.”
“Best news we’ve heard all day, sir,” Wilkinson said.
“Doc Greer’s along for the ride too,” Abernathy continued, “So she’ll check you out when they land. I’ll inform her to ensure all the proper biosafety precautions are put in place before picking you up.”
“Roger that,” Wilkinson said, and they settled in to wait.
* * *
M.A.R.S. Industries High-Security Research Facility
2204 Hours Zulu
Elise pressed her hand to her forehead where she had caught the corner of the dresser when it tumbled as the wall became the new floor. It came away bloody but without a mirror, she couldn’t tell how bad it was. In any case, the injection she’d been given for her leg let her feel no pain. As her brain reoriented its perception of up and down, she was glad to notice that the wall with the door was now down, so at least she wasn’t trapped. Clambering over upturned furniture to reach it, she spun the wheel on the hatch and it dropped away to reveal a flooded corridor beneath. Instinctively, she backed away, trying to figure out how she might escape from this ordeal.
The man whose bulletproof vest she was wearing had told her to stay put, but certainly he hadn’t counted on this. Or had he? Was this part of their plan? The internal debate raged on with the logical part of her brain telling her that she should stay put and not wander off where nobody knew where she was. Alternatively, the self-preservation part of her brain screamed at her to save herself. Paralyzed with indecision, she was startled when a head poked out of the water below, its face hidden behind a SCUBA mask. A hand peeled the mask away and she recognized her rescuer’s face.
“Can you swim?” He called up to her.
“Yes!” She called back.
“Okay, good! This whole place is coming apart and there’s no telling how long it’ll hold together. We need to leave now!”
Seating herself on the door frame, feet dangling over the edge, she slipped off into the water and sucked in a ragged breath as the cold shot through her.
“We’ll try to escape upwards,” her rescuer said. “Hopefully we can get out closer to the surface so you don’t need any extra air.”
With a steady breaststroke, Elise followed the others on the surface for air until they reached an intersecting corridor that led up relative to the pod’s new orientation. A railing ran the length of the corridor and Elise grabbed hold, heaving herself out of the water and climbing up as best she could. When the rest of the team had emerged, she noticed something wasn’t quite right.
“Where’s my father?” She asked, wide-eyed.
She got her implied answer when they had trouble meeting her gaze.
“I’m sorry,” the man said solemnly. “We were too late.”
“What happened?” She demanded, tears welling up in her eyes.
He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times. “It’s a long story. Now isn’t the best time.”
They continued upwards, but Elise couldn’t help but feel that she was leaving a significant part of herself behind.
* * *
With the last of his strength, Mr. Smith managed to wrestle the lab’s airlock door open and drag himself inside. Cycling the lock, the inner door opened and spilled him out onto the lab’s floor along with a significant portion of the water that until just recently he’d been drowning in. On hands and knees, he coughed up the water he’d swallowed and collapsed, rolling over onto his back to rest as he sucked air into his burning lungs.
So, this was to be his tomb, he thought glumly as he stared up at the ceiling. Well, be that as it may, he certainly wasn’t going to take it lying down. Ignoring the shrieking protest of his cold-numbed joints and muscles, he struggled to his feet using a nearby table for leverage. When his body had limbered up somewhat, he set about exploring the lab. He’d read the Material Safety Data Sheets on Marburg and knew that it would be roughly three days before the first symptoms set in. Of course, that was assuming he couldn’t find a way to end it all before then.
The lab was strewn about with computer printouts and the Doctor’s illegibly scribbled research notes. Most of the equipment was trashed, having been thrown to the ground by the base’s sudden and violent shift. As he toed through the debris, kicking aside broken glassware and other detritus, he came across a plastic syringe, still capped, that was filled with a clear liquid. Perfect, he thought, and now if only he could find some sort of sedative, or at the very least a quick-acting poison, to inject himself with. Or perhaps that was what the liquid inside was.
Examining the syringe closely, he noticed that written in permanent marker along the barrel were words that resembled VACCINE TEST #1. With the Doctor’s atrocious handwriting, he couldn’t be sure but it wasn’t like he had anything to lose by trying. Rolling up his sleeve, he clenched and unclenched his fist a few times to locate a vein and when he found one, slid the needle in and depressed the plunger. Then, grabbing a toppled chair off the floor, he righted it and sat down, waiting to see if Death would claim him.
* * *
The Barents Sea
2247 Hours Zulu
When they found Commander Delgado’s drifting seiner, Element Black hurriedly boarded and set sail back to the remains of the base to look for Element Gold.
“Gold, Gold, this is Black. Come in, over,” Wilkinson called over the shared freq as they started up the engine.
“Gold here,” LaFitte’s voice came back. “What’s your situation?”
“We got Duke and found our ride home. We’re en route now to pick you up. How about you?”
“Uh, well, there’s a possibility we’ve been exposed,” LaFitte said hesitatingly. “A small sample was unleashed before we arrived on scene. No telling if we breathed any in or not but we’d better be kept under quarantine just to be safe.”
