| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | The Storm Gathers (2) |
| Date: | Fri, 4 Jun 1999 00:02:27 +0100 |
>>>>>[TO: All SIGA Staff
Lilith is not exactly available right now. She asked me to finish nursing the
rest of last night's festivities through the servers.
So I did.
+++++begin video
Over twenty heavily-armed men and women are sitting in the Dragon. The
aircraft's designed for twice that, yet it's still crowded: four Steel Lynx
drones, four Sentry mounts and pallets of ammunition take up over half
the helicopter's cabin space.
They're a diverse group in many ways, yet very similar in others: their
combat gear an assortment of patterns (Rebels grey, British DPM, UCAS
woodland, the smeary red-ochre of Aztlan and even a suit of red dragon-
armour).
Their armament is just as diverse: L7s, MAG-5s, Kalashnikovs, even a
Pyromaniac flamethrower and a manpack laser, beside more prosaic
HK227s and Alphas.
"Five minutes!" the helicopter's pilot calls back from the cockpit, as the
light above the tail ramp glows a sullen angry red: and where they had
mostly been sitting quietly, suddenly they're in efficient motion.
Stephanie - wearer of the helmetcam - draws her Matchmaster automatic
from its assault holster, takes a magazine from her thigh pocket and
pushes it home. Chambering a round and applying the safety, she
replaces the pistol and fastens its securing strap.
Beside her, Emma locks a clipped pair of magazines into her MP-5A8,
cocks the action, slings the submachinegun: then loads and makes ready a
beautiful gold-inlaid Max-Power pistol that she replaces in its shoulder rig.
Across the aisle, the Dark Stranger feeds grenades into the breech of an
Alpha assault rifle, inscrutable inside the beautiful crimson dragon-helm.
The metallic noises, clicks and clatters of weapons being readied taper
off. Stephanie is the last to finish, though only because it takes longer to
load the thirty-round teaser belt into the MAG-5's breech than to merely
fit a magazine. The linked, brass-cased 7.62mm NATO clinks musically as
she lays it back-and-forth into the canvas bag hanging off the side of the
receiver.
By the ramp, Forged and Daniel are both screwing suppressors onto their
HK227s: forward, Lilith and Imp are loading and cocking the drones'
weaponry.
"Thirty seconds!" The red light winks out, replaced by a cold, hostile
green. Stephanie rises to her feet, settles her helmet firmly in place and
fastens the chin strap: then she picks up her rucksack (small, not bulky,
yet heavy enough that she grunts with the effort of swinging it up onto
her back). Finally she picks 'George', her Fabrique Nationale machine gun,
and slings it across her chest. The machine gun seems almost as large as
her, but she handles it with a cheerful confidence.
"Ten seconds!"
Daniel and Forged brace by the beavertail ramp.
The viridian light begins to pulse, on and off. Once, twice -
- The helicopter pitches and yaws, the rotor beat changing -
three, four times -
- The wheels touch down with a jolt -
and fifth time pays for all.
-The rear ramp is whining down: and in an eyeblink Forged and Daniel
are gone, off the ramp and around the sides and out of sight.
The ramp strikes the deck, revealing three startled men and one of
Nar'moh'ach's hybrid monsters all lying dead on the metal gridwork of the
helipad.
For a few seconds, there is silence: or at least, nothing loud enough to
overcome the sound of the rotors spinning down.
"Forged. Clear."
"Daniel. Clear."
A hand signal from Imp, and he and six of his SEAL comrades are moving
out, instinctively crouching beneath the rotor blades (a safe nine feet
overhead, but still intimidating). They fan out across the top of the rig
(another two bodies lie sprawled on the wet steel), in a sweep pattern
that's clearly rehearsed.
Stephanie and Forged seem to be one of the pairs. She's in one corner
with a good vantage point with the MAG-5 settled on its bipod, Forged
beside her with his handier HK227 covering the other teams as they move
to their destinations (the helicopter hangar, the antenna tower, the boxy
entrance to the accomodation blocks, the gutted empty space where once
lived pumping machinery).
