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01-16-2017, 01:57 AM | #41 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Chapter Fourteen
December 20th, 1984 Never-Say-Diner, Manhattan, NY Ramirez found the diner easily enough, it was almost directly across Amsterdam from the main entrance to campus of Metro College. He could see the gothic spire of the college's main hall as he made his was up the street to the diner. The building reminded him of nothing so much as a giant bow and arrow, pointed right at Harlem. Bells jingled as he pulled open the diner's door and stepped inside. It was almost noon, and the place was packed with obvious college students. This time of the year would be finals, he guessed, and most of these kids would be on their way home by this time next week. Tall as he was, he still needed go up onto his toes to look over the heads of the lunchtime crowd. Ramirez spotted who he was looking for. A small, wiry man in a corner booth with a napkin tucked into his collar. The man's hero sandwich lay in front of him, opened up and disassembled like an autopsy subject. He plucked single sliced tomato from the former sandwich and popped it in to his mouth. "Detective Scarfe." Ramirez said. Scarfe looked up from his meal and motioned for him to sit. "Have a seat, have a seat.", he said, still chewing his tomato. "You know, its a bit of a hike from the precinct, but this place makes the best damn sandwiches in the city." Ramirez sat and glanced at the mess on the other man's plate. "Maybe next time you should order one" Scarfe gave a laugh of forced joviality. "There's that sense of humor, Ramirez. Is this about your, uh.." The detective gestured to his own face. "No, it's not." The reporter responded, now acutely conscious of the large bandage that spanned the bridge of his nose. "Well, good, because when you said you needed to talk, I called over to Queens, and they ain't got shit on your case, buddy." Ramirez shifted in his seat. He needed to play this carefully. There was real risk in letting Scarfe on to too much of what he was up to. "I need whatever you can get me on the murder of Jeffrey Martins." Scarfe shoved a slice of salami into his mouth. "I heard about that. I'm sorry, buddy. I know he was a friend of yours." He chewed as he talked. "That was over in Rockville, right? I got a guy out there. I'll have a copy of whatever they got for you, day after tomorrow. No problem." He had worked with Scarfe on a number of occasions over the years, and, for all that he was a smarmy, ingratiating, little bastard, he had always come through for him. "I also need the tapes from the traffic camera on the Queens-Midtown tunnel." The detective sucked in air through his teeth as if in pain. "That could be a problem. That's Bridges and Tunnels, and I don't got a guy at Bridges and Tunnels. Rafael Scarfe is persona non grata at B&T. I burned too many bridges.... and, uh, tunnels." Shit, Ramirez thought. He wasn't sure how else he was going to get that tape. The waitress slid by the table, depositing the check wordlessly. His consternation must have been visible. "Wait, wait.. I don't got a guy, but I got guy who's got a guy, if you follow. He might not want to meet with a reporter, though, especially one with your reputation." Scarfe picked a pepper off of his plate. "I'll give him a call and let you know in a couple of days, okay? Now..." He cast his eyes down at the check and brought them up to meet Ramirez's. The reporter sighed and reached for his wallet.
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01-27-2017, 02:36 PM | #42 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Chapter Fifteen
December 21, 1984 near Bozeman, Montana GNN broke the story. It was important to Ted Jones to be able to spin it first. If he could set the narrative here the other news outlets would fall in line, as usual. So his network had played the tape, in full and unedited, as soon as it had been released. It was playing again now, he saw, and turned up the volume. The man on the screen had deep ebony skin and an ornate and medal-strewn military uniform. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator glasses. The voice that issued from the television's speakers was deep and rich and speaking English with an almost musical accent. "...on the sovereign soil of Zambola. The American president calls us a terrorist because we support the liberation struggle in the Africa. But they send the army of a rich man to Zambola and kill the people. What is now a terrorist?" The video was now a scene from M'kufi village. Shots of burned out armoured vehicles, a few dead Zambolan soldiers, and shots of the bodies of the five Corps men who had died there. Jones shook his head. Those were his men there, and the first casualties the Corps had taken in their ten missions. Five men and two APCs. The vehicles, hell, even the four soldiers could be replaced. The loss of Fox had hit him hard, though. "Fox" Morrow had been one of the first men he'd recruited for his outfit, and his chief planner. He'd be hard to replace. The casualties hurt, but he's been most worried about the potential political fallout from this operation. But, as it had turned out, there had been none. The video had even helped. General-President Horatio Juma Hassan Mamba was the ruler of Zambola. He had managed, in the four years since he had seized power, to turn the most sucessful post colonial African nation into a hellhole of human rights abuses. Mamba was the regional boogey-man, using his countries mineral wealth and industrial base to supply weapons to any anti-western regime or rebel