| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Merry Christmas |
| Date: | Wed, 18 Dec 1996 15:15:31 +0000 |
>>>>>[TO: D J H Coppinger, Director
Two weeks of non-stop fun, I don't think.
Chicago's getting worse all the time. This was one of the better parts,
though, I did my good deed for the day. A nice note to end a tour on.
Also useful and productive, we got some good intel.
+++++begin video
You're flying over a dead city at dusk.
Cities at sunset should show lights, have traffic in the streets, be
bustling: this place is a graveyard of dark, dead buildings, some
scorched by fire, and the streets are banked with pristine snow. More is
falling, fat white flakes swirling down out of the dark sky and cutting
visibility to a few hundred metres.
The view appears to be recorded from the POV of a rigged helicopter
pilot, flying a few hundred feet above the rooftops at a moderate speed.
"Nothing. Not a damn thing. A month ago there were something like a
hundred people living in this area." Lynch's voice. The aircraft banks
through a turn and descends, flying an expanding-box search: you see red
and blue flashes reflecting off the snow from its strobe lights, and the
Nightsun searchlight probes shadows. Still nobody - and nothing -
appears. He slows to a hover near a mound in the snow: descending and
approaching it in a storm of blown snow, the rotor downdraft uncovers a
cargo pallet, its parachutes flapping and flailing. It appears unopened.
"Sonofabitch." The helicopter settles onto its skids and Lynch breaks
the rigger link: immediately the symbols change to his usual ground-
combat setup.
"You got it." he calls to the copilot, as he opens the door and moves
towards the pallet at a crouching run; glancing back at the helicopter -
a Marine Corps Stallion special-ops conversion - to be sure the
doorgunner and the two soldiers in the back, all bulky in winter gear,
are covering him.
One thing you notice is that, instead of one of the antique firearms he
usually favours, Lynch carries a customised and modified Ares Alpha: it
seems he takes few chances in Chicago. He lays it atop the pallet after
a quick examination of the area, and begins to cut the webbing that
holds the pallet together until he can tear open a crate.
"Lucas, when was this dropped?"
"Four days ago, according to schedule." comes the reply with the clarity
of headware comms. "How is it?"
"Untouched. Webbing isn't cut, boxes all intact..." Still lit by the
helicopter's red and blue strobes, Lynch pulls out a ration pack, opens
it, checks its contents first with eyes and nose, then a portable
analyser. "Food's fine, too. Just untouched. Ever see that before? Food
just left in the open?" The mercenary slings his rifle, runs back to the
helicopter.
"Not often. Area's empty." Lucas's voice sounds disgusted. "Can we try
and find out what happened?"
Lynch climbs back into his seat, adjusts his harness and jacks back in.
"You got the airplane." his copilot says, Lynch nodding and lifting off.
Climbing and turning, Lynch flies higher and faster than before,
scanning the streets: visual, then thermal, then visual again, looking
for movement or for warmth. His comms suite is hopping bands, listening
for any radio traffic-
"There!" A voice over the intercom. Lynch glances back, the sensors
taking over from his eyes, to see several figures flailing through the
snow, waving their arms: the Stallion slows and turns, and a spotlight
spears the trio.
"One male, two female. No magic, no cyber. Look clean. Pretty sick,
though." Lucas' clipped tones.
"Okay..." Lynch eases the Stallion a block or so north, coming down in
the middle of an empty parking lot outside a big Handi-Mart. "SOP; if it
goes bad lift out. I'll stay in touch."
The three round the corner, running almost desperately for the
helicopter: Lynch raises an arm and they stagger to a halt as he moves
towards them. They're filthy and frozen, a middle-aged woman and two
teenagers, wearing a ragged assortment of clothing and cloth wrapping:
none of it adequate for the bitter cold.
"Don't get closer than this, otherwise the gunners have orders to shoot
you no matter what." Lynch stays ten yards or so short, the rifle ready
but not aimed.
"Please, just help us!" the woman begs. "There's no food, there's no
fire..."
"How many? Just you three?"
"No, there's five of us left, but my husband's real sick and we couldn't
leave him alone."
"Bugs?"
"Not in daylight. And only a couple at night. It's too quiet now." The
younger boy is holding a side-by-side shotgun, keeps looking around. "We
only just got missed when they came."
Lynch gestures. "Head back, I'll see what I can do for your father."
Subvocally by radio, he adds "I'm going to check this out, lift and
orbit. ROE Bravo, standard procedures." Two clicks of the mike confirm
his words, as the trio lead off: Lynch keeping his distance and scanning
the buildings around him.
Their destination is one house among many: going in, you see the
furnishings stripped to bare metal, and all the signs of the desperate
search for any possible fuel. They climb the stairs, Lynch still
trailing as the boy knocks on one door; after a whispered exchange it
opens.
In what might once have been the master bedroom, you see more signs of
habitation: MRE wrappers fill a plastic sack, and a frightened-looking
girl holding a kitchen knife stands by the door, relaxing only slightly
when she sees Lynch. An older man lies on an inflatable mattress under
an assortment of covers, shivering with fever: he seems unconscious.
"Can you help him?" the woman asks.
"I hope so. What happened?"
"They came and rounded everybody up. The Force, the local... gang, I
suppose. We were on the edge of their turf, they only knew David lived
here, and when they came for him and he wouldn't go they shot him."
"How long ago was this?"
