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Act of Conspiracy, Chapter VIII: Convocation
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 4 March 2005, 4:28 AM
Read/Post Comments
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Chapter VIII
Convocation
December 29, 2524
City of Standyle, Capital City
Pacificatorius, Atropos System
Department of International Security, City Center
The elevator shut steadily, and the apparatus began rising. It was empty, save for Branson and Ryals, and the ensuing silence was awkward. The pair had rarely remained silent when on the job, and such pauses were true testimonies to an unknown factor that was plaguing one or the other.
Branson averted his gaze to the closed doors, trying to make it look like he was thinking—or tired, either one would work. He could feel the unsaid questions from his partner no more then a meter away, and hoped he would never have to answer to them. His hope, however, would never hold, and the inevitable question would pop up. What should I say?
"Mitch, you know better then to run off."
Here it comes. Branson didn't reply quickly, trying to devise up a good excuse as to why he had been missing for twenty minutes early this morning. The quick trip with Richard Langston had left Ryals out of the loop, not sure where he had disappeared to. Mitchell knew he couldn't tell him, despite the urge to do so. The two had worked together for years, and Branson would trust his life to Ryals any time, but this went beyond what he could share. If this got out—that he was giving classified information in return for information on the GDSO—his career would be over, and any hope to stop these terrorists would be gone.
He needed to do this by himself. Maybe after this, he could share with his partner the truth, but for now, he was in this alone.
"I thought I saw him," Branson said quietly.
"And...?"
He looked over at Ryals. "I chased the man down, and it turned out not to be our guy."
The facial expression wasn't what Branson hoped for. Suspicion. "Next time, make sure I can back you up."
The two exited the elevator and headed down to their office area. Mitchell hated this; he hated having to keep stuff like this from him. He didn't want to alienate him, but he didn't want to complicate him into the situation either. Ryals would no doubt try and make him reconsider the decision he had made, but would then side with him and help in any way, making him an accessory to this illegal act. That couldn't happen, Branson had decided. He had dug this hole himself, and he was the only one who was going to jump in.
"Good morning, gentlemen." Carol, the office secretary, said, welcoming them as they entered. She was disappointed with the tired and mixed looks she got back. Must have been a long night. "Oh, Mitch, you got a letter an hour ago. It's on your desk."
Branson nodded and walked over, skipping his routine of getting coffee first and sitting down at the desk. There sat a manila envelope, marked only with his name. Langston had seemingly held up his end.
He carefully opened the envelope and pulled the papers out. There weren't many, and a couple were photographs, but a note stood out from the rest. He looked closely at it.
You have until 1200 today to get the information. Be at Mallard Gardens restaurant. Come alone.
Langston was serious. Branson looked at the first piece of paper, then at the photographs. To his surprise, some of it made sense, and it was exactly what he had been searching for the entire time. Locations and times stood out, which were the primary basics that they would need to hit the GDSO hard.
He reached for the phone, and paused. He couldn't just pass it up the Chain of Command, and trying to do something like this himself would be insane. The position was frustrating as he thought of what to do. Before him was the information, as Langston had promised, but he had obtained it through invalid means; his superiors would get very suspicious, knowing that he had not been out on assignment, so there was no real "reason" he could have gotten this. Who could use this information?
Port Sidcaster (400 Kilometers East of Standyle), Counter Terrorism / Special Warfare Operations Center
The trip back was long and silent, and conversation among the State's elite counter-terrorism teams was nonexistent. They had been set up, and paid dearly for the grave oversight. They were coming home with six less members, all of them lost in action in the early hours of the morning.
Families would be waiting for them to come home. Wives, daughters, and sons were now be fatherless, never again to see those influential figures that would have played vital roles in their lives. It was maddening and depressing at the same time, and Mahler was not looking forward to the knocks on their door's to inform them of their deceased family member.
He fought hard. He set his life on the line in duty of our people, and paid the ultimate sacrifice. His actions were not in vain, and he will go down as one of our finest. The talk was emotional, and it overwhelmed everyone who had to ever hear it. Mahler hated it; he hated looking those wives and children in the eyes and telling them of the death, of how the man had died, and how important and crucial he was to the success of the mission.
But that was just the contradictory point. They weren't successful. They hadn't done anything but play into the GDSO's plans; their actions were nothing short of futile to stop this global threat. Trying to convince himself, or the men he lead, that their actions had indeed stopped a significant attack on the city of New Sodham was nothing short of a lie. It's not like they had a choice, though; they were tasked with responding to the call of the DIS. What had gone wrong was not in their hands, but of those who directed them. There was nothing they could have done.
There was nothing I could have done.
He opened the door to his office and walked in, keeping the main lights off and sitting in darkness as the door closed slowly behind him. Anger welled within him at the loss; at the defeat. He knew that for every fight there were winners and losers, but he was not supposed to be in the latter category—his team wasn't supposed to be in that category. Aegis was meant to hit hard and fast, without allowing the enemy to respond.
This had turned out to be a complete failure. They had done their job, but it was all anticipated by their enemy, and no matter what they could have done, that Nerve Agent container was still a bomb, and it would have still exploded in their faces.
"Mr. Mahler, there is a priority fax incoming to your station," the secretary announced through the intercom. "Should I allow it through?"
He sighed. The last thing he wanted was some letter from the Director, offering his condolences for the casualties, then trying to reason the mistake made at his end. He didn't want the fake, distant words etched onto paper to haunt his life; he didn't want to see the utter disregard for his men's lives. The public barely knew of their existence, and would never hear about their feats and losses, but those on the top of the DIS command chain knew of him and his men. They knew, without a doubt. Did they care? The answer was readily obvious. The only thing they saw were casualty figures, not the faces of those passed onto a better place.
He conceded. It would be better to get this out of the way now then to wait with the burden hanging over his mind. "Yes, send it in."
The printer on his desk buzzed to life, and pages started flowing off onto his desk. He watched idly as the process continued for a minute, printing off some pictures as well. That surprised him, and turned on the small lamp atop his desk while reaching for them as the printer shut off and the connection was completed. The first page caught his eye, as it was in hand writing.
This is information on the location of two of our targets in the GDSO. You must act upon it within one hour in order to ensure the accuracy of the location. Delete any record of this fax, and make sure no one speaks of it. Due to the delicate nature of the situation, do not contact anyone out or above your chain of command; the only people that should hear about this is you and your teams. This is our first real chance to hit the GDSO hard, but it must be kept under complete secrecy, before and after.
I must apologize for New Sodham, and my sorrow is far beyond what you can imagine. It was my actions that merited the mission, and my oversight is what killed those in the explosion. I have no intention of trying to make this softer or easier to cope with, as that is impossible, but I can give you something to retaliate with. The fight is not over.
Time can never be turned back, but we can still change the future. We can still defeat this terrorism and ensure peace to our land. This is my act for bringing this organization down; now you must finish it. Godspeed.
Mahler leaned back in the chair, conflicted by an array of emotions. He wanted to just call it in, to just leave this duty of constant fighting. But he wanted to finish this job, finish preserving the freedoms and rights of these people. He would never quit, especially not in a situation such as this, and the avenging spirit inside was sharing its part of his mind. No matter how much he hated this, he would see it to the end.
He crumpled the paper in his strong grasp. This was apparently the man who had led them to New Sodham, who had informed the defense community of the Nerve Agent story. He was responsible for his men's deaths. Part of him wanted to track whoever it was down and just give him hell, but the other half empathized with him. He was just doing his job, and a mistake had misled him and everyone else to a decisive defeat. But like the letter had said, it wasn't over, and there was still a way to break the GDSO.
He hit the intercom button. "What's the origination of this message?"
The reply was quick. "Secured DIS Location, no way to track it."
"Right." Obviously. He thought for a moment. "Delete the logged information of this message immediately, consider this message an Alpha-One classification; no one finds out about this."
"Yes, sir."
He leaned in closer to emphasize his point. "No one finds out."
Mahler turned the intercom off, then looked over the information. This very may be a third trap set for them, so he would need to take necessary precautions, but the location and photographs looked legitimate. It really looked as if this could be a real location harboring real terrorist leaders.
He scanned the report. GDSO leaders Maynard Shamlin and Cyrus Ladage were observed to be meeting in a dacha just outside a small town farther north into the Dalmaeter Cascades, a beautiful line of mountains that stretched along the northern side of the continent, just over one-thousand kilometers north from Port Sidcaster. The meeting was proposed to take place tonight just after 1800 hours. He looked down at his watch; it was just past 1015.
They could make it, and they could storm the secluded dacha, either killing or taking hostages of those terrorists. He would need to call some favors, though, to make this happen without support from his superiors.
Part of him already began feeling guilty as he reached for the phone, and neglecting to inform his boss was easily putting him in the area of illegal and unauthorized acts, but it didn't matter anymore. He had received and followed his orders once before via his conventional superiors, and had lost two sniper teams and two assault specialists. It was crazy and unlikely that this information could be true, but it was crazy enough that they might just be able to pull it off.