“Roger,” Wilkinson said, concerned. “What about the rest of the Marburg?”
“Probably on the bottom by now,” LaFitte said. “But we did find a survivor – the Doctor’s daughter.”
“Has she been exposed too?”
“I don’t think so. She wasn’t there when we were and we put our masks on as soon as we found out about the leak. She is wounded though.”
“Okay, sit tight,” Wilkinson said. “We’ll be there soon.”
When they arrived, they found the seven of them floating on the surface of the water, spread-eagled on their backs to take advantage of their natural buoyancy and to conserve energy. With the scooters gone, there was slightly more room on deck and Element Gold was given a wide berth but even so, they kept their masks on. As they all headed back towards land, they put in a call to General Abernathy.
“I’ve got our two Osprey’s en route to pick you guys up,” the General said. “You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to secure them aerial refuellings but they’re on their way nonetheless. Should land in the next several hours, so you guys sit tight.”
“Best news we’ve heard all day, sir,” Wilkinson said.
“Doc Greer’s along for the ride too,” Abernathy continued, “So she’ll check you out when they land. I’ll inform her to ensure all the proper biosafety precautions are put in place before picking you up.”
“Roger that,” Wilkinson said, and they settled in to wait.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
by tammer » Wed Sep 09, 2009 12:18 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Somewhere in the Depths of the Barents Sea
2321 Hours Zulu
“I don’t believe you!” Cisarovna exclaimed as McCullen struggled into a diving suit and strapped a pair of air tanks to his back. “You’re insane! Can’t you just leave it?”
He shook his head. “I’ve spent entirely too much money to get my hands on it in the first place. I’m not about to lose it now.”
After nearly an hour and a half of circling the area, they had watched the base finally sink and McCullen had taken the submarine down after it. Locating the wreck of the lab module with their external floodlights, McCullen had opted to go out and see if he could retrieve the Marburg crate.
“If you must, then so be it,” Cisarovna said, “But do not bring that wretched thing back in here! Leave it in the airlock.”
McCullen rolled his eyes and sighed. “If it makes you feel better, then alright.”
He stepped into the lock and shut the hatch behind him. Pounding on the door, Cisarovna took it as her cue to flood the lock and soon, McCullen was out the other side, prowling through the inky depths.
Swimming in through what had once been one of the walkways, McCullen swept back and forth with his flashlight, trying to determine what section he was in. Without warning the beam fixed on the bloated, lifeless face of the Doctor, his features twisted in a horrible grimace. McCullen flinched involuntarily before getting a grip on his nerves. He continued on.
The airlock to the lab was closed and without power, McCullen had to hook up his spare air tank to the pneumatic valve to force the outer door open. Swimming in, he shone his light through the tiny porthole in the inner door, playing it over the walls of the lab until he finally spotted a corner of the crate poking out from under some overturned tables and other equipment. Letting his light fall away on its lanyard, he grabbed the emergency pump handle in both hands and began to manually clear the water out of the airlock.
Tonk. Tonk. Tonk.
The muffled noise startled McCullen and he spun around, scrambling for his light and whipping it left and right, searching for the source of the noise. A flicker of motion on the other side of the porthole caught his attention and he focused the light on it, revealing Mr. Smith, still alive, trapped inside the lab. Smith was shouting something but of course, McCullen couldn’t make it out. If he had to guess though, it was probably some variation on ‘Get me out of here!’
McCullen certainly had enough air strapped to his back to get the man back to the submarine but knowing he was infected with Marburg made it a moot point. Still, if he wanted the crate, he’d have to get past Smith one way or another.
Ah, Hell, McCullen thought. Well, he’s probably not going to be infectious after only a few hours.
He finished clearing the chamber and Smith opened the door, standing in his way.
“I am under no illusions that you came back to get me,” Smith said. “I know what you’re here for and I want to make a deal.”
“What sort of deal?” McCullen asked, unconsciously keeping his distance.
“Obviously, you had some method of transport to get here. Take me with you and you can have the crate.”
McCullen laughed. “I can just come back for it later. You’ll be dead in a matter of days anyway.”
“Not so,” Smith said, holding up an empty syringe. “It seems the good doctor was planning something behind our backs.”
McCullen took the syringe in his gloved hand and examined it closely, noting the label on the side.
“I would never have thought he had it in him,” he said. “But how do you know this does what it says on the tin?”
“I don’t,” Smith admitted, “But the incubation period for the virus is three days, with hemorrhaging occurring shortly after. Take me with you and keep me under quarantine for two weeks, if you have to, and if I’m not dead by then, we’ll know.”
Mulling it over in his head, McCullen weighed the risks. In the time it would take for Smith to die, the intruders might return in larger numbers to get the crate. Also, Smith might destroy it out of spite if McCullen refused to take him now.
“Very well,” McCullen said. “Will you help me carry it out?”