group that came calling. In the West he was mostly seen a comic monster; a semiliterate despot out of his depth with his people suffering for his ego and appetites. The video was a rambling, barely coherent, nineteen minute screed against America and the west in general, the General in his elaborate uniform intercut with shots of Americans being dragged through the red dust of M'kufi's streets. A more competent propagandist could have spun this effectively, all General Mamba could accomplish was to outrage the American public and further his image as an evil buffoon. More importantly, Mamba's ranting about the Zionist-Capitalist-Colonialist conspiracy against him had explicitly confirmed the presence of the Hezbollah camp near M'kufi village. That was crucial. Now, rather than being seen as an irresponsible rogue action, his losses were being discussed in the media as courageous sacrifice against state-sponsored terrorism. Even his friends in the Senate had taken to the floor and praised Jones for his bold action. Jones thought about this. Time and again, when outside forces could have - should have- been able to derail his mission, they failed. He had always felt destined to greatness, but this was different. Was the universe, was God, telling him that this was his great purpose? He knew the answer now. He needed to accelerate his plans, keep the momentum of events, and for that he needed a new mission for his Corps. Ted Jones now knew he could rely on providence to give him one. December 22, 1984, Edgewater, New Jersey Scarfe had come through on the first part of his promise. Two fat manila envelopes, containing everything that the Rockville Center Police had on Jeffrey Martins' murder, sat on the coffee table in Hector Ramirez's living room. The room itself had turned into a sort of an office. Pictures and news clippings were now taped to the wall. The entertainment center was still pulled away from the wall where he had hooked up the Betamax machine he'd bought from Sears the week before to play the security tapes he'd gotten from the GNN security guard. Hector cleared away the empty styrofoam cups and wrappers that littered the table. Coffee and junk food from the nearby Roxxon station had been his primary diet these last few days. He opened the envelopes and began to spread out and sort their contents. He'd had to fight back tears and nausea when he'd seen the photos. The envelopes had contained pictures both from the crime scene and the medical examiner. Hector didn't look away. He studied each one, choking on his emotion until the sadness and revulsion had given way to white hot rage. He retrieved the last of his scotch from the kitchen, sat down on the floor in front of the pile of reports and began to read.
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01-27-2017, 03:59 PM | #43 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Chapter Sixteen
December 23, 1984, Penn Cann Mall, Cicero, New York Providence rewarded Ted Jones in the suburbs of Syracuse, New York. The group was anarchist in ideology and since, as their manifesto had explained, they represented all the oppressed people of the world, didn't have a name and didn't need one. In an action a few years before in rural Ohio they had tried to use "The People" as a name. That wasn't going to fly, of course, but the press being the press, needed something to call them. Some genius reporter in that podunk town had called them the "The Bad Guys" and that was what had stuck. At noon the Bad Guys struck. Seven men, clad all in black, walked in to the busy shopping mall and had seized control. Attempted to seize control would have been more accurate, as seven men had proven wholly inadequate for the task of trying to control the hordes of Christmas shoppers that any mall would have two days before the big day. A lot of shouting and firing of grease guns into the ceiling had netted the terrorists 47 hostages which they kept huddled around the large pedestal clock in the center court of the mall. The leader, a bearded man in a black beret, had harangued the crowded hostages, imploring them to take up arms against their capitalist oppressors. He had no takers. The rest of the shoppers had simply fled. In fact, most of the injuries that had occurred on that day were due to people trying to run across the icy pavement of the mall's parking lot. The first to respond had been the county sheriffs. One terrorist, topping his black fatigues with a chromed M-1 army helmet, had fired a bazooka at one at the approaching patrol cars from the roof of the Hills department store. The shot had gone wide and taken out an empty station wagon on the far side of the parking lot. After that the Sheriff had decided to call in the bigger guns. The State Police SORT team and the FBI had shown up in short order. It had taken them less than two hours to dislodge the Bad Guys, at the cost of two dead terrorists and zero dead hostages. The mall was open for business again the next day. The media, lead by GNN, however had howled for blood. This was outrageous! An assault on Christmas? On shopping? These things were sacrosanct! Ted Jones had just smiled at the news, however. After the Ohio incident, one of his reporters had done a piece on the "Radical Anarchists in Our Midst", and had interviewed the Bad Guys' leader. The reporter had refused to name the exact location in rural Vermont that the group used as its headquarters. He was an ethical reporter and wouldn't betray that information. He was also a cheap reporter and had dutifully logged all his receipts and expenses. The Bad Guys would be getting a visit very soon.