He was ignoring conventional wisdom, but something inside told him it was okay. Something felt oddly right about this, and such a feeling could never be ignored, especially when it was about the first major break to stop the GDSO.
Mahler punched in four numbers. "Call our teams to full readiness, announce an emergency departure in sixty-mikes. This order is Alpha-One classified, and no one but my teams hear about it." The phone clicked down on the receiver, and he paused in thought. Who did he know that could get him the resources to transport and set up such an operation without sacrificing information security? His superiors were not to know, which left him completely unsupported.
The phone picked up again, and he dialed a much longer number. It rang several times before picking up.
"Colonel Martin Salem, please."
Standyle, Commercial Area, City Center
The sun beat down on the streets, reflecting sharply off the wet pavement. The populace was out in force at this time of day, looking for a commendable location to eat lunch. The streets, though not full, held more traffic then usual, and pedestrians dominated the sidewalks. It was the usual sight for downtown Standyle.
Jakov kept a good eye on the restaurant across the street. A line of people waited impatiently to enter the renowned establishment, and he gazed through the people in search of someone very specific. So far, he hadn't spotted the man. He reached into his jacket's large pocket and pulled out the picture once more, looking at it; burning the image into his mind. A quick look back up through the crowd around him towards the restaurant across the street revealed that no one new had arrived.
He wandered carefully over to a nearby news stand, maneuvering around walking citizens. He gazed at the headlines of the main newspaper, and the picture caught his eye. The register-operator eyed him carefully as he picked up the paper.
Blast in Downtown New Sodham Kills 93.
The picture showed an early morning shot of the crater, along with the burned out vehicles and debris scattering the area for as far as the photograph could see. So much death. He read pass the opener to the contents of the article.
Law Enforcement teams responded to a threat that an extremist group—yet to be identified—was going to release a deadly nerve toxin at the city center Social Management headquarters. Upon arriving at the scene, personnel reportedly spotted several masked men transporting the container and quickly neutralized them, securing the container. Much to everyone's surprise, however, the container actually turned out to be a bomb, packed tightly with high explosives.
New Sodham Police Chief Adam Carellen said in a brief interview that the report about it being a Nerve Agent "was completely wrong, and the anonymous person—no doubt part of this planned attack—had intentionally lied about the true contents of the container, leaving our teams vulnerable to the explosion with no forewarning."
Jakov threw the paper roughly back down onto the pile, turning away to think. The government was obviously covering its own mistakes, and the media report didn't even closely resemble the true nature of the situation. They had set up the State, the State had fallen for the bait, and the State had lost miserably. Of course, the public would never know of such a defeat; as far as they would ever be concerned, this was some devious plot by some unnamed group just to kill a few men and women.
The government knew the true story, though. And they knew the true means of the attack.
His arms clenched as he recalled the night. The entire time he had been under the impression that this was some genocidal attack, something where they would release the gas and get out safely. But it turned out quite the opposite. While he was glad that this didn't turn into some epidemic that killed thousands of innocent civilians, he was infuriated at the true means of the mission. His participation in this was meant to be nothing short of a suicide mission; a ploy where everyone was meant to die.
He had gotten two lucky breaks last night. First off, he hadn't died in the initial attack by those counter-terrorist teams; he had been lucky enough to be one of the few that was tasked with breaking the doors open. Then later, he had been lucky enough to survive the bomb explosion, being barricaded inside the building while those government teams hunted him down.
The fear came back instantly as he recalled being inside that office room, hearing gunshots outside, hearing his comrades die. He was supposed to be dead; he was never meant to live past the night, whether it be by the hands of those State teams or the bomb itself.
Anger took over as he recalled the lucky escape. The GDSO had betrayed him, they had lied and then planned his death. It had never started out like this; morals and values were cherished in the beginning, because they were fighting for a true cause. Now everything had reciprocated. The group he formerly was part of, his only family, was now nothing he wanted to be part of. They had shown their true colors, and despite the worthy cause of eliminating this corrupt government, they had proven that they are no different than any of the other organizations fighting the government. They were corrupt and selfish themselves.
He forced himself back to the present, banishing those thoughts for the time being. He looked across the street again and scanned for the face. He almost turned away, but saw the man walking down the sidewalk towards the restaurant.
Gotcha.