* * *
The Pit
1126 Hours Tango
“Good news!” Doctor Carla Greer said as she strolled into the isolation wing of the Pit’s infirmary. “You’re all cleared for active duty.”
A cheer arose from the assembled members of Element Gold who had been forced to stay put and twiddle their thumbs behind sealed doors for the past three days. If Greer entered without her moon suit, it could only be a good sign.
“The tests all came back negative and none of you are showing any of the symptoms,” she continued as the noise died down. “I’m guessing the dust all settled before you guys got there so you didn’t breathe any in. Lucky break, if you ask me. Anyway, go on, get out of here. Hinton’s making pork chop sandwiches for lunch.”
They all rushed out of the infirmary, headed for the chow hall, except for LaFitte who instead walked over to Elise Sinnesbieger’s bedside. She had recently undergone surgery to remove the bullet from her leg and it seemed to be healing nicely. She was asleep now and Lafitte did his best not to wake her as he dragged a chair over to sit. He must not have been as quiet as he thought, though, because she opened her eyes and turned to look up at him.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” she said.
“Oh. Well, how’re you feeling?”
“Better,” she said. “Not as cold now.”
LaFitte smiled. Swimming in the Barents Sea without a dry suit was no day at the beach. The girl was tough, he had to admit. She was even taking the loss of her father like a trooper. They had talked during the plane ride back and LaFitte had explained to her how her father had died beating the crap out of the hooded man, not slowing down even though he’d been shot several times. That knowledge seemed to make her feel somewhat better about it, knowing he hadn’t gone quietly.
“So, what will happen to me now?” She asked him.
“That’s up to you,” he told her. “As soon as you’re fully healed, we can hook you up with a plane ticket back to Prague, if that’s what you want.”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
LaFitte continued to sit with her and make small talk until she finally fell asleep.
* * *
Somewhere in the Depths of the Barents Sea
2321 Hours Zulu
“I don’t believe you!” Cisarovna exclaimed as McCullen struggled into a diving suit and strapped a pair of air tanks to his back. “You’re insane! Can’t you just leave it?”
He shook his head. “I’ve spent entirely too much money to get my hands on it in the first place. I’m not about to lose it now.”
After nearly an hour and a half of circling the area, they had watched the base finally sink and McCullen had taken the submarine down after it. Locating the wreck of the lab module with their external floodlights, McCullen had opted to go out and see if he could retrieve the Marburg crate.
“If you must, then so be it,” Cisarovna said, “But do not bring that wretched thing back in here! Leave it in the airlock.”
McCullen rolled his eyes and sighed. “If it makes you feel better, then alright.”
He stepped into the lock and shut the hatch behind him. Pounding on the door, Cisarovna took it as her cue to flood the lock and soon, McCullen was out the other side, prowling through the inky depths.
Swimming in through what had once been one of the walkways, McCullen swept back and forth with his flashlight, trying to determine what section he was in. Without warning the beam fixed on the bloated, lifeless face of the Doctor, his features twisted in a horrible grimace. McCullen flinched involuntarily before getting a grip on his nerves. He continued on.
The airlock to the lab was closed and without power, McCullen had to hook up his spare air tank to the pneumatic valve to force the outer door open. Swimming in, he shone his light through the tiny porthole in the inner door, playing it over the walls of the lab until he finally spotted a corner of the crate poking out from under some overturned tables and other equipment. Letting his light fall away on its lanyard, he grabbed the emergency pump handle in both hands and began to manually clear the water out of the airlock.
Tonk. Tonk. Tonk.
The muffled noise startled McCullen and he spun around, scrambling for his light and whipping it left and right, searching for the source of the noise. A flicker of motion on the other side of the porthole caught his attention and he focused the light on it, revealing Mr. Smith, still alive, trapped inside the lab. Smith was shouting something but of course, McCullen couldn’t make it out. If he had to guess though, it was probably some variation on ‘Get me out of here!’
McCullen certainly had enough air strapped to his back to get the man back to the submarine but knowing he was infected with Marburg made it a moot point. Still, if he wanted the crate, he’d have to get past Smith one way or another.
Ah, Hell, McCullen thought. Well, he’s probably not going to be infectious after only a few hours.
He finished clearing the chamber and Smith opened the door, standing in his way.
“I am under no illusions that you came back to get me,” Smith said. “I know what you’re here for and I want to make a deal.”
“What sort of deal?” McCullen asked, unconsciously keeping his distance.
“Obviously, you had some method of transport to get here. Take me with you and you can have the crate.”
McCullen laughed. “I can just come back for it later. You’ll be dead in a matter of days anyway.”
“Not so,” Smith said, holding up an empty syringe. “It seems the good doctor was planning something behind our backs.”
McCullen took the syringe in his gloved hand and examined it closely, noting the label on the side.
“I would never have thought he had it in him,” he said. “But how do you know this does what it says on the tin?”
“I don’t,” Smith admitted, “But the incubation period for the virus is three days, with hemorrhaging occurring shortly after. Take me with you and keep me under quarantine for two weeks, if you have to, and if I’m not dead by then, we’ll know.”