Each is pronounced clear. Only corpses wait on the roof, to greet the
visiting strike force.
The sweep complete, there's a momentary pause. Sheets of rain blow
through the glare of the arc lights, glittering like diamonds.
"Almost too easy." Forged mutters beside her, taking the suppressor off
his H&K.
Stephanie gestures at the pyramid of a phased-array radar atop the
antenna tower. "Overconfidence. They've got good sensors, they think
they can see anything coming by air or sea. They're right." The wind whips
at her, droplets of rain starring the helmetcam lens for a few moments
before they run off. "So, why have lots of men being tired and cold and
miserable up on the roof? Keep them warm and happy downstairs and rush
them up if there's a problem?"
"Whereas if you walk right up and knock..."
"As long as you're expected, there's no problem at all." She turns to survey
the green, white-capped sea: it's rising as the wind strengthens, already
blowing Force Six or more. "Whereas now _we_ own the roof of this rig.
Come on, let's get set up."
The Sentry guns are manhandled to their appointed positions, as everyone
checks their transponders: the slim bracelets (worn on wrists and ankles,
at least two per person) that identify the wearer as a non-target to the
homicidal machines. The Steel Lynx drones, too, are readied and placed,
before the soldiers find locations of their own. The roof of the
abandoned, half-scrapped oil rig has become a deadly killing zone… aimed
outwards.
Lilith, meanwhile, has gathered her companions by the entrance to the
accomodation block, as Stephanie joins her. Quinn seems to have drilled a
hole in the door, a slim tube running from it to a handheld analyser she's
examining.
"Ready?" the tall, auburn-haired woman asks her daughter.
"We should be able to hold until sunup if we have to." Stephanie replies
confidently. "How does inside look?"
"Another minute at most. Binder patches, everyone." Lilith presses a derm
against the side of her neck: the rest of her team do so too. "Quinn, any
movement in there?"
Quinn shakes her head, leaving the analyser attached to the door as she
presses a breaching charge into place on the lock. "De nada. Quiet as the
grave. Which is what it smells like in there, too."
"It had better not end up being ours, is all." Lightning strobes, freezing
the soldiers in a monochrome tableau for an eyeblink: the crash of
thunder follows only a few seconds later. Lilith hefts her MC71, clicks off
the safety. "Stephanie... you be lucky up here. Our dustoff arrives in
ninety-eight minutes. Be on it when it leaves or you'll be here forever."
"What about you?"
"If we're not out by then, we're never coming out." Lilith embraces her
daughter, quickly, once, as Quinn blows the lock out of the door and Easy
leans around the smoking frame, the muzzle of her L7 probing for
targets. A woman in UCAS Army NBC gear shrieks, raising empty hands: a
Troll, also in NBC gear, raises his hands (one holds an AK-97 by the
muzzle) but nothing more dangerous and nothing immediately worthy of
ammunition.
Lilith examines the gasmasked woman minutely, as Easy and Quinn surge
past: Quinn exchanging a short series of hand gestures and a happy grin
with the Troll in passing.
"Kathleen Malone?" Lilith asks.
"Yes...?"
The shapeshifter hardly seems to move, just a flicker of movement of one
arm: but Kathleen describes a short ballistic arc that ends in a clattering
sprawl of of limbs on the steel decking. "She leaves with us." Lilith says
quietly to Stephanie, flexing her gloved hand. "Keep the bitch as safe as
you can. This-" she points to the Troll, who's having a quick, quiet
conversation with Quinn - "is Doomsday, and he's a friend. You'll like him.
He's a good man in a fight."
"Okay. Auntie Quinn told me about him, he's cool. Who's she and what did
she do?" Stephanie asks with simple curiosity.
"I'll explain later." Lilith says, cold anger in her voice. "Stay safe,
Stephanie."
And the entry team are gone, into the depths of the rig.
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- 1LT S E Rodriguez <23:33:25/06-03-60>
14 Int Cdo
ATT Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency
