| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Still Filming |
| Date: | Sat, 29 Nov 1997 00:42:24 +0000 |
+++++relay via tacstation "Wolf Den"
>>>>>[No, I don't know why I'm still filing footage anyway. Nobody gives
a damn about some squabble out here, and even if it was worth running
Kelly's dead so there's nobody to front it.
But I only got so much storage, and it's send it or overwrite it, so
what the frag.
+++++begin trideo
Bill the Cameraman stands at the end of a rainswept jetty, looking out
to sea: beyond the breakwater, the Indian Ocean is a threatening green,
its angry swells flecked with foam. He turns slowly, taking in abandoned
buildings and a half-submerged factory ship in the bay: a ghost-town
fishing port, abandoned years or decades ago. Further around, though,
there is activity at the edge of town.
A Ro-Ro cargo ship is tied up pierside, very freshly painted in the
distinctive Rebels grey camouflage: she looks like a warship now, and
the impression is confirmed by her new name: the "Killing Time" out of
London.
Beside her is a small tanker, pumping fuel ashore: on the other side of
the jetty, beyond the small town's outskirts, a wide, gentle beach
(littered with the skeletal ribs of long-abandoned boats) shows the deep
marks left by a PARWIG heavy-lifter and scoured tracks of hovercraft,
four of which can be heard and then seen as they head out to sea.
Further inland of the beach, rows of vehicles and equipment sit amidst
tents and prefabs: a small, portable military city.
With a scream of engines, two MiG-57s lift off from an airstrip further
inland, afterburners winking out as they climb into the overcast.
Bill sighs and walks back towards the bustle of activity, passing the
"Killing Time" and the tanker: then finding himself in an aisle of grey-
painted eight-wheeled LAVs, most of them cannon-armed APCs or boxier
utility variants. A few have less identifiable gear, bristling with
sensors and weapons. Most of the APCs have acquired a tiled coating of
applique armour, that looks very new on their well-used hides. The
armour tiles have already acquired hand-painted names in many cases:
"Annie Oakley", "Turbo Terror", "Easy Rider" are among the
more legible
as Bill passes.
Picking his way between the vehicles, he finds a clearer area - an APC
with its turret lifted off at its centre, two mechanics welding plates
over a ragged hole in its side while a third unravels a scorched wiring
harness - before reaching a tent built off the back of an APC, a
satellite dish pointing skywards like a metallic sunflower beside it.
Inside, rain drums on the tent fabric, a small heater throws out a warm
glow, and the clothes of the people inside steam gently. Lynch and
Rusanov glance up as Bill enters.
"Mind if I come in?" he asks.
"Hell, no. Get some coffee and grab a seat." Lynch is in flightsuit and
leather jacket, Rusanov in combat fatigues, both are examining the
holomap. Inside the APCs, two technicians sit in green-glowing darkness,
montoring the radio networks. He offers Bill a cigarette, and the
newsman accepts.
"I got a favour to ask." Bill says. "I want to fight. I mean, I can't
drive a tank or shoot a rifle, but I can hump ammo or fill sandbags or
_something_. I want to help hurt Akbar."
The two mercenaries exchange glances, not unkind ones. "Bill, you know
how you can _really_ hurt Akbar? Ride up fron, film us righteously
kicking his ass, put together a one-hour special about what happens when
you fuck with the Rebels." Lynch replies. "That makes you an affilate,
so you go in uniform not in Turner Networks gear. That makes you a
combatant, so we'll get you a weapon and teach you to use it. Deal?"
"Okay. What's the plan?"
Rusanov indicates the map. "First priority, rescue our prisoners. This
is well underway and mostly planned. Then, we attack Akbar in his home.
He is deployed with full brigade _here_" the Russian taps a red unit
marker, centred on the town of Kufiyyah - "with company-size outposts
here, here and here." Each company marker is on a road junction or
other choke point, a textbook defence. The red markers of Akbar's units,
though, have small blue units scattered through their positions.
"What are these ? Patrols?"
"Da. We deploy reconnaisance platoon, six fireteams, to do LRRP on
enemy. They observe, report, harass, provide targets for our aircraft."
"Speaking of which, Bill, you want a ride in a Spooky tonight?" Lynch
suggests. Bill glances across - checking that Lynch isn't joking? -
nods, looks back at the map.
"So, your guys are watching him and, I presume, ambushing his patrols,
attacking any supply convoys they can hurt, calling in air on whatever
looks like a juicy target. Right?"
"Yeah." Lynch gets more coffee from the "Norwegian" - a gallon-size
insulated container - for all three of them, and another two for the
comms techs. "So now the convoys are big, heavily escorted, infrequent,
slow to form up. Means sometimes we can catch one on the road. Wham,
bam, cluster bombs kick ass ma'am. There's a supply convoy forming up
right now, your Spooky might hit it if we're lucky."
"Okay. So, how do you plan to take him out? You're still outnumbered."
"But we have... you say 'force multipliers'? And favourable situation."
Rusanov responds. "Also, corporate assistance in most important areas.
Ares for armour, Maxim artillery, Renraku communications and electronic
warfare, Saeder-Krupp munitions, IWS missiles. We have very good force
here." The Russian indicates the map, drawing in blue units. "Attack is
simple feint and punch. We use _Killing Time_ to deploy force of
infantry, our own armour, most of the artillery. We form firebase, bring
in helicopters and support equipment, launch artillery and then air-
assault attack on this location." He points to one of the blocking
forces, sitting astride the coast road. "With this junction clear, we
are able to advance, take up their position and begin artillery
preparation of main position. Killing Time meanwhile is making shuttle
runs to beachhead here, delivering cargo. We have airstrip at beachhead,
artillery firebase in range of Akbar, our forces massing for assault in
classical Russian manner."
"So it's set up to make him think he's going to be hit from there. But
actually you'll take him some other way?" Bill instinctively ducks as
jet engines howl overhead: fighters, low and slow, coming in to land.
"Exactly." Lynch takes over. "We use the helicopters to put small forces
here and here, cut off these other two outposts and keep them from
rejoining the fight. Lob some arty at them any time they get frisky.
Meanwhile, though, the _Yulius Fucik_ is unloading. She's a barge
carrier, right? Lighter Aboard Ship, LASH. Load the cargo into barges
and pack them aboard, like a bigger version of a container ship. Except
here the lighters are heavy cargo hovercraft. She's a Panamanian cargo
ship, fifty a day go through the Red Sea via Suez, nobody's gonna watch
her.
"She puts the main force ashore, somewhere around _here_." Lynch points
to the coast north of Kuffiyah. "A full company of heavy tanks, two
infantry mech companies, lots of SP mortars, all sorts of goodies. A
heavy cavalry force. We blast our way into Kuffiyah and fight through."
"Hard on the civilians..." Bill suggests.
"Yeah." Lynch nods. "But we've got Akbar's troops pretty localised into
company-size groups. Dispersing didn't work: a couple of times a squad's
gone to sleep, and one man's woken to find the other seven or eight had
their throats cut in the night. Now they sleep in herds, with sentries
posted, and they don't spread out. There's still going to be civilians
killed." He shakes his head sadly. "No way round it, we'll just have to
do our best and pray."
"How about the strike on the camp? Can you talk about that?" Bill
enquires.
"Not yet. The runners we're likely to use for that are sleeping off the
journey here. It's going to be a mixed force, this is more special-ops
than open warfare." Lynch shrugs. "Good shadowrunners have the
experience to handle this. The team we're taking in spent a lot of time
in Chicago. They're good. There'll be a small contingent, a platoon
maybe, of Rebels, but the main entry force is mostly runners. More
close-and-dirty urban experience, which is what we need here."
The tent flaps are thrown back and two pilots enter: both in flight
suits and survival vests, both waiting to get undercover before removing
their helmets. The taller is wearing a plain green flightsuit and a
helmet painted in a leopard pattern: the other is more colourful in red
and black, the helmet marked with a single _kanji_ character. Both, it
appears, are female: one shorter and Oriental, the taller an exotically
beautiful redhead.