Branson followed the flow of the pedestrians in front of him, looking around cautiously as he neared the Mallard Gardens. The reputable restaurant was known for hundreds of kilometers around, and was busy at every time imaginable. The large establishment had a considerable line in front of it, and he made his way past the waiting customers and to the front door. He looked back quickly, gazing into the sea of faces that seemed to look back.
Jakov quickly brought the short device up to his eyes and peered through it. Before he left his comrades after the explosion, he had called in a special request to find some information about this man, and had tracked down enough notification to find out about this special meeting. Richard Langston's name popped up soon afterwards, but he could only speculate as to way some DIS spook was meeting a very powerful entrepreneur.
The DIS agent stopped briefly at the front door to Mallard Gardens, and looked back out his direction. His heart jumped as it appeared as if the agent looked right at him, but the man's gaze quickly moved on, passing by him. Jakov took a breath of relief and centered the crosshairs on the agent, zooming in. His hand drifted over the button, then pressed down quickly.
Click!
The agent then turned and headed into the large restaurant; the photograph was a good shot of the man. He stowed the camera and brought out his cellular phone, hitting a speed dial button. The line rang once before being picked up.
"Mallard Gardens Restaurant, how can I help you?"
"Yes, this is Rafael Azoraz."
"Ah, Mr. Azoraz," the friendly female voice replied. "Your reservation is waiting."
"Excellent," Jakov started walking across the street, ignoring the slow moving traffic that stopped for him. "I will be entering momentarily." The phone snapped shut.
He had left nothing to chance. With no more GDSO to back him up, and no one to rely on, everything was up to him; and him alone. The organization would hopefully never catch up to him, since leaving the group without consent was never wise. But he was experienced, and could easily hold his own.
Life had turned.
Branson walked up the waiter standing behind the counter, who was busily trying to make sure that the long line of people could get seated soon. Working under such a high-stress job was probably not fun, but it would beat his own level of anxiety.
"Excuse me, can you direct me to Mr. Langston's table?"
She looked up quickly. "Yes, he said he was expecting a guest. Right this way, sir."
The restaurant was nothing short of beautiful, and everything ranging from the walls to the tables was nice. People dressed very elegantly ate properly at the tables; this place was only for the rich and famous. They passed by many tables, all of them full with customers. He had never eaten here, nor set foot inside the building for that part, but had heard about it many times.
The walls were a nice complexion of beige and light blue, and hanging every few paces was some sort of art; no doubt expensive far beyond anyone's taste. Exquisite light fixtures hung down from the ceiling to each individual table, and each table was separated privately by exotic plants and flower that even the most sophisticated gardener could enjoy. The large windows overlooked the city streets, and the strenuous sounds of the outside would were silenced by the thick glass. This place left no opulent object or necessity to chance.
He straightened the tie under his long jacket as they rounded a corner. Langston sat at a large table, four other men sitting there with one open seat. Here we go.
He thanked the waiter and then looked at the man who had created this entire situation. Langston smiled back professionally and gestured for him to sit, taking a short sip from the drink in front of him. Branson settled onto the elegant seat and looked at each man carefully, analyzing the facial expressions. His experience gave him considerable knowledge of body language, and he used that to his advantage whenever possible.
"So, now that you are here, Branson," Langston said, leaning back in the comfortable chair. "We can speak of some issues, but not before we order."
Mitchell remained still, and as if on cue, a waiter appeared, paused patiently to take their orders. The rounds were made, and all but Branson order a full meal. He opted instead for water.
"It is quite interesting to think of how this all conspires, is it not?" Langston looked intently at him, but his tone was light. "How someone like you can suddenly be wrapped up in a world such as mine; I doubt this happens often."
"Thankfully not."
The reply was not met with enthusiasm. "I can see why, Branson. Your personality is charming, or as any realist would say, defensive and sour." He ignored the comment, and Langston moved on. "I trust you were able to meet my terms of the agreement?"
"Yes."
"Very well. What did you find?"
Branson pulled out some papers from his inside-jacket pocket. "Your Epipotheo Kratos was intentionally deleted from our databases years ago, for obvious security reasons. The true results of the entire 'expedition' remain illusive, as they are sealed so no one ever finds out. So I must ask you, what do you know about this?"
Langston smiled. "Perhaps we already covered this; I can find what I want to find."
"Don't be so illusive yourself," Branson countered. "What do you know about Epipotheo Kratos?"
"My concerns about this are of no matter to you—"
"Oh, but it is. When you dragged me into this, you made it my business."
Langston frowned, a hint of annoyance washing over his face. "If you have not already found anything out about this, you shall never know. Am I so naïve as to say anything about this in a public place? You could have easily set me up, Branson."
