| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Hunters and Hunted #4 |
| Date: | Mon, 14 Feb 2000 23:16:16 +0000 |
>>>>>["Smell that? That's cordite. I love the smell of cordite in the
morning!"
Damn, I love this job... which means I'm crazy and ought to be relieved of
duty, but then someone who hated it would have to take over. There's
only one catch, and that's Catch-22.
+++++begin video
Lilith is driving, completely intent. She and Lynch are both in full combat
gear: camouflage fatigues, body armour, battle harnesses and assault
rifles.
Dappled, spotted fur ripples across her face in occasional waves: and her
teeth are bared and too large as she focusses on the road ahead, on the
Interceptor's sensors, on avoiding the shocked traffic she's weaving her
way through at far too fast a speed. Even the strobing blue and red
pursuit lights, and the wailing siren, aren't helping much to clear their
path at this speed.
"Zhitrep?" she asks around her half-grown fangs.
"Hart has them in sight, she's closing- Damn! She got RPG'ed." Lynch has
his own displays up, his headware systems and V-12's drone datalinks
giving him a superb tactical overview of a badly deteriorating situation.
Hart's maimed vehicle is slowing, half-blocking the taxiway: Malone's
chartered airliner is heading right for it.
Passing over it.
Free and clear.
And Lilith says simply "Brace."
The airfield's main gate is secure and guarded, with tyre-shredders raised
and steel barricades in place.
The fence beside it, is simple chainlink and the Interceptor smashes
through it, the wire tearing and breaking and snapping free, the shreds
tangled around the Jensen unravelling and falling away. The shocked
guards don't even manage to shoot at the pursuit vehicle.
Over a mile away, a silver Dassault, Malone's Freedom Bird, is taxiing
around towards the end of the runway: Lilith, with clear clean flat open
concrete in front of her, flicks a switch on the gearshift.
The supercharger kicks in with a banshee shriek, and Lynch and Lilith are
pressed back in their seats by the sudden surge of acceleration. They flash
past Hart's burning Patrol-1, and a smoke trail from one of the hangars
reaches out to miss behind: the RPG gunner couldn't track such a fast
target, and they're in his range for only a few seconds before they're past.
Lilith throws the Interceptor into the curve of the taxiway, downshifting
two gears as the pursuit vehicle's tyres squeal in protest, leaving four
smoking black trails as she swings onto the runway and floors the
accelerator again.
The silver Dassault is a thousand yards ahead, moving at over sixty miles
an hour and gaining speed steadily. The Interceptor came out of the curve
at over a hundred and is still accelerating, devouring the distance fast
even as the airliner's velocity slowly builds up. A second RPG round misses
wide again, the weapon unable to follow such a fast-crossing foe and its
gyros tumbling in the attempt -
Lynch runs a hasty calculation and the answer puts the closest approach at
perhaps fifty yards, before the Dassault reaches flying speed and leaves
the ground-bound Interceptor behind. Good enough: at two hundred yards
he takes off his sunglasses and opens his window, and by a hundred yards
(as the Interceptor's speed peaks at over a hundred and fifty miles an
hour) he's leaning out into the incredible windblast, clutching his FN-HAR
Even cybernetic eyes water in such a storm of air, but not enough to blind
the Marine as he sights, aims, fires. The smartlink's aiming mark jitters
and bounces over the Dassault's left engine, and the fourth burst (as the
range stops closing at seventy-three metres, pauses, begins to increase)
brings forth an incredible cloud of flame-shot blue smoke followed by
dancing yellow tongues of fire. At once the airliner yaws and slithers
sideways, the rudder kicking over hard as the pilot desperately tries to
hold it straight against the asymmetric thrust of the single engine (the
smoke from the ruined left nacelle turning thick and black and ugly)
Malone is now firmly grounded: Lynch's cheerfully blowing the other engine
apart (this one sheds its compressor blades in a brief flurry of whirling
metal) is merely adding insult to injury, as the Marine drops back into his
seat and blinks tears from his eyes.
"You okay?" Lilith is still following the airliner as it slows, coasting now
(the pilot hastily retracting the flaps to cut drag).
"Yeah, I will be." Lynch's vision is still blurred, though recovering slowly, as
he changes the FN-HAR's magazine. "We grounded him, now what?"
"I thought _you_ had the plan?" The Dassault is slewing off the runway,
coasting into the wasteland of cargo pallets. Good defensive terrain. Lilith
is following, matching its speed and holding a hundred yards back, as
Lynch retrieves his sunglasses.
"Yeah. My plan was to stop him flying away, and it's a complete success.
Now how do we catch him?"
Ahead, the Dassault leaves the concrete: it bumps and judders across the
grass for a surprising distance before one of its landing gear gives way and
the graceful silver aircraft spills sideways in a spray of earth and dust,
skidding to a stop.
Lilith has positioned the Interceptor perfectly: Lynch is already out of the
car and raising his rifle, as the Dassault's emergency exits blow open.
