| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Many Happy Returns |
| Date: | Wed, 2 Jun 1999 22:21:38 +0100 |
>>>>>[TO: D J H Coppinger, Director
Dave, my people broke some interesting material out of the Banda Sea
region not long before the nuke went off.
I think we've found your renegade Commander Mitchell.
I also think things are a damn sight more complicated than they seem.
Someone hit that rig and was hitting it hard, and dealing with the guys
who were meant to be defending it without too much trouble.
Then it got nuked off the face of the planet.
I'm sure the answer is "you're not cleared to know", but the question
remains, what the *fuck* is going on there? (I *know* you've got more
than you're telling me right now, Dave. Tell me I'm not authorised, but
_don't_ bullshit me that you don't know)
+++++begin video
"Major Collins, how would you describe your battalion's performance in this
last attack?" Mitchell stares at the cameraman with his rock-steady,
unblinking blue gaze: the cameraman looks down slightly, skewing the
helmetcam's view.
"Sir, the objective was secured -"
"The objective was defended by an understrength rifle company with one,
count it, *one* tank in support. It would have been a *miracle* if they had
stopped you. Instead, they inflicted thirty per cent casualties on your unit,
then withdrew in good order while you were bumbling helplessly around
under their guns." Mitchell's voice drips sarcasm. "Your battalion would no
longer be combat effective, Major Collins. You would need at least a day
out of action to reinforce, repair and resupply, and you didn't even kill
many of the Bad Guys. There's a short description of how you did today,
Major, and it's called a Mongolian clusterfuck."
"We weren't expecting the artillery." Collins mutters.
"Well, let me apologise for that. Of course, the way your infantry milled
about in the open didn't help the enemy at _all_. And I'm sorry for the
flank position your clueless reconnaisaince platoon completely overlooked.
I'm sure that when we do this for real, nobody will do _anything_ so
unsporting." Mitchell is merciless. "Either get clueful most ricky-tick,
Collins, or else I'll find someone who can.
"I'm going to leave you now, Major. First I'm going to puke. After that I'm
going to congratulate Echo Company for their superb defense of a difficult
position. Then, tomorrow, we're going to try again. And if you lose more
than ten per cent *this* time, you'll be a rifleman by tomorrow evening."
Mitchell turns on his heel, leaves.
"Goddamn sonofabitch." Collins mutters. "Spence! Front and centre! O-
group, here, now."
The debriefing that follows is short and savage. Most of Collins'
subordinates feel the lash of his anger, before they begin to thrash out a
plan to remedy the worst errors.
"We're gonna be training all fraggen night, Major." the commander of one
of the infantry companies whines.
"Yeah. And then we kick Echo's butt tomorrow and _then_ we can sleep.
Capice?" Collins snaps.
"I guess..."
The officers scatter, spreading the unwelcome news. A few hundred yards
away, over by the flightline, a helicopter lifts off with a clatter of rotor
blades: Mitchell, returning to the offshore platform. Collins glares at the
aircraft, spits, turns back the problem of training his troops.
The evening progresses slowly, marred by a series of arguments.
Everyone's mood is ugly, and some of the rank and file are almost
mutinous at the prospect of a sleepless night spent in practice attacks.
Collins is in the midst of ordering one offender flogged, when the air is
split by a freight-train roar and crashing explosions, as four geysers of
earth and smoke boil skywards from near one barracks block.
Everyone stops dead, staring, for two or three seconds, before the second
quartet of explosions straddle the block. The fountaining sprays of smoke
and dirt almost obliterate it and the fifty or so soldiers inside.
"Holy DREK! We're-" is all Collins has time to say before yet another salvo
smashes down, another barracks block struck. One of the shells scores a
direct hit and the prefabricated building explodes from within, slabs of
construction plastic whirling away. Collins belatedly falls prone, others
falling suit.
"What the hell? Signaller! Here!" Collins's radioman crawls over, as the
shells continue to chew their way through the barracks blocks. The radio
net is frantic with frightened men, though one particularly desperate
voice is yelping that he can't raise the oil rig for orders. The ready-alert
battalion is apparently already rushing to respond, though many of its men
are dead or missing in the ruined barracks.
"Up! Move! Get to the flightline!" Collins bawls at once, some of his men
obeying. Others cower in what cover they can find, as deadly quartets of
ninety-pound shells smash down every three or four seconds.