He isn't going to talk. "Very well." He leaned in closely. "When we're done with this, I'm going to come back and find you, and this will be resolved under proper terms."
This brought a laugh from the businessman. "You do that, Branson. When this is all over, you'll have very little reason to find me, or find out anything about Epipotheo Kratos."
He seemed confident, but Mitchell ignored it. He handed over the single piece of paper containing the coordinates to the Oswego System. The man grabbed it and looked at it quickly. He then handed it to one of the men seated next to him. "Verify."
A small laptop opened up on the table, and a man quickly put in the coordinates, searching so the system actually exists. It took thirty seconds for the answer to arrive. "It's good."
Langston looked back at Branson. "That is all I ever asked for. The information I provided you will lead to more, and the collapse of the GDSO will only be a matter of time and speed; depending on how fast you and your State works." He paused. "The future holds some significant stuff, be sure you are ready."
Branson looked back into the man's hard gaze.
"Be ready."
Jakov turned off the sound recorder and took a bite out of his expensive meal. He took one last look at the agent sitting with the infamous Richard Langston, then back at his food as the agent stood up and walked away.
This would prove to be worth his effort after all.
Northern Pass, Dalmaeter Cascades (100 Kilometers North of Nearest Town)
Randy Brient breathed out heavily, watching his breath in the sub-zero temperature. A commendable base of snow had accumulated at these elevations, and a slight downfall of flakes continued to blanket the peaceful area. The trees were standing white objects, and cast long shadows onto the white ground from the full moon overhead.
He was used to an urban setting, and during even the brightest full moons, it was really meaningless as far as light conditions went. Here in the woods, though—where city lights did not exist—the white snow reflected what little light it was given, and the landscape was easily visible to the naked eye. The tree-density was light, so they could see considerable distances in the conditions presented, which was a bitter-sweet from both perspectives. They could spot others, but others could spot them.
Charles Mahler had arranged this entire operation without any aid or support—or authorization—from the official chain of command. He had been reluctant to tell them all, but the word was finally released on the flight over. It was startling, to say the least, but was silently accepted. Each specialist knew the critical nature of fighting this enemy, and each had seen first-hand the devastating effects of being wrong. Those very facts brought fear and hope in a twisted reality that none wanted.
Brient was concerned that this may be another set up, since the origination of this information was apparently classified, and nothing but a personal note alluded any true allegiance to them, the State, or fighting this war. But on the other hand, it was so unconventional that it may just work. They just may be able to start fighting back.
He pulled down the night vision goggles and motioned his team to move out. They were tracking the remaining distance from the landing zone completely on foot, so there was no chance of being detected or running into an ambush. The military flight from Port Sidcaster was short and uneventful, and was a favor that Mahler had to call in personally, dropping them off covertly just under six kilometers from the dacha. Randy was surprised that Mahler could pull strings like that, but didn't give it all much thought; he had a task on hand, and it required his full attention.
"Blue Leader, White Sniper, eyes on Manitoba."
The dacha was designated with that codeword. The large residence, placed deep in the snowy forests high in the mountain range, was supposedly home to some terrorist leaders, and a meeting about to begin there would allow even more to be caught in their surprise attack. Let this be real, Brient pleaded in his mind. No more traps, just something legit to work with.
"Recon, status?"
They had deployed a small team of two to survey the situation, and were responsible for calling out patrolling guards and targets inside and outside the building. They were positioned on a hilltop one kilometer south, and had all the equipment needed to guide them through this mission. They were partly taking over the role that Romeo One would have played; Command and Control. Mahler was forced not to fly over and guide his teams this time around; they couldn't risk being detected and alerting their foe.
"A total of eight guards patrolling the perimeter grounds, and infra-red signatures report at least thirty-two living bodies inside Manitoba." The paramilitary specialist paused. "We're getting some weird heat readings from the area, though."
Brient frowned as they continued covering distance towards their objective. "Elaborate."
"We're getting some random heat signatures near Manitoba, but no visuals. It's like we're tracking living bodies, but we can't see them."
Interesting. "Noted." Randy and his team swiftly made it to the top of the last small hill between them and the dacha, and the lights from the building came into view. There it is, the reason we're running through snow at one thousand meters above sea level. They cautiously made their way towards it, keeping trees between them and the objective. They would be going in very fast, and there was plenty of room for error. This had to be flawless.
"Hold up," Kautz whispered from behind. He stopped immediately and went to a knee, the snow-white G55K coming up slowly yet deliberately. He looked around carefully. "There."