"Five days. We've been too afraid to move since in case they're still
out there, or maybe... I don't know. But when we heard the
helicopter..."
"Yeah." Lynch nods and begins uncovering the man. "So they left him
wounded?"
"They thought he was dead, from what they said. And the girl who shot
him got in trouble, they took her gun away and then said something about
'only so many live ones, you take his place' and she started screaming.
That's all we really heard."
"How many got rounded up? And any idea where they were taken?"
"About seventy, eighty. I don't know where they went. The Force chained
them all together, marched them away."
Lynch nods, moving to the wounded man: subvocalising as he does so. "Not
butchering for the ghouls, they'd take the body. I think they might be
collecting hosts."
"Roger that. We're seeing it more and more often now." Lucas replies.
Lynch studies the man's torso: two dark holes as though he'd been
stabbed twice with a pencil, centred in swollen masses of purple flesh.
One below his right nipple, the other left of his navel. "This isn't
good. Just the two wounds? Okay." He brings out a medkit and it buzzes
and clicks, injecting a cocktail of drugs: then does the same to each
wound, before spraying foam bandages over the angry, infected tissue.
"That'll hold him for a while, but he needs surgery. All of you next."
Each person in turn gets half-a-dozen shots of assorted compounds and
Lynch nods with satisfaction, changing the cassette in the medkit.
"Those should help a little. Okay, can you carry him outside? We're
going to take you up to Wrigley Dome."
"You will?" Faces light up.
"He'll die if we don't. And we've got fifty winter parkas, three hundred
MREs, twenty shotguns and shedloads of ammo, heat tabs, medic supplies,
you name it, that we meant for the people around here. The Domers can
use it, should be your price of admission."
Lynch leads them into the road, then moves along, checking the buildings
either side of the street to ensure they're clear. "Jimbo, can you put
down in here?"
"No problem." The copilot's amiable tones.
"Hover and hold first, we have two more for Lucas to look over."
"I see them. Clean on both. The girl's an undeveloped physad, the guy on
the mattress is in a really bad way. Oh, yeah, they love you, Lynch, you
got their vote if you ever run for Prez."
"Yeah, right. Fuel state, Jim?"
"Two point four."
Calculations whizz across Lynch's vision. "Better ask _Sable_ if we can
land and tank. We'll take them to the Dome."
"Can we lift that much?"
"Yeah, unless there's a sudden spell of tropical weather. Myers,
Harrison, keep an eye on our guests just in case."
The Stallion settles on its wheels, the downwash adding its own furious
blizzard, and Lynch helps the four civilians manhandle their wounded
father into the Stallion's cabin, the people packing in among the crates
and cases. The two Marines in the back watch them cautiously.
In the cockpit, Lynch jacks back in. "You got it." drawls Jimbo.
"I got it." The helicopter taxis forward, gaining speed. "Thank Gawd we
got wheels."
"Yeah. Rolling takeoff?"
"We're over listed MGTW, we gotta." The aircraft unsticks itself slowly
from the ground. "Good girl." Engine temperatures flash up amber, Lynch
ignoring them as the Stallion accelerates, still only a few feet above
the ground.
"There we go, wasn't that easy?" They begin to slowly gain altiude as
the exhaust gas temperatures flash red for a moment, then begin falling.
"Yeah, right, Lynch. Nice and easy."
"Quit whining, Jimbo, it'll give you acid indigestion."
The Stallion circles, gaining altitude, and you hear one of the
passengers shout over the noise "Why are we going in circles?"
"We're very heavy." replies Lynch. "And I want to be above five thousand
feet going by Volksville. Those people like shooting at military
helicopters for some reason."
The Stallion settles into level flight at 5.5MSL and ninety-five knots,
Lynch scanning the ground alertly. The flight is interrupted only by a
few red fireflies, arching up from the ground with apparent slowness and
falling away: they are answered by a long burst from the starboard door
minigun, the source of the groundfire disappearing in a storm of kicked-
up snow and ricocheting bullets.
"Get him?" asks Lynch over the intercom.
"We'd never be that lucky." grouses the gunner. "Someone gave Happy
Harry some more ammo. One day he'll get a SAM-"
"And he'll discover how good the jammers on this baby are when we grab
his signal and guide the damn thing right back at him." The gunner
laughs reluctantly as they continue their journey.
You see the bulge of what used to be a major sports stadium, as the
helicopter begins a slow descent. Lynch circles the stained white
Wrigley Dome with the strobes running and the searchlight illuminating
an area of the parking lots. Several figures emerge, one tossing
something small that streams a ragged green finger of smoke.
Lynch loses altitude in a series of S-turns, until he can buttonhook in,
flaring hard and fast into the wind: the whole a complex manoevre, that
would make the Stallion a very hard target from the ground. "Wait here."
he tells the crew as the helicopter settles on its landing gear.
+++++end video
Anne didn't want our little chat to go on tape: she says that passing
information to UCAS intelligence agencies has got some of her people
killed. I'll brief you in person.
She took in our five lost sheep, and the supplies were much appreciated.
We recovered to the _Sable_ with five hundred remaining, no problems
there.
Once I turn the helo in and hand over to my replacement, I'll beg,
borrow or steal a ride back to DC. See you in twelve to twenty-
four.]<<<<<
-- 1Lt J R W Lynch <15:00:43/12-18-57>
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