"Trouble, Jason." Lilith says at once, packing her helmet into its bag.
"Akbar's got himself some SAMs. We were running in to the IP when we
were busted by an E-band search set. Hikaru says it was a Snow Drift,
and it sounded right on the RWR for that. We closed in anyway, just a
little more cautious, and I got lit up by a CW illuminator. At that
point we blew chaff and broke for the deck, and hit the secondary target
instead."
Arashi nods agreement. "MAX classified it as a Grizzly battery, and we
didn't feel the need to get close and dance."
"Grizzly... old system, not hard to find. More purchases from East
Europe." Rusanov says meditatively. "We considered purchasing some, but
there are too few enemies with aircraft that require this, and those
that we might fight would not fear such an old system."
"So they've got SAMs? Does that mean you can't fly?" Bill asks.
"Nope. Means tonight I go play Weasel for real." Lynch grins wolfishly,
to Arashi's evident surprise.
"I thought you were a Weasel expert?" she asks.
"I am. But it's been a while since anyone had to knock back SAM systems
with live ammo." Lynch stretches. "Well, wife, if I'm flying tonight I'd
better get some sleep. Don't suppose you'd care to join me?" They leave
together into the rain, entwined around each other.
"He is mad." Rusanov pronounces amiably. "And thus invaluable to us.
Bill, I would suggest you follow Lynch's example and retire. Though you
will probably get more sleep than he."
Outside, the rain is slackening off: Bill makes his way past a file of
Scarab scout vehicles that are having their minigun turrets replaced by
missile launchers, clears the vehicle park, and glances left and right
as he walks towards the ghost town. Four hovercraft are coming in from
the sea, kicking up trails of spray: to the right, the improvised
airstrip (steel matting laid over a stretch of road) can be seen, four
Hercules transports and six MiG-57s sitting amidst tents, maintenance
equipment and bustling repair personnel. Bill keeps walking, seeing the
abandoned houses marked with numbered coloured tags by the doors: one is
evidently his, or at least one room of it, and he makes his way inside
and up the creaky stairs.
His room was once a bedroom, but perhaps wisely Bill is using a foam mat
on the floor and a sleeping bag: the bed has rotted quietly for a decade
or two. Someone has at least stapled clear plastic over the windows,
keeping out the worst of the weather: Bill takes off his boots and
crawls into the sleeping bag.
+++++pause
+++++resume
"Sir?" Bill opens his eyes and sits up. A young man in a flightsuit
hands him a steaming paper cup, and a couple of sandwiches.
"Thanks.We up?"
"Yessir. Head over to the airfield, soon as you're ready." The soldier
leaves, evidently having others to rouse.
The rain has stopped outside, and Bill runs to the airstrip at an easy
jog: "his" aircraft is obvious, the Hercules with a row of gun muzzles
protruding from its side. The rear door is open, and a flightsuited Ork
waves him over.
"Glad you made it. Climb aboard, find an empty seat, sack out for a
couple of hours until we get to the target."
Inside, the Hercules's fuselage is cluttered with gun breeches and
ammunition racks. Two 30mm cannon sit aft, ammunition feeds snaking to
their breeches and cooling water hoses to their barrels. Ahead of that,
two larger guns are placed in a hydraulic cradle amidst racks of brass-
cased ammunition: three-inch guns or thereabouts. Bill eases cautiously
past them, to the control area: two workstations with display screens
and assorted controls, and a row of comfortable airline-style seats
behind them. Bill takes the last empty seat: the gun crews are reading
or sleeping in their chairs: after nervously flicking through a few
pages of data on the seat's small screen, the cameraman decides to join
the sleepers.
He is woken by one of the fire-control crew shaking him. "Sir? You want
to watch this?"
The monitors show an overhead view of a highway, in both low-light and
IR. The sensors track along until a faint glow can be seen: the glow and
the aircraft are closing at three hundred miles an hour. The roar of the
four turboprops recedes a little, as the pilot throttles back: slowing
down for the attack run.