Brient turned to his left, not seeing anything; the soft white snow and tall trees were silent and still. Then something caught his eye. He looked intently at it with his NVG, analyzing the scene before him. Footsteps? Was this a trap?
"Blue Leader, Recon, we got an IR source near you."
The four members of Blue Team scanned the area with the G55K's. Nothing visible appeared, though, and the area remained clear. Thoughts of doubt began washing over Brient, and concern flooded his mind. He didn't want a repeat of what had happened the night earlier.
"It's clear," Kautz breathed.
Their equipment was not known for malfunctioning or giving off false returns. But in this case, it seemed like it was. Unless, of course, they were missing something.
Brient twitched uncharacteristically. Hadn't he thought that the night before?
He looked around them once more, not seeing anything. "Move out."
The team rose and started moving towards the target. Whatever was going on in these woods wasn't on his primarily list. It was the building now five-hundred meters away, housing many men who needed to die. Men who needed to pay for their sins.
"Red Team, holding at Alpha."
"Green Team, holding at Alpha."
"Gold Team, ready at Alpha."
This was it. They were posed to strike. Nothing stood between them and the enemy before them. None would escape, but if they were lucky, not all would die either. They needed further information to keep combating the GDSO, and anyone of those inside the dacha could tell them when and where to be to make the next hit. It was all a matter of time now.
A matter of time before the GDSO fell.
"Alpha, go!"
Brient and his team started moving in, their rifles up and ready. The large building before them, lit up internally as well as externally, waited for them to arrive; and the occupants inside had no idea of the operation unfolding around them. Two guards walking along a large deck facing them fell back nearly simultaneously, not a sound being heard. Another pair walking along the side of the wooden mansion flinched over, brain fragments and blood splattering on the side of the building.
"Tangos, in sight," Red Team reported. They were tasked with moving in from the driveway and through the front gate. Two guards were known to be patrolling the expensive sport-utility vehicles there, and would need to be knocked out for them to enter the building without raising the alarm. "...Targets neutralized."
Blue Team made it under the deck without being spotted, and moved for the closed door that led to the dacha's basement. So far no one had noticed the snipers do their work, and those inside remained unaware of the impending doom. The fourth member in Randy's team stepped forward and began placing an explosive breaching charge on the door. No windows were at this bottom level of the building, so he was able to work quickly to get the device set up.
"Blue Team, breach at Bravo."
Brient waited for his other teams to report in.
"Red Team, breach at Bravo."
"Gold Team, ready at Bravo."
"Green Team, standing by at Bravo."
There was a pause as they all waited for the word to move in. After Brient called this go-code, everyone inside the building would know they were under assault. It was this crucial moment that could define victory or spell death.
"Blue Leader, Recon, move now, I saw again, move now."
He took a deep breath, gripping the rifle firmly. He had done this procedure thousands of times, and it was no different from the ones he practiced, but the feeling was always different. Forced entries gave them a slight moment of surprise, but then it was lost. Regardless, it was their plan.
"Bravo, go!"
The demolitions expert from Blue Team depressed the remote detonator, and the door exploded inward in a bright flash. Debris shot out and bounced harmlessly off Brient's goggles, and smoke settled into an obscuring haze a second later. The timer on his HUD flipped from zero to one.
He pressed forward, rifle up, and entered the door. Trying to see through the smoke wasn't as big of a problem this time, since there were no known hostages. Four figures struggled to their feet, disorientated, as Blue Team moved in. None of them had weapons drawn.
"On the ground!" Randy yelled, his finger hovering over the light trigger of the rifle. The men didn't comply quickly, no doubt due to the explosive entry, and he quickly closed the distance, placing a firm boot in one man's chest, kicking him to the floor. Kautz subdued the second while the two remainding team members secured the room they had entered from.
"Inimigos! Nos lutaremos!"
The forth man pulled out a small pistol, aiming it towards Brient. The man was still affected by the entry, and held the weapon loosely. A shot exited from pistol's chamber and went high, passing by Brient's head with a very audible whistle. The G55K shot up with precision and spat out three rounds, sending mists of blood all over the man's chest as he fell back, the armor-piercing rounds passing through him and impacting the floor.
Kautz quickly moved to secure the third man, who had rolled up into a tight, defensive ball, murmuring words of fear. He slung the rifle and grabbed the man forcefully, yanking out the arms from his chest and binding them quickly with a plastic tie-wrap. Randy quickly did the same to the two by him, getting both their arms and legs. That would have to do for now.