The Caballero in the suddenly-revealed opening fires first, and Lynch ducks
as machinegun fire ricochets off the Interceptor's armour and cracks
overhead. A long burst, fifty or sixty rounds, raking back and forth,
making any attempt to raise a head for a look nearly suicidal: Lynch and
his wife are pinned down behind her car.
The drone overhead shows the two dozen or so men and women using the
emergency exit on the _other_ side of the aircraft, one of them the
silver-haired Seamus Malone: but while the machine-gunner keeps raking
bullets over the Jensen, neither Lynch nor Lilith can do much about it.
Unless they cheat. Lynch lets his rifle drop on its assault sling and yanks his
MP-5PDW from its shoulder holster, flicking the selector to full-auto and
raising it above the hood of the Interceptor.
Firing blind? Not hardly: the microcamera built into his thumb is looking
along the weapon's axis and it takes only two short bursts before he's
registering hits on the Dassault's fuselage. The rest of the magazine rakes
wildly around the emergency exit, sending the machinegunner there
ducking for cover.
And in that moment, Lilith is up and firing, her rapid aimed fire keeping
the doorway too dangerous to fire from, and is Lynch breaking cover and
running for the concealing maze of palleted cargo.
Bullets whipcrack around him and one thumps into his side, but he reaches
the solid cover of a twenty-foot ISO container.
"Ouch." He mutters, checking his ribs: the hit ruined a magazine for his
MP-5PDW, but didn't pierce the armour beneath. That investigation takes
a less than a second, as does jettisoning the damaged ammunition. Three
more fast movements reload the compact SMG, shove it into the holster
under his left arm, and bring up the FN-HAR.
Lilith is still firing fast, precise single shots into and around the Dassault's
open door, keeping any occupants from retaliating: her husband pulls
something from a thigh pouch, asking his commlink "Who owns that
airliner?"
"Malone's own." Emma's voice, on the radio, has a lot of background noise:
like most of the team, she's racing to the scene. "His personal-"
"Good." Lynch slips the rifle grenade onto the FN's muzzle, braces, aims
and fires. The front end of the airliner explodes, an undramatic puff of
smoke and clap of noise followed almost at once by a sheet of flame as
spilt fuel ignites. The Caballero rearguard lost the initiative for only a few
seconds... but, in a crashed aircraft sitting in a spreading lake of spilt
Jet-A, that's a fatal mistake.
A moment to survey the inferno, satisfying himself that nobody will
emerge from it as an armed and dangerous threat: and then he's moving
through the maze of cargo containers.
And now it's not a fight, but a slaughter: a dozen or so Caballero
rearguards spreading out to fight the two Lynches, who are attacking
from opposite sides and who have recon drones and BattleTac and a
perfect tactical picture: the Caballeros have jammed radios and have to
be wary of that great falsehood, "friendly fire".
Lynch kills or cripples four in under a minute, moving from container to
container in a series of ruthless ambushes. Nearby, Lilith is cutting a
similar swathe through the opposition. It's not a disparity in skill, or
weapons, or speed: it's simply that the Lynches have a God's-eye view of
the battlefield, while the Caballeros have only their eyes.
But, why are these mercenaries trying - and succeeding - so hard to delay
them, at such cost to themselves?
A shriek of jet engines and the hurricane of kerosene-scented wind gives
the answer. As Malone and his last handful of Praetorians clear the maze
of cargo pallets, a Journeyman VTOL transport flares into a fast combat
landing.
Still a cluttered score of yards and five or six skilled and trained enemies
from being able to intervene, Lynch can only watch the drone footage in
helpless anger as Malone and his chosen escort scramble aboard, and the
Journeyman lifts clear and races away: staying prudently low until it's out
of rifle range.
"Sonovabitch." Lynch swings around a corner, aiming at the mercenary
who's crossing the gap -
And the mercenary drops her rifle, raising her hands. Lynch manages to
fire the 5.56mm APEX over her shoulder rather than through her chest:
she flinches but when there's no follow-up shot she opens her eyes. "Three
nine two point seven. Regan wants to talk." She says.
"Jason?" Lilith asks. "They seem to be surrendering."
"Their job's done." Lynch replies, as he tunes another headware channel to
392.7Mhz and the radio jamming ends. (Lopez not needing to be told, to
unfuck the Caballeros' bands). "Major Regan? This is Major Lynch. You're
surrendering?"
"If you'll accept it and care for our wounded." Regan's gruff Northeastern
accent.
"Sure we will. Have your men muster by what's left of the airliner." Lynch
indicates to the mercenary in front of her, that this applies to her too:
she collects her rifle first, unloading and safeing it.
Nine Caballeros are still walking: twelve more are wounded and need to be
carried: five are dead or soon will be. Harley is covering them, using her
bike as cover and holding her old SPAS-12 shotgun with the slight
uncertainty of a rigger more used to power-operated turrets than
handheld ordnance.