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01-27-2017, 04:07 PM | #44 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms. Last edited by DerStahlhelm; 07-22-2017 at 12:27 PM.. |
01-28-2017, 11:48 AM | #45 |
W.O.R.M.S. Commander
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Back in the US of A! (NoVA)
Posts: 10,649
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Go get em Ted! So will we be seeing Eagle Force too?
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Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome. |
01-28-2017, 02:48 PM | #46 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Probably not in this story. They do exist in this universe, though.
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01-30-2017, 07:25 PM | #47 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: baldwinsville new york
Posts: 1,781
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Holy shnikes !!!!!!!!!!!! Not Penn Cann !!! Carousel/Destiny wasnt around yet. That place could use a nuke. Shoppingtown was great back then also...serious research to use Penn Cann ...damn.
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01-30-2017, 08:43 PM | #48 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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The location that popped into my head initially was Boulder, CO. Then, as I sat down to research what shopping centres were around that city in 1984, it hit me that, since I lived about 3/4 of a mile from Penn Cann in 1984, I could just use that instead. Hell, there's a better than even chance I was in that mall on that day.
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04-03-2017, 02:08 AM | #49 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Chapter Seventeen
December 27, 1984 Silver Lotus restaurant, Chinatown The Silver Lotus Restaurant turned out to occupy a small storefront spot on Elizabeth street, right on the border of Chinatown and the Bowery. Hector Ramirez had gotten a message on his machine from Scarfe the night before that "his guy" was finally ready to meet him, and to be here at ten in the morning. No other details had been included and Hector wasn't even sure who he was supposed to be meeting. Rather than the ubiquitous string of jingle bells, opening the restaurant's door had activated an electronic gong sound. Cute. The rest of the place was unremarkable. Poorly lit, sparsely decorated, and with the smell of old grease that permeated every hole in the wall Chinese place in the city. The food here was probably great, Hector thought, but this was the kind of place were eating came with a one in four chance of feeling like you'd been kicked in the stomach a few hours later. No bacteria was responsible for the feeling in Ramirez's stomach when he spotted the man he was there to meet. He'd never met NYPD Sergeant Edi Ervin, but Hector instantly recognised the man occupying the back corner booth just the same. Anybody who covered news in the city would recognise the living embodiment of police corruption in New York. The man was huge, even seated Hector could see the man must have been at least 6'5", with a beer gut that contrasted starkly with his powerfully muscled arms. He had a decidedly non-regulation chinstrap beard, and his dirty, sky blue uniform shirt was missing the top three buttons, leaving his chest's caramel brown skin exposed. He called out to Ramirez in a deep, melodious voice. "Ah, Mister Ramirez, come in." Hector steeled himself. In his profession he had dealt with politicians, businessmen, dictators, and criminals. With all one thing remained constant: to show fear or weakness was death. He would come at this one head on, keep him on his toes, and maybe he'd get what he came for... He made his way over to Edi's table, one of four partitioned off from the rest of the dining area by a low wall. The area was strewn with file boxes, loose files, evidence baggies, and papers of all description. On the table itself an overflowing ashtray sat amongst a forest of empty styrofoam coffee cups. So this is where the king holds court, Hector thought. And it was true, Edi probably controlled as much, if not more of the department's business from this dingy restaurant as they did at police plaza. He had dirt on everyone in the city, from the dog catcher to the mayor, and that made him virtually untouchable. Ramirez pulled out a chair and sat down. "Our mutual friend Detective Scarfe says you might be able to help me. I need traffic tapes from the Queens-Midtown tunnel." "That might be." Edi replied, leaning back in his chair. "I don't watch your show, do they let you on the air with your face looking like that? You got your ass kicked, didn't ya, boy?" That was the jab Hector had been expecting. "Well, we're not taping again until after the new year. Speaking of ass kickings, I heard you got yours kicked in the middle of the street by our illustrious former mayor." Ramirez said nonchalantly. Edi interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on top of his prodigious belly. His smile was predatory. "Hey, I'm still here. They ran his ass out of office. But that's what you get when you elect a professional wrestler on a platform of 'cleaning up the streets'. Dealing with assholes like that is something we've got in common, isn't it? I saw you get damn near knocked out by Giant Panther on your own show..." Ramirez suppressed the wince that accompanied the memory of his piece on the fakery of pro wrestling. He returned Edi's smile. "That guy was an asshole, and I voted for Koch." The tapes showed up in his mailbox the next day.