Collins' rank means he can pack into one of the old Chinese transport
helicopters just before it lifts, though already the embarkation of troops
is breaking down. As the elderly Shenzen "Queen Bee" rotorcraft climbs
clear, Collins can see the chaos breaking out below.
Men who believe that they're safer in the air than on the ground are
pressing forward, piling into the helicopters as they're starting up. A
doorgunner fires a short burst into the air to fend off the mob trying to
push aboard the already-overloaded rotorcraft, but that buys only a
moment's respite: that aircraft lifts clear, joining the five or six already
airborne.
Below, the barracks area is pocked and cratered, buildings torn and
shattered. Fires are already burning brightly in several places. The shelling
pauses for a long, awful moment...
Four black puffballs of smoke appear above the flightline, and scores of
men and women fall like wheat before a scythe. Two more helicopters rise
at once, soldiers spilling from one's door and men clawing at their landing
gear (more of those innocuous-looking smoke puffs overhead, more
soldiers fall) and a third is just coming unglued from the ground when the
next salvo hits.
Not airbursts, this time. Bomblet rounds, bursting in midair to scatter
hundreds of grenade-sized submunitions, and the three helicopters still on
the ground will now never leave it.
"Get to the rig! The rig!" Collins shouts at the pilot, and the battered
helicopter dips and accelerates.
The rig is dim on the horizon, lit by the last rays of sunlight, as the
helicopters that did get off the ground straggle into a sloppy formation
and head for it at high speed. Collins elbows his way forward to the
cockpit, commandeers the radio.
"Mitchell, this is Major Collins, you there? Commander?" The slight edge of
desperation in his voice is clearly audible."
"Collins? We've got a serious problem here." Mitchell, by contrast, sounds
completely calm. "Intruders inside the rig. Infiltrators. We've taken heavy
casualties. How many men you got?"
The Major counts helicopters. "Two hundred, maybe? Eight helos. Probably
all pretty full."
"Outstanding. Get down onto the pad and get in here ASAP. We need all
the backup we can get." Gunfire in the background, on the other end of
the radio link. Mitchell's having a lively day himself, it seems.
"You hear that?" Collins asks the pilot, who nervously nods. The rig is a
looming presence, less than two miles away now.
"Yessir. Roof looks clear. Just the supply chopper down on the pad. We
can put down either side of it, no problems 'cept the wind."
"Wind?"
"It's gusting like crazy out there, Major." The pilot eases back on the
cyclic, as the rig grows larger in the windscreen. "Gotta be blowing eighty,
ninety knots." Indeed, the sea around the rig's base is a heaving mass of
whitecaps. "Means we got to be fairly careful how we put down-"
Less than a mile away, the upper surface of the gutted rig's accomodation
block glitters and sparkles, bright streams of fireflies slowly arcing towards
the helicopters to veer wildly aside at the last minute.
One of the Chinese-built transports sparkles and flashes as shells hit it,
Hexal explosive scattering shrapnel and burning zirconium through the
flimsy airframe. In one eyeblink there's a helicopter thrashing through the
air, packed with soldiers: the next it's brilliantly lit from internal
explosions: a third blink and there's just a fiery comet arcing towards the
stormy sea.
Collins is flung sideways as the pilot takes evasive action, a missile's smoke
trail slashing past near enough to touch. Holes appear in the Perspex and
the aircraft's side with a clockwork ticking noise and, in the cargo bay,
men are screaming in sudden agony. Others are firing down at the rig's
roof, shooting back at their attackers, but there's almost nothing to see
except firefly muzzleflashes in the dusky shadows.
The aircraft lurches in midair, smoke suddenly filling the cockpit, and the
rig whirls past the windscreen once. The horizon is at a crazy angle, the
furious sea rushing up to fill the view as burning turbine fuel sprays down
around Collins-
+++++static
+++++signal timeout
+++++signal timeout
+++++signal timeout
+++++signal lost
+++++end video
This op has SIGA stamped all over it, David. I know you can't tell me much,
but tell me what you can.]<<<<<
-- Walter J. Sorenson <22:11:34/06-02-60>
National Security Agency
*****INTERNAL: SIGANet
>>>>>[TO: Walter Sorenson, NSA
Walt, it's us and so far it looks good. Preliminary reports are that we
succeeded with moderate casualties.
That's almost all I can tell you. Except we've been planning this for over a
year and we're damn glad it's over and done with.]<<<<<
--- D J H Coppinger <22:21:35/06-02-60>
Director
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