Mulling it over in his head, McCullen weighed the risks. In the time it would take for Smith to die, the intruders might return in larger numbers to get the crate. Also, Smith might destroy it out of spite if McCullen refused to take him now.
“Very well,” McCullen said. “Will you help me carry it out?”
* * *
The Pit
1126 Hours Tango
“Good news!” Doctor Carla Greer said as she strolled into the isolation wing of the Pit’s infirmary. “You’re all cleared for active duty.”
A cheer arose from the assembled members of Element Gold who had been forced to stay put and twiddle their thumbs behind sealed doors for the past three days. If Greer entered without her moon suit, it could only be a good sign.
“The tests all came back negative and none of you are showing any of the symptoms,” she continued as the noise died down. “I’m guessing the dust all settled before you guys got there so you didn’t breathe any in. Lucky break, if you ask me. Anyway, go on, get out of here. Hinton’s making pork chop sandwiches for lunch.”
They all rushed out of the infirmary, headed for the chow hall, except for LaFitte who instead walked over to Elise Sinnesbieger’s bedside. She had recently undergone surgery to remove the bullet from her leg and it seemed to be healing nicely. She was asleep now and Lafitte did his best not to wake her as he dragged a chair over to sit. He must not have been as quiet as he thought, though, because she opened her eyes and turned to look up at him.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” she said.
“Oh. Well, how’re you feeling?”
“Better,” she said. “Not as cold now.”
LaFitte smiled. Swimming in the Barents Sea without a dry suit was no day at the beach. The girl was tough, he had to admit. She was even taking the loss of her father like a trooper. They had talked during the plane ride back and LaFitte had explained to her how her father had died beating the crap out of the hooded man, not slowing down even though he’d been shot several times. That knowledge seemed to make her feel somewhat better about it, knowing he hadn’t gone quietly.
“So, what will happen to me now?” She asked him.
“That’s up to you,” he told her. “As soon as you’re fully healed, we can hook you up with a plane ticket back to Prague, if that’s what you want.”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
LaFitte continued to sit with her and make small talk until she finally fell asleep.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
by tammer » Thu Sep 10, 2009 8:03 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Northern Siberia, Russia
1431 Hours Hotel
Along the frozen coastline of the Kara Sea, nestled among a cluster of small islands, lay an abandoned Soviet nuclear sub base that had long since been forgotten. They didn’t know its official name, but Cisarovna’s Bratva, or mob syndicate, had since transformed it into a smuggler’s den. From there, illegal arms, narcotics, stolen art and even people could be loaded onto boats and submarines alike to be sent clandestinely to just about anywhere on the globe. Likewise, goods from other countries could be unloaded and brought into Russia the same way.
It had been a short trip from the remains of the M.A.R.S. base and Cisarovna had insisted they stop here so that she could get away from Smith. Even so, during the voyage, she had locked herself in the small sleeping cabin and refused to come out until Smith was gone. That had been three days ago and since then, Smith had been confined to his own room in the base that had once been barracks for the sub crews. True to their deal, he would remain there for fourteen full days without contact with any other person in the facility. They had left him several five-gallon bottles of water of the type normally used for office water coolers, and two cases of Russian military IRPs, or individual food rations. In two weeks, they would return to check on him and if he were alive, then he would be free to mingle with the rest of the population.
Meanwhile, business continued on as usual with workers loading boats full of contraband while bundled up in heavy parkas, cigarettes dangling between their lips. Similarly attired, McCullen and Cisarovna strolled down the dusty concrete tunnel whose roof arched several meters over their heads with rusting pipes and air conduits running down its length. Beside them to their left, the flooded channel was almost half a kilometer long and could easily house several vessels simultaneously. This underground base had three such bays, each one seeing round-the-clock traffic as boats came in with supplies and left with others. It was an extensive operation and was no wonder for McCullen that the Cisarovna family was so well to do.
“It was my brother Anatoliy’s idea to operate out of this base,” Cisarovna told him. “A lot of our enforcers are former Soviet Army, KGB, and even Spetsnaz. Some may have even served here during the Cold War. When he found out from them that this base was just sitting here gathering dust, he decided we ought to put it to good use.”
“So, this is the primary source of your income, then?”
Cisarovna shrugged. “We are, first and foremost, businessmen. We go where the money is. You should be no stranger to this.”
McCullen nodded. That was, after all, the main driving force behind his own plan. Uncertain times and public paranoia were all great for business. A terrorist strike here, an ethnic cleansing there all led to a public outcry for the politicians to act. To do so, they often needed guns and McCullen was more than happy to supply them.
This latest setback however, while not a disaster, certainly complicated matters. As originally conceived, a targeted viral strike resulting in the death of the President of the United States would see Zachary Hartigan immediately ascend to the Oval Office. His more hardline policies favoring direct intervention to resolve foreign conflicts would have significantly boosted M.A.R.S. sales. But now, with the Doctor dead and the lab destroyed, a new plan was needed – something more straightforward. Cisarovna had not been above saying, ‘I told you so,’ when McCullen shared this insight with her.