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04-12-2017, 12:53 PM | #50 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
January 5th, 1985, Near Cobbler's Roost, Vermont Tracker Tom Cody raised his binoculars and took another look at the farm house. As had been the usual pattern for the last few nights he had been observing, the guy who had drawn sentry duty had gone inside once the temperature had started its nighttime drop. Not that Tom considered reading a book, smoking dope, and occasionally glancing around to be particularly effective sentry work. He turned to his left and hissed a whisper to Tony Tanner, his partner on this operation. Tony was almost invisible in the winter twilight, wearing the same german issue over suit as Tom, snow-white with occasional green splotches reminiscent of pine leaves. "I'm gonna go get a closer look at the house." Tom said, slinging his bow across his body by the bow string and drawing his K-bar. The modern recurve bow, now wrapped in white gauze as camouflage, had been Tom's first purchase when he had started receiving his pay from Ted Jones, and the nicest one he could find. He swung his legs over the log he was stationed behind and moved in a crouched run toward the house. It was a huge, three story, late victorian farm house, and not in good repair. The "Bad Guys" had actually picked a good spot for their little commune, as the house, its small lot with attendant barn, and the narrow, unpaved drive were the only things on the property not covered with fairly mature woods. A rusted van sat rotting on four bare rims just to side of the end of the drive. A white van and a pick up were parked close to front porch. Nothing except for the drive, which curved fairly sharply, was visible from the road. Tom began the painstaking process of stalking around the house's perimeter, glancing in every ground floor window. The place was a mess, apparently anarchists hated housework as much as capitalism, he chuckled inwardly. Two of the Bad Guys sat at a kitchen table almost completely covered with empty beer bottles and played cards. One sat at the dining room table and was scribbling furiously into a composition pad, the dining room itself filled with crates and stacked rifles of every description. Two more sat in the living room watching "Who's the Boss". The couch was pushed almost right up to the tiny set however, to leave room for the .30 caliber Browning set up in a sandbagged position facing out of the front window, covering the end of the driveway. A few more rifles were in evidence. Two of the windows on the other side of the house were boarded up. That side of the house did, however, hold the cellar door. Tom decided to try the door and found it unlocked. Forgoing caution, he descended the stairs. The basement was dark and damp smelling. Tom stood still and listened to the noises from the house above. Once he had made a mental map of where the men upstairs were, he fished a zippo from his pocket and ignited it. The basement was stacked, floor to ceiling with ammunition crates. If the boxes were correctly labelled, Tom observed, there must be thousands of rounds of ammunition in various calibers, not to mention crates labelled for hand grenades and 3.5 inch bazooka rockets. The stairs to the upstairs had apparently rotted away years ago, he noted, leaving the external stairs the only practical way in or out. The tracker flipped his zippo quietly closed and focused on the noises upstairs again before carefully making his way back outside. Tom headed straight to the tree line and began to pick his way around the perimeter to the large dilapidated barn. The barn had no windows, and the door was clasped with a stout, if rusty, padlock. Nothing more to learn from the building, Tom headed back to where Tony waited. Fifteen minutes later they had hiked back to the road where their battered pickup truck waited. The men stripped off the over suits, revealing the typical typical rural attire they wore underneath, heavy flannel shirts, down vests, jeans and hiking boots. "C'mon, man, if we don't make it back by ten we're gonna hafta sleep in the truck." Tom said to the other man. The truck sped back to Cobbler's Roost and their waiting beds at Mrs. Lafferty's boarding house. January 6th, 1984, Presidential Suite, Hilton Hotel, Burlington, Vermont This was by far the nicest hotel room Tom Cody had ever been in. Certainly the only one he'd ever been in with it's own dining room. The dining room is where he sat now, the week's worth of notes, drawings, and photos he and Tanner had gathered from their recon of the Bad Guys' farmhouse covering the table. Ted Jones dropped the photograph he had been studying back on the table and looked at the he and Tony. "You boys have done an excellent job. There's been a change of plans, however..." "Don't tell me I've been freezing my balls off in the woods for the last week and we're not gonna hit these turds!!" Tony burst out. Jones shot him an exasperated glance. "Calm down, Tanner." Jones said "I told you that we're moving into a public relations phase right now. I could send you and Tom back there and have you quietly kill all of these bastards tonight, but while that might be a general improvement to mankind, it doesn't get us anywhere. I could also get the whole Corps together and storm that farm and capture or kill the whole stinking bunch of them. I might be able to pull enough strings to keep us out of jail afterwards, but the movement would be finished." Jones reached down and took a sip of his brandy. "So I've got a different plan. We're going to be good citizens and turn this one over to the FBI. And when they screw it up, we're going to be there to save the day" Tony scoffed. "And how do you know they're going to do that? These guys are amateurs, the goddamn Boy Scouts could take 'em!" Jones gave a thin smile. "That's where you guys come in."
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