A red Saab Dynamit convertible is racing towards the scene, slowing to
collect Hart (still running towards the firefight - has it only taken ninety
seconds?) before stopping to disgorge a grinning Quinn, who jams her
Parachute Regiment beret atop her windblown blonde hair and leaps out
of the car. She strikes a dramatic pose, before jogging over to the
wounded and examining them to see who might benefit most from some
magical ministrations. Hart stays with the car, her Thunderbolt trained on
the prisoners against any sudden treacheries.
Regan comes to a formal halt as he reaches Lynch, salutes (Lynch
shoulders arms and slaps his rifle's forestock in return), and - still formally
- draws his pistol and hands it butt-first to Lynch. "I surrender, and place
myself and my men in your custody, sir."
"Accepted, Major Regan. You'll be treated fairly and your wounded offered
every courtesy. Can't promise more than that right now." Lynch gestures.
"We've got police and paramedics en route to secure you and take care of
your casualties. Quinn'll do what she can for the worst."
The Marine has, this whole time, been busy searching for datalinks and for
assets, trying to find some way to find and intercept the Journeyman
before it leaves UCAS airspace: but, there's nothing airborne with the
speed to intercept and the means to interfere. One of V-12's drones is
trailing it, losing ground but still holding contact: but the unarmed UAV
will soon have to turn back or be lost to fuel starvation.
Two more vehicles arrive from opposite ends of the airfield: a blue Ford
sports coupe, and an Alvis Scarab whose camouflage paint scheme is a
conventional pattern... executed in Day-Glo pink, orange and green. It's
no surprise when Stephanie bounces out of _that_ one, brandishing her
machine gun and throwing a long glittering tail of belted ammunition over
her shoulder. Emma makes a less flamboyant exit from the other side.
"Stephanie, can you work with Quinn on their wounded?" Lynch asks.
"Suppose..." Stephanie looks disappointed that no more heavy weapons,
large explosions or mass destruction is necessary, but obediently goes to
assist the Caballeros' casualties. Daniel and Forged take up covering
positions, as the first DocWagon helicopter settles down to land nearby.
"Where's Cesare?" asks Emma curiously.
"He got out. So did Malone." Lilith replies, calm but angry.
"No, he didn't. He wasn't among that group and he's not here." Emma
gestures at the Caballeros, who are being disarmed and their most critical
casualties being evacuated by DocWagon (a second aircraft, an Osprey
tiltrotor, comes in to collect a second load). "Wait one moment..." She
replays the drone footage, looking not for Malone or his mercenary escort
but for one man alone. "He's still here! On foot!"
"Find him!" Lilith snaps. "Where did he go?"
"That way. The hangars."
As several sets of eyes look that way, a white Lupo sportscar pulls out of
the open hangar doors, accelerating away towards the wrecked gates:
swerving around the first police car to arrive.
"Looks like we're not finished today yet after all." Lilith smirks. "V-12,
can
you tag him?"
"He's in the frame, we've got him covered." Is the reply.
The shapeshifter's smirk widens into a too-toothy grin. Less of a happy
smile, more a predator exposing its fangs for battle. "Then we'll have to
go get him, won't we? Coming, Jason?"
"Take Emma and co-ordinate the chase." Lynch replies. "I'll take 512, and
get us some air."
Lilith looks past him, to where a black Stallion helicopter is circling. "Oh,
you naughty Marine..." She moves to check her Interceptor for damage:
although it's taken a few dozen bullets, nothing critical seems to have
been hit, though a lot of armour panels and bodywork will need replacing.
Stephanie is already speeding off in pursuit, Quinn's Saab chasing and
joining her in formation.
The Stallion - apparently this is the mythical '512' - settles on the concrete,
and the pilot is out of his seat and heading for the left seat as Lynch
arrives. The co-pilot accepts being demoted to cabin crew with good
grace, joining the loadmaster.
"Okaaaay..." Lynch says to himself, jacking in. A rapid check tells him the
machine is airworthy and has three-quarters fuel, enough for around two
hours of flight. Lightly armed for a gunship (.50 miniguns in the doors),
but well-equipped.
A headware frequency change, and he asks "Juli, can you get the cops to
take the Caballeros seriously?"
"Given the scene? Of course. These are my guys, some of them were with
me in Tarislar." Hart replies, as Lynch lifts off and turns to join the
pursuit. "I'll join you as soon as I can borrow a car."
"Deal." Lynch pushes the cyclic further forwards, as his airspeed passes a
hundred knots. "Okay, how do we catch Cesare without killing him?"
"I have a cunning plan." Replies Quinn.
Lilith sighs. "I'm sure you do, bitch..."
+++++end video
I knew there was a reason I liked this job. I just needed to be
reminded.]<<<<<
-- Major J R W Lynch <23:15:43/02-14-61>
Special Operations Command