“Well, originally, I was hoping for something a little more controlled, more elegant than infecting an entire city just to get one man,” he said, defensively.
“In that case, you should have just hired a professional instead of fooling around with all that virus nonsense.”
McCullen shot her a strange look. “A hitman who would be willing to accept a contract for the President of the United States and then actually be able to follow through with it?”
Cisarovna shrugged. “Why not? The President is only a man. He is not invincible.”
McCullen shook his head. “Anyone who says he can is usually just some punk kid who’s out to prove something or make a name for himself. I have yet to meet a serious professional who would agree to take the contract.”
Cisarovna smirked. “Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to one?”
* * *
Smith was all but certain he was going to die. After five days, while no hemorrhages had appeared, he was tired all the time and his body ached. He was coughing so much that his throat was raw and his head felt like it had been stuck in a vise. The food he’d been given wasn’t helping matters either. Each IRP was designed to provide an individual with twenty-four hours worth of nutrition. That was all well and good but they lacked variety. For the past week, all he had eaten was porridge with beef, sausage stuffing on crackers, and stewed beef without fail for breakfast, lunch and dinner respectively. He wondered if his symptoms were consistent with a beef overdose instead.
Lying on his cot watching the olive green paint peeling off the cracked concrete beside him, he contemplated the direction his life had taken. He’d once been a Marine, an officer, one of the few and the proud serving his country in Panama and the Persian Gulf. He had always followed orders, never questioned his leadership, never had any reason to, at least until the witch-hunt began.
In September of 1991, the 35th Annual Tailhook Association Symposium took place at the Las Vegas Hilton in Las Vegas, Nevada. Afterwards, scores of women came forward and allegations of sexual assault and harassment were leveled against the Navy and Marine Corps aviators in attendance. Under immense political pressure, investigations were launched and hundreds of servicemen were denied due process and washed out of the military, many of whom had never even been accused of any wrongdoing. For Smith, that had been the final straw. These men were fighting, or had fought, for America. Now, suddenly, they were being tossed out on their asses and their higher-ups were turning their backs on them completely. So much for Semper Fi.
He’d left the service himself, then, setting up a private military company where those wrongly affected by the scandal could find employment. Before long, he was inundated with applications from other former servicemen, also unfairly taken advantage of by their respective branches, and he began to see the extent to which these warriors were treated more as expendable assets and less like American citizens. There was something seriously wrong with a country that treated so callously the people defending it and he was doing his part to help them out, but it soon became apparent that the system would not fix itself and thus needed an extreme overhaul.
When McCullen had first approached him furtively with his plan, Smith instantly saw the potential in it and didn’t need much convincing to be brought aboard. His only regret now was the loss of his men aboard the M.A.R.S. base when the intruders had destroyed the support struts, causing it to sink. He had known each and every one of them by name, made occasional small talk with them about their families and home-lives, but they had died under his command while he had lived which was perhaps the worst pain a commander could ever suffer. Still, he knew he’d be joining them soon and began to think about what he’d say when he finally did.
* * *
Northern Siberia, Russia
1431 Hours Hotel
Along the frozen coastline of the Kara Sea, nestled among a cluster of small islands, lay an abandoned Soviet nuclear sub base that had long since been forgotten. They didn’t know its official name, but Cisarovna’s Bratva, or mob syndicate, had since transformed it into a smuggler’s den. From there, illegal arms, narcotics, stolen art and even people could be loaded onto boats and submarines alike to be sent clandestinely to just about anywhere on the globe. Likewise, goods from other countries could be unloaded and brought into Russia the same way.
It had been a short trip from the remains of the M.A.R.S. base and Cisarovna had insisted they stop here so that she could get away from Smith. Even so, during the voyage, she had locked herself in the small sleeping cabin and refused to come out until Smith was gone. That had been three days ago and since then, Smith had been confined to his own room in the base that had once been barracks for the sub crews. True to their deal, he would remain there for fourteen full days without contact with any other person in the facility. They had left him several five-gallon bottles of water of the type normally used for office water coolers, and two cases of Russian military IRPs, or individual food rations. In two weeks, they would return to check on him and if he were alive, then he would be free to mingle with the rest of the population.
Meanwhile, business continued on as usual with workers loading boats full of contraband while bundled up in heavy parkas, cigarettes dangling between their lips. Similarly attired, McCullen and Cisarovna strolled down the dusty concrete tunnel whose roof arched several meters over their heads with rusting pipes and air conduits running down its length. Beside them to their left, the flooded channel was almost half a kilometer long and could easily house several vessels simultaneously. This underground base had three such bays, each one seeing round-the-clock traffic as boats came in with supplies and left with others. It was an extensive operation and was no wonder for McCullen that the Cisarovna family was so well to do.