Bill watches without speaking as the glow resolves into a file of
vehicles: a tank leading, then two BMPs, then several trucks, then two
BTRs, then more trucks... over thirty vehicles, bright with heat and
their hooded headlights vivid to the low-light TV. The lead tank is
suddenly encircled with a target marker.
"Leader marked. Load APDS." The sounds of metallic activity in the gun
bay, as the loaders grab 76mm shells from the racks and shove them into
the breeches of the two guns. The aircraft heels into a gentle banked
turn, as the gunner places his aiming mark on the tank's turret: his
deputy has already locked up the tank bringing up the rear.
"Track them a while, there's a nice cutting coming up. We can box them
in easy." the gunner says, still tracking the convoy, which is already
entering a narrow cutting in the hilly terrain.
Hydraulics hiss and sigh, as the big guns adjust their aim slightly,
then one fires: the bright dot of the tracer is visible for almost a
second, before it connects with the tank's roof. The low-light view
flares out as the tank's ammunition explodes. "Target. Reload HE." The
blazing wreckage blocks the road ahead.
The other gun fires, a moment later: the deputy gunner similarly
calling. "Target. You have both primaries, engaging with secondaries."
Bill, standing behind them, watches awe-struck as the two gunners savage
the convoy: 76mm high-explosive shells destroying trucks and their
cargo, and the 30mm cannon firing mixed SAPHE and HEI, efficiently
shredding the escorting troop carriers with short precise bursts.
Men can be seen fleeing the vehicles, some pausing to fire rifles wildly
into the sky but most simply fleeing the valley: running from the fire
and death that comes from the sky, unheard and unseen. The gunners
ignore them, concentrating on setting every vehicle ablaze.
"Is it always this easy?" Bill asks in wonder.
"Usually." the gunner replies absently. "Load Willie Pete!" he shouts,
and when the readiness indicators for the guns change he fires both
rounds. The targeted truck, cab already ripped apart by a fifteen-pound
HE shell, erupts into flame when the incendiary shells hit. "Load HE!"
"Why white phosphorous?"
"We don't get credit for the kill unless the vehicle burns. Only way to
be sure, see?" The IR view roves along the highway cutting, seeing only
burning vehicles: zooming out, the fleeing survivors are beginning to
gather together. "It's surprising how hard it is to kill a truck. If it
burns, you at least got the cargo, and that's what matters. Pilot,
follow my cue." He puts the aiming mark in the cluster of drivers and
soldiers, and the pilot eases out of the pylon turn to circle them
instead.
"You're going to kill them too?"
"Well, kill a few and keep the rest terrified." The 76mm guns fire, a
second or so apart, as the thirties open up in a long burst: two puffs
of smoke and scattering bodies mark the impacts, as a trail of sparkling
impacts show where the 30mm shells are tracking through the group.
Again, they scatter in terror, leaving only a few cooling corpses
behind. "Check fire, check fire. That's enough."
"Why did you do that? I mean, there's a reason, right?"
"Yeah." The gunner unplugs the datalead from his temple, and the two
three-inch guns sigh back to their standby position. "We do that, the
survivors run for their lives babbling about the silent death from the
sky. Down there, they can't see us or hear us, all they get is the
results when we shoot. Must be fucking horrible, especially to peasant
mountain boys like these. You kill a few to make the point. You leave
most alive, to spread the word. Every one of these guys who deserts, or
hides instead of fighting when the final battle goes down, is one less
Gomer we have to waste ammo on."
"So you don't like killing?"
"These guys work for a badass dude. Too bad. We're here to trash the
convoy and scare the drek out of the survivors, not to slaughter. The
guys in the vehicles, tough. The guys running, we pick off a few, but
it's bad news. It's like... like at sea? You do all you can to sink a
ship, maybe you kill half the crew doing it, that's war. But you don't
shoot up the lifeboats afterwards. That's not war, that's butchery."
"So you think there's a difference?"
"That's the difference between us and the Gomers here." the gunner
replies with certainty.
+++++end trideo]<<<<<
-- Bill the Cameraman <00:42:16/11-29-58>