41 Sec.
"On me," Brient ordered, and the team formed up behind him. He moved up to the only open door and peered through. It was some sort of leisure lounge, and was completely empty—at least from his perspective. Regardless, anyone hiding would never escape the snipers outside. He turned and headed for the first closed door and reached for the handle, pausing briefly before thowing the door open. Kautz's rifle was already up, covering him as he pressed into the room, scanning for any threats. This room was nothing but a large storage closet, and was empty as well.
They exited quickly and headed for the last door. He opened the door in a similar fashion and leaned out, the rifle up and ready. Stairs led to the first floor, and the area before him was empty. He moved through the entryway and began climbing the stairs, keeping the barrel pointed up for any surprise guests in his line of sight. He could hear people talking rapidly, and even a few distant gunshots. The building was being stormed.
He arrived at the top and motioned for Kautz to cover his left while he leaned out right. An elegant, large kitchen was down the short hallway, and two figures looked about anxiously; small compact weapons in their nervous hands. The iron sight of the stripped-down G55K centered on the first man's head, then spat out one round. Blood splattered onto the hanging pots and pans behind him, and the second man swung around, jumping in surprise as his colleague fell back, lifeless.
The G55K was faster then the man, and two rounds tore into his chest. Brient flinched back as firing erupted from his left, bullets impacting against the wooden wall just above him, eating into it and sending fragments down upon him.
Kautz's rifle fired several times, and the shooting against them ceased. Randy edged up again and peered right; the kitchen was empty. "Kautz, cover left, team on me."
His partner went to a knee and covered the hallway leading to their left as Brient and the other two proceeded right towards the kitchen. He got to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner to the right, looking at the rest of the kitchen and towards the large dining area. It was empty. He stepped out and moved through the kitchen, passing by the two bodies and heading for the dining room.
A figure darted out from another hallway ahead of him, weapon up and scanning. The man didn't see him, though, and the 5.56-millimeter rounds caught him in startle, sending him to the ground in a painful yell. A second later another came running out, and met the same fate as the one before.
Randy was surprised himself as a third came running out, but this one carrying a large, titanium briefcase instead of a weapon. His finger didn't pull the trigger instantly, and instead of ending the man's life, he stepped forward quickly, covering the distance to the surprised terrorist.
"Drop the briefcase! Get on your face!"
The man nearly tripped in astonishment at the three men dressed in full white aiming long rifles at him. He turned to face them, dropping the briefcase and shooting his hands into the air, pleading for his life in some unknown tongue. Brient stepped forward and forced the man to the ground, motioning for his teammates to cover the hallway these men had ran out of. Two quick tie-wraps left the man squirming on the floor, immobile. 122 Sec.
"Anyone in contact with Shamlin or Ladage?" He transmitted over the radio. It took a few seconds for his teams to respond.
"Negative."
"No contact."
A short pause.
Gold Team Leader spoke up. "Roger, I had eyes on both of them. They're heading towards the west wing, where the kitchen and dining hall are located."
Right into my arms... Brient looked up as movement resounded from the hallway. "Check your fire. Our two primary targets are heading this way."
His teammates nodded. The three of them shied away from the corner and waited as the footsteps got louder. They were running for the same reasons as those before; were trying to escape. Randy anticipated the men running towards them would be caught in surprise, and quickly pushed the rifle to his back, leaving both his hands free.
A figure appeared, and Brient grabbed the man mid-stride, using his strength and the man's forward momentum to throw him face-first into the large dining table. The second man running out stopped in utter shock and didn't even resist as Brient quickly shot around and pinned him up against the wall, keeping his right forearm tight against the man's neck and the wall while reaching for the pistol tucked in the man's belt.
Bullets whizzed out from the hallway and impacted on the far wall of the dining room, some shattering the large windows. Yelling originated from the source of the gunfire as more shots rang out. The third member of Blue Team crept up and leaned out, his rifle up and aiming down the hallway.
"Ladage!"
Brient snapped a look away from the figure he pinned against the wall and activated the comm. link. "Kautz, get over here!" He turned back to face the insurgent, then turned him around, tie-wrapping his arms and kicking him to his knees, facing the wall. Randy kept a firm hand on the man's shoulder and turned to look at the first figure, who stumbled to his feet, blood running from his nose and swelling already beginning on his face from the impact with the table a second ago.
Maynard Shamlin.
Kautz came from around the first hallway and quickly made it to the scene. He grabbed the terrorist leader from behind and forced him to the ground, quickly securing his arms and legs and leaving him on the ground. Randy turned back to his own prisoner and secured the legs, then pushed him to the ground.