“It was my brother Anatoliy’s idea to operate out of this base,” Cisarovna told him. “A lot of our enforcers are former Soviet Army, KGB, and even Spetsnaz. Some may have even served here during the Cold War. When he found out from them that this base was just sitting here gathering dust, he decided we ought to put it to good use.”
“So, this is the primary source of your income, then?”
Cisarovna shrugged. “We are, first and foremost, businessmen. We go where the money is. You should be no stranger to this.”
McCullen nodded. That was, after all, the main driving force behind his own plan. Uncertain times and public paranoia were all great for business. A terrorist strike here, an ethnic cleansing there all led to a public outcry for the politicians to act. To do so, they often needed guns and McCullen was more than happy to supply them.
This latest setback however, while not a disaster, certainly complicated matters. As originally conceived, a targeted viral strike resulting in the death of the President of the United States would see Zachary Hartigan immediately ascend to the Oval Office. His more hardline policies favoring direct intervention to resolve foreign conflicts would have significantly boosted M.A.R.S. sales. But now, with the Doctor dead and the lab destroyed, a new plan was needed – something more straightforward. Cisarovna had not been above saying, ‘I told you so,’ when McCullen shared this insight with her.
“Well, originally, I was hoping for something a little more controlled, more elegant than infecting an entire city just to get one man,” he said, defensively.
“In that case, you should have just hired a professional instead of fooling around with all that virus nonsense.”
McCullen shot her a strange look. “A hitman who would be willing to accept a contract for the President of the United States and then actually be able to follow through with it?”
Cisarovna shrugged. “Why not? The President is only a man. He is not invincible.”
McCullen shook his head. “Anyone who says he can is usually just some punk kid who’s out to prove something or make a name for himself. I have yet to meet a serious professional who would agree to take the contract.”
Cisarovna smirked. “Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to one?”
* * *
Smith was all but certain he was going to die. After five days, while no hemorrhages had appeared, he was tired all the time and his body ached. He was coughing so much that his throat was raw and his head felt like it had been stuck in a vise. The food he’d been given wasn’t helping matters either. Each IRP was designed to provide an individual with twenty-four hours worth of nutrition. That was all well and good but they lacked variety. For the past week, all he had eaten was porridge with beef, sausage stuffing on crackers, and stewed beef without fail for breakfast, lunch and dinner respectively. He wondered if his symptoms were consistent with a beef overdose instead.
Lying on his cot watching the olive green paint peeling off the cracked concrete beside him, he contemplated the direction his life had taken. He’d once been a Marine, an officer, one of the few and the proud serving his country in Panama and the Persian Gulf. He had always followed orders, never questioned his leadership, never had any reason to, at least until the witch-hunt began.
In September of 1991, the 35th Annual Tailhook Association Symposium took place at the Las Vegas Hilton in Las Vegas, Nevada. Afterwards, scores of women came forward and allegations of sexual assault and harassment were leveled against the Navy and Marine Corps aviators in attendance. Under immense political pressure, investigations were launched and hundreds of servicemen were denied due process and washed out of the military, many of whom had never even been accused of any wrongdoing. For Smith, that had been the final straw. These men were fighting, or had fought, for America. Now, suddenly, they were being tossed out on their asses and their higher-ups were turning their backs on them completely. So much for Semper Fi.
He’d left the service himself, then, setting up a private military company where those wrongly affected by the scandal could find employment. Before long, he was inundated with applications from other former servicemen, also unfairly taken advantage of by their respective branches, and he began to see the extent to which these warriors were treated more as expendable assets and less like American citizens. There was something seriously wrong with a country that treated so callously the people defending it and he was doing his part to help them out, but it soon became apparent that the system would not fix itself and thus needed an extreme overhaul.
When McCullen had first approached him furtively with his plan, Smith instantly saw the potential in it and didn’t need much convincing to be brought aboard. His only regret now was the loss of his men aboard the M.A.R.S. base when the intruders had destroyed the support struts, causing it to sink. He had known each and every one of them by name, made occasional small talk with them about their families and home-lives, but they had died under his command while he had lived which was perhaps the worst pain a commander could ever suffer. Still, he knew he’d be joining them soon and began to think about what he’d say when he finally did.
* * *
-
tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
by tammer » Fri Sep 11, 2009 7:32 pm
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Pit
1728 Hours Tango
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got mixed news,” Abernathy said, strolling into the Ops Center where Team Two was gathered. “I just got back from a meeting with the President and it looks as though we’ve reached a deal with the French. Our full operational capacity has been restored. This is the good news.”
He paused to look around the room before continuing. “The mixed news is that they want in.”
A puzzled murmur rose up from the assembled troops before Abernathy tamped it down. “The President has agreed to present an option to NATO to form a joint counter-terrorist unit with international jurisdiction, using us as the model. So far, the United Kingdom, Canada and Germany have also expressed interest, so we can expect representatives from each of those countries to be arriving within the week. This program will proceed on a trial basis and will be formalized at a later date if deemed successful.”
