| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <Shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Rescue Mission #1 |
| Date: | Mon, 3 Aug 1998 22:08:25 +0100 |
>>>>>[TO: All SIGA Staff
This is just to let you know what happened, when we went into Aztlan.
And it may explain a few absences and rearrangements and other
incidents.
Much of the footage, like this, is courtesy of Major Hunter.
+++++begin video
The inside of an aircraft, probably a C-130 from the throbbing drone of
the turboprops and the dimensions of the cabin. The cameraman looks back
at six companions and a loadmaster, the loadmaster in UCAS Air Force
fatigues and the six soldiers incongruous in Aztlan combat fatigues: and
not just any combat gear, but the distinctive smeary ochres and browns
and reds of the Jaguar Guard.
All wear parachutes, all are burdened with heavy kit bags, all are busy
with private rituals. Thomas is listening to a pocket chip-player.
Rosselini and Christiansen are both apparently asleep, despite the noise
and vibration. Brady is playing some sort of game on a palmtop computer,
Tallis is methodically and meticulously honing the edge on a Fineblade
knife, Askew is carefully writing on each of the minigrenades in his
ammunition pouch.
The cameraman - Blade, presumably - returns to his own entertainment, an
e-book entitled "Drop Zone: Arnhem". The plot seems currently to concern
a small force of British paratroops trying to hold the south end of a
bridge, against a strong German attack: outnumbered and outgunned, the
Paras are still stubbornly clinging to every room of every house. The
author might lack literary finesse, but he or she knows the subject well
and evokes the confused ferocity of the fighting with almost painful
clarity.
A tap on the shoulder, and Blade looks up to the loadmaster's raised
hand and splayed fingers: five minutes. A nod, and he tucks the e-book
away and stands, tightening straps and adjusting the ride of half-a-
dozen heavy, awkward items.
The red light above the rear door comes on, and the cabin lights go out.
Two minutes. Blade reaches up to his helmet, brings the goggles down to
protect his eyes from the icy blast of wind that's about to hit them.
Shuffling to the back of the cabin, Blade hooks his static line to the
steel cable provided, the loadmaster checking it's secure and giving a
thumbs-up, the others hitching their lines behind him and also being
checked.
With a shrill whine of hydraulics and a shriek of wind, the rear ramp
drops, dust and a few shreds of trash swirling around as the cabin
pressure escapes. At the same time, the red light begins pulsing. Thirty
seconds.
The loadmaster returns to stand by Blade, giving him an encouraging
grin. Blade nods back, looking down into darkness and clouds.
"I thought I'd said, no more fragging parachute insertions..." he
mutters, just as the flaring red light turns a lambent, piercing green
and the loadmaster's shout of "GO!" sends him leaping into empty air.
A few instants of gale-force winds and free-fall vertigo, before a sharp
_crack_ overhead makes him snap his head back as his flight is arrested:
the camouflaged 'chute overhead is properly deployed, and at once he
grabs for the risers. The C-130 - in civilian colours, apparently it
belongs to "Sunshine Aviation" - is holding course, the rear ramp
closing as it departs.
Blade concentrates on his course and direction, as he descends through
the damp embrace of the clouds: the small navigation unit clipped to his
chest harness glows softly, guiding him to the drop zone. The Hercules'
pilot knew his or her job, though, almost no corrections are needed to
keep himself on course. Breaking through the overcast, the ground below
is quiet and dark for miles around, only occasional pinpoints of light
and warmth. Further away are the twinkling rope of light of a highway,
and the bright smears of built-up areas.
The dark ground seems to hang in the middle distance for a long, long
time, before suddenly charging up to meet Blade's boots: the view
bounces and rolls as he executes a perfect landing, collapsing sideways
to dissipate the impact along legs, hip, and shoulder. He's on his feet
in seconds, collapsing his parachute and gathering it into a bundle of
dark, slippery nylon.
The area is very dark even with the camera's image intensifier active,
little light leaking through the clouds. Blade heads for a patch of
thorny scrub, and rapidly digs a hole deep enough to hide his parachute:
hearing, as he does so, the sounds of the others landing around him can
be heard.
He takes the time to break out his equipment - web gear, rucksack, rifle
- before moving to a slight rise in the scrubby ground, snapping a
lightstick into glowing life and tying it to a thornbush. Shapes
materialise out of the darkness, identifying themselves softly and
forming a crouched defensive circle: five of the group plus Blade. One
missing.
"Where's Tallis?" asks Rosselini.
"I saw a 'chute come down over to the north." Christiansen replies.
"Maybe she landed badly."
"Yeah. Fucken thornbush..." Askew grouses. "Want me to go find her?"
"I'll go. Hunter, head for the first waypoint, I'll RV there. You're in
command until I rejoin. Radio silence unless you make a hot contact."
Rosselini replies. Blade nods, moves the group out through the dark
night in a loose diamond formation.
Rosselini is waiting for them at the first waypoint. After a quiet
challenge-and-return, she moves to join the group.
"Did you find her?" Blade asks.
"Yes. She's dead. Landed in scrub, broke her neck." Rosselini replies.
"Not a good start." Christiansen shivers. Night parachute drops are
notoriously dangerous, but losing a seventh of the team so early has to
be bad news.
"Let's hope that was the bad luck for the day." Rossellini replies.
"Move out. We want to reach the valley before dusk for our cover story
to hold."
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- 2Lt S E Rodriguez <22:07:43/08-03-59>
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