"Eyes on Ladage, take the team and get him—alive, if possible."
Kautz nodded, then tapped the two teammates on the shoulder, moving off to track down the trigger-happy terrorist leader that had disappeared down the hallway and into the large dacha. That man would be very valuable to the State; he will have much needed information.
Brient turned his attention back to the leader sitting before him. He grabbed the man and forced him to look up. Blood ran from the man's nose, offsetting the cold look in his hard eyes. This man seemed nothing short of pure evil.
He turned to the briefcase and popped the constrictors. He lifted open the lid, and was met with a pistol and a stack of papers. He ignored the weapon and looked at the first paper on top. Surprisingly, it was in English, and the contents caught his eye. Something seemed oddly familiar about it; he had seen this somewhere before.
"Green Team, third floor secured, twelve down, two hostages."
198 Sec.
"Gold Team, second floor secured, nine down, two hostages."
209 Sec.
"Red Team, first floor secured, eleven down, no hostages."
He brought his attention away momentarily from the papers before him. "Kautz, SITREP."
His partner's reply was awash with adrenaline and exhaustion. "Ladage is down, I say again, Ladage is down."
Damnit. He looked up at Shamlin carefully, thinking. At least they had gotten one of the two major leaders of the GDSO, and that was enough for him. This was their door into bringing this group down, set and clear. He activated the long range radio while looking back down at the papers before him.
"Romeo One, Blue Leader, Manitoba is secure. Initial head count is thirty-nine Tangos down, and ten prisoners." He gazed at the timer; 225 Sec. "Bring in the Calvary."
Mahler exhaled, more then happy that not a single casualty was reported among his teams. This was how things were supposed to be done; the information had proven accurate and his men's performance was flawless. This was indeed the first blow into taking the GDSO down.
"In addition," Brient said over the radio. "We have ascertained some written information from one of the fleeing Tango's with some noteworthy contents."
The caught his attention; if Brient had noticed it, it was probably a real factor. "Go ahead."
National Guard System Defense Command (1440 Kilometers East of Standyle)
"See, there it is again."
Major Jim Carver looked over the technician's shoulder onto the large digital display. Sweeping across it were three lines—detection indicators of the three radar stations strategically placed across the continent—covering the three-million seventy-seven hundred thousand square kilometers of the continent in comprehensive detection sections that could recognize and classify every size and type of craft entering the planet's atmosphere.
The powerful trio of stations was set up a decade ago under a new Defense Program to cut down on illegal trading of cargo and resources, since at the time freight and passengers were coming and going without being properly processed by the State. Aside from being dangerous and unwise, not checking all inbound and outbound ships could allow any number of threats or enemies of the State to enter or leave, leaving the entire populace subject to any terrorizing attack. Times had changed since then, however, and not until recently when this new terror threat engaged the State, things were soft and light. There had even been talks of shutting the system down to save money, but it was proving valuable at this point in time, since they were able to keep these terrorists from coming and going as they please.
Locating the insurgents of this planet, however, was not turning out to be the highlight of the NGSDC's impressive radar system. Starting just over a week ago, unidentified objects attracted the full attention of the technicians and command staff in charge of retaining safe skies above the continent. While many of the equivocal latched the term UFO on it—not in a acronym way, but in reference to extra terrestrials—Carver remained circumspect about the possibility of this being aliens. Encountering stuff like this was rare, but just receiving weird anomalies on their radars wasn't enough for him to jump the gun.
"Object is clear, course 325 by negative 005, passing Flight Level 390 at Mach 7.08, just now entering grid-square Alpha-Nine-Northwest." The technician sighed. "IFF is coming up blank, no transponder, and no possible match to any known craft."
Carver had sent a report up the Chain of Command six days ago, after the same object had appeared multiple times. His commander told him that the report would get as high as the Defense Advisor, and that the Executive Chairwoman would hear of it. Nothing was ever passed back down to him or his detachment, though, so he—or rather everyone—merely assumed that this was some insignificant event that didn't merit a look.
It was his job to care, though, and to look deeper into it. That is what he had been doing for the last week, and that was what he planned to continue to do as long as he had to put up with these seemingly random occurrences on their radar scans.
He turned to another technician. "Call NADC, tell them we want eyes on this object."
The NCO looked back. "Do you mean have them send up a bird?"
What was the other choice? "Yes."
All prior attempts to get a visual on the UFO's failed. Maybe they would get lucky this evening. He looked at his watch; 2109.
He'd know in twenty minutes.
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