Gauging the somber reactions of those present, Abernathy added, “We have twelve billets to fill, and the President sees no reason why four of those can’t be by people from our ally nations. Neither do I. If any of you are uncomfortable with this, you’re free to walk.”
Nobody moved.
He took a breath and continued. “If successful, this program will be officially recognized by NATO as GIJOE, for Global Intervention Joint Operations Executive. We’ll be responsible for proactively targeting and eliminating terrorist cells around the world and this time around, we won’t have to worry about interference from local law enforcement. We’ll be working off our own intelligence service and our current capabilities will be expanded. By the time we’re back to two full-strength teams, we’re going to have to get used to a busier house. Are there any questions?”
Silence.
“Okay, then that’s everything,” Abernathy said. “Now, I’ve got to go look over service records to choose our four foreign candidates. You’re dismissed.”
* * *
Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
2349 Hours India
Raves were certainly not McCullen’s style and the club where Cisarovna had brought him to meet her mysterious hitman was giving him a headache. Syrupy, bubblegum pop-inspired melodies underscored by infectious synthesized drum beats blared over the speakers while the entire club was bathed in blue light with strobing pink and purple spotlights spinning and sweeping around the walls in dizzying patterns. On the upside, Japanese beer wasn’t bad and he sipped appreciatively while waiting for the man to arrive.
“So tell me, who is this man?” He asked Cisarovna who was seated beside him in the plush booth. He had to put his lips right by her ear in order to be heard.
“Tomisaburo Arashikage,” she answered. “He is a hot-shot, a rising star in his field.”
“Yakuza?” McCullen asked.
She shook her head. “Freelance, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He uses the image to his advantage, but works for whoever pays the most. I have employed his services on numerous occasions.”
A few minutes later, Arashikage appeared wearing a sharp, expensive-looking suit and dark sunglasses – at night, no less, McCullen mused. The young man walked with a supremely confident swagger and his slick black hair was fashionably curtained to one side of his face. Removing the sunglasses as he approached the booth, they revealed a hunter’s alert eyes that were at odds with his devil-may-care demeanor as they scanned back and forth, casually sizing up McCullen while simultaneously casing escape routes. A small bulge under his jacket also suggested he was carrying a weapon.
Cisarovna stood to greet him with a friendly hug and the corners of his mouth turned up in a warm smile.
“Miss Cisarovna, how are you?” He asked without any trace of an accent.
“Fine, yourself?” She asked.
“Can’t complain.”
“Good to hear. Tommy, I’d like to introduce you to my companion, James.”
“How do you do, sir?” Arashikage asked, extending his hand.
“Quite well, thank you,” McCullen replied, shaking the proffered hand. “Won’t you please join us?”
Arashikage took a seat and before long, a waitress came by to take his drink order. When she left, he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.
“So, Miss Cisarovna tells me you’re looking to hire a contractor,” he said to McCullen.
“That’s correct,” McCullen said. “It’s a high-profile target, so it needs to be handled cleanly and professionally.”
Arashikage grinned. “Then I’m your man.”
“Perhaps you might not say that when you see who the target is,” McCullen said, producing a photograph from his suit’s inside pocket and sliding it face down across the table to Arashikage.
The younger man picked up the photo and flipped it over. If he was surprised, it didn’t show.
“This is going to cost you,” he said finally.
“How much?” McCullen asked.
“Ten million U.S. dollars, plus expenses,” Arashikage replied coolly.
“Ten mil–” McCullen gawked before reining himself in. “That’s outrageous!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arashikage said, getting up to leave.
“Tommy, wait!” Cisarovna broke in, reaching a hand over the table to stop him. She turned to McCullen and spoke urgently in his ear. “James, I’m telling you, this man is the best you are likely to find. He has done five jobs for me and each one was impeccable.”
“But ten million dollars–”
“Is nothing! Just one of your missiles will bring you one and a half million. Sell seven of them and you have already made it back!”
McCullen considered it. She had a point but the thought of paying someone ten million dollars just to pull a trigger did not strike him as a sound investment. If his father were here today, McCullen would undoubtedly get a good smack upside the head for being such a damn fool with his money. Then again, his father hadn’t made M.A.R.S. the military-industrial juggernaut it was by playing conservative.
Think outside the box.
Take calculated risks.
“Very well,” McCullen sighed and looked over at Arashikage, still standing beside the booth. “You’ll get your money.”
Arashikage smiled, returning to his seat. “In that case, the next round’s on me.”
* * *
The Pit
1728 Hours Tango
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got mixed news,” Abernathy said, strolling into the Ops Center where Team Two was gathered. “I just got back from a meeting with the President and it looks as though we’ve reached a deal with the French. Our full operational capacity has been restored. This is the good news.”
He paused to look around the room before continuing. “The mixed news is that they want in.”
A puzzled murmur rose up from the assembled troops before Abernathy tamped it down. “The President has agreed to present an option to NATO to form a joint counter-terrorist unit with international jurisdiction, using us as the model. So far, the United Kingdom, Canada and Germany have also expressed interest, so we can expect representatives from each of those countries to be arriving within the week. This program will proceed on a trial basis and will be formalized at a later date if deemed successful.”
Gauging the somber reactions of those present, Abernathy added, “We have twelve billets to fill, and the President sees no reason why four of those can’t be by people from our ally nations. Neither do I. If any of you are uncomfortable with this, you’re free to walk.”
Nobody moved.
He took a breath and continued. “If successful, this program will be officially recognized by NATO as GIJOE, for Global Intervention Joint Operations Executive. We’ll be responsible for proactively targeting and eliminating terrorist cells around the world and this time around, we won’t have to worry about interference from local law enforcement. We’ll be working off our own intelligence service and our current capabilities will be expanded. By the time we’re back to two full-strength teams, we’re going to have to get used to a busier house. Are there any questions?”
Silence.
“Okay, then that’s everything,” Abernathy said. “Now, I’ve got to go look over service records to choose our four foreign candidates. You’re dismissed.”
* * *
Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
2349 Hours India
Raves were certainly not McCullen’s style and the club where Cisarovna had brought him to meet her mysterious hitman was giving him a headache. Syrupy, bubblegum pop-inspired melodies underscored by infectious synthesized drum beats blared over the speakers while the entire club was bathed in blue light with strobing pink and purple spotlights spinning and sweeping around the walls in dizzying patterns. On the upside, Japanese beer wasn’t bad and he sipped appreciatively while waiting for the man to arrive.
“So tell me, who is this man?” He asked Cisarovna who was seated beside him in the plush booth. He had to put his lips right by her ear in order to be heard.
“Tomisaburo Arashikage,” she answered. “He is a hot-shot, a rising star in his field.”
“Yakuza?” McCullen asked.
She shook her head. “Freelance, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He uses the image to his advantage, but works for whoever pays the most. I have employed his services on numerous occasions.”
A few minutes later, Arashikage appeared wearing a sharp, expensive-looking suit and dark sunglasses – at night, no less, McCullen mused. The young man walked with a supremely confident swagger and his slick black hair was fashionably curtained to one side of his face. Removing the sunglasses as he approached the booth, they revealed a hunter’s alert eyes that were at odds with his devil-may-care demeanor as they scanned back and forth, casually sizing up McCullen while simultaneously casing escape routes. A small bulge under his jacket also suggested he was carrying a weapon.
Cisarovna stood to greet him with a friendly hug and the corners of his mouth turned up in a warm smile.
“Miss Cisarovna, how are you?” He asked without any trace of an accent.
“Fine, yourself?” She asked.
“Can’t complain.”
“Good to hear. Tommy, I’d like to introduce you to my companion, James.”
“How do you do, sir?” Arashikage asked, extending his hand.
“Quite well, thank you,” McCullen replied, shaking the proffered hand. “Won’t you please join us?”
Arashikage took a seat and before long, a waitress came by to take his drink order. When she left, he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.
“So, Miss Cisarovna tells me you’re looking to hire a contractor,” he said to McCullen.
“That’s correct,” McCullen said. “It’s a high-profile target, so it needs to be handled cleanly and professionally.”
Arashikage grinned. “Then I’m your man.”
“Perhaps you might not say that when you see who the target is,” McCullen said, producing a photograph from his suit’s inside pocket and sliding it face down across the table to Arashikage.
The younger man picked up the photo and flipped it over. If he was surprised, it didn’t show.
“This is going to cost you,” he said finally.
“How much?” McCullen asked.
“Ten million U.S. dollars, plus expenses,” Arashikage replied coolly.
“Ten mil–” McCullen gawked before reining himself in. “That’s outrageous!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arashikage said, getting up to leave.
“Tommy, wait!” Cisarovna broke in, reaching a hand over the table to stop him. She turned to McCullen and spoke urgently in his ear. “James, I’m telling you, this man is the best you are likely to find. He has done five jobs for me and each one was impeccable.”
“But ten million dollars–”
“Is nothing! Just one of your missiles will bring you one and a half million. Sell seven of them and you have already made it back!”
McCullen considered it. She had a point but the thought of paying someone ten million dollars just to pull a trigger did not strike him as a sound investment. If his father were here today, McCullen would undoubtedly get a good smack upside the head for being such a damn fool with his money. Then again, his father hadn’t made M.A.R.S. the military-industrial juggernaut it was by playing conservative.
Think outside the box.
Take calculated risks.
“Very well,” McCullen sighed and looked over at Arashikage, still standing beside the booth. “You’ll get your money.”
Arashikage smiled, returning to his seat. “In that case, the next round’s on me.”
* * *
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tammer - Staff Sergeant
- Posts: 329
- Joined: Tue Nov 20, 2007 2:16 am
- Location: Canada, the Great White North
- Faction: Sigma 6
- Favorite Character: Scarlett naturally
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