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06-13-2015, 02:20 AM | #781 |
Darth_Henning
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Canada
Posts: 21,174
|
Lets find out which one of you is correct...... Quote:
Glad you're enjoying it! Yes. The first part of the rooftop sequence was used as the hook at the opening of part 1. First time I've tried that particular narrative format. Not sure I like it. Also, I have to thank Oreobuilder, Dusty79 and Bucky for their permission to use the characters they invented in G.I. Joe Resurgence in Heroes and Terrorists. (Specifically Glitch and Sea Bastion for this story) 05/20/2034 - Istanbul Part 5 Levent Business District - 0316h 05/20/2034 His bayonet was still sticky from the wet work downstairs, but it hardly mattered. Once they reached the roof, it would be a clean job this time. The squad’s grenadier had planted himself beside the door and was ready to go. Glancing down at the line of faceless troopers below him, he smiled. Caught on the rooftop between two alternating fields of fire? They’d cut them to ribbons, even if they thought they had the high ground. Most were ready, but one wiped a little blood from his helmet and faceplate before putting it back on. Now they all looked identical. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “GO” he ordered sharply. The grenadier threw his weight against the door, and sprawled through. Stepping over, the squad poured past him in a single uniform rush before dropping into a precise uniform firing line. On the opposite side of the roof were the remnants of two squads of Cobra Vipers. Between them and his squad a dozen Joes, half wounded, were caught in no-mans land. His lips creased in a brighter smile “FIRE!” … Schoolgirl glanced over at Ice Cream as the door banged open on their other side. She couldn’t see his face through the black of his visor, but her reflection told her just how wide her eyes were. Oh. And I cut myself. When did that happen?” He pulled her close to the wall, tucking his rifle between her hip and the wall as she rested her re-filled Sphinx on his shoulder and they both started firing. One of the newcomers took her bullet in the chest and pitched over backwards, but the rest dropped into a two deep firing line. “Sorry,” she called, into Ice Cream’s helmet, unsure how well he could hear her and pushed her weight on top of him, pitching them both through the open door to the stairwell and down the flight. Their combined weight carried them down to the next landing where two surprised Vipers were coming up. The first took the last bullet from her Sphinx, the other lost his hand to Ice Cream’s hunting knife before being stabbed in the throat. Upstairs repeated vollies of concentrated fire sounded before everything went quiet. She looked over at Ice Cream again for what little it was worth, then pulled her Calico and pointed it back up the stairs. A few seconds ticked by and Spirit’s head appeared around the doorframe, his head now bleeding where a bullet had creased his hairline, “like ancestors before them, men of a kind save their own while pinioning those different.” He shook his head. “I…I think he just called us racists,” Schoolgirl managed, climbing to her feet using Ice Cream’s arm. “I think he was calling YOU racist,” Ice Cream replied leading the way up the stairs, rifle still at the ready, “you’re the one who pushed.” Well, I think you just told a joke, Schoolgirl thought to herself surprised. They rounded the corner, and surveyed the scene. Most of the Joes seemed alive, though Wreckage still wasn’t moving from where Widescope was looking him over. The Cobra Vipers were all down on their side of the roof, but on the other stood ten men in strikingly blood-red uniforms with black facemasks. Two were on the ground. All had their rifles grounded in a non-threatening manner. One of their number stood a little apart from the others. The center of his chest was black fabric rather than the crimson of the others. Slowly, he lowered his rifle and set it on the ground. Then, equally cautiously, given the number of firearms trained on him, removed his helmet. Schoolgirl felt her jaw drop, the man was absolutely GORGEOUS! Thick blonde hair, a smooth boyish-yet-rugged facade, just the hint of evening stubble. Calm down girl. You can be in love AFTER you find out who he is. The man smiled dashingly as he tucked his helmet under the crook of his arm, “My name is Captain Broca of Extensive Enterprises’ Crimson Guard. But please, call me Fred. um…I come in peace?” And funny too? OK, now I can be in love. ----------------------------------------------------------- Basement - War Gods International - Levent Business District - 0319h 05/20/2034 Trojan looked up from his console, the word “INTRUDERS” scrolling in bright red letters across his silvered visor. “They’ve taken down Death-Fire Squadron like syphilis in a leper colony!” he hissed between broken teeth. Glitch turned to scan the room, the fiber-optic cable pulling slightly on the socket in the side of his head, “Well, well, well,” he tittered in a high-pitched, his neck twitching with each word. “Time for us to evacu….evacu….evacu…..leave the premises,” Glitched yanked the cable from his head. “Dump everything and set the tim….time...time...countdown!” Trojan nodded and turned back to his console, as the other Tele-vipers around him began entering the self-destruct codes, “quiet my dearest. It only hurts if you resist. It’ll all be over soon.” As each Tele-viper finished executing the commands on their consoles, their fingers paused over the final input key. As the slowest finished Trojan slid a key slowly into the port beside his monitor, “such a tight fit, your first time?” he laughed to himself making the quarter turn. Five fingers stabbed down in unison from the other Tele-Vipers and red light began to flash. “Time to race it like a rapist!” bellowed Trojan, making for the bolt-hole at the back of the room. Two Data-Vipers were man-handling the portal into place to close behind them, an Glitch was looking around the room. Once he’d looked like a normal person, and weird as he’d been, Trojan had at least enjoyed his company. Now, it was like looking at a living computer, and he was half tempted to close the hatch and leave him behind. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind then Glitch looked directly in his direction. Trojan flinched and ducked through the opening. With all the technology crammed into what used to be his head, Glitch could read the internet any time, any place. Who knew if that now included the brain-waves of those around him. The Data-Vipers finished placing the hatch on its final hinge. “You!” Glitch singled one of them out and handed him a fiber-optic, “plug this into the char...char...char.... explosives.” Obediently the Data Viper turned to comply as Glitch stepped through the hatch. “Do you sell Battletoads?” cackled Glitch as he slammed the hatch onto the cord. ----------------------------------------------------------- Levent Business District - 0325h 05/20/2034 Captain Broca paused at the door to to the stairs, “I… really hope he’s with you.” “Hey Greg,” Mayday smiled, leading the combined force of Joes and Crimson Guards out of the building from where their fire-fight had taken place and into a back alley. “Didn’t feel like helping out when there was all that shooting upstairs?” “Sorry,” Greg said in a slightly more mechanical tone than before, the red glowing orb of his left eye seemed fixed on the men in red, “we were having a party.” “Party?” asked Mayday almost conversationally, “what kind of...oh.” Schoolgirl and Ice Cream slipped around the corner next supporting Wreckage’s legs. Neatly lined up along the wall of the building in stacks of four were two dozen Viper Bodies. Along the other side of the alley were twelve men clad in the same red as the Crimson Guard. They by contrast seemed alive; the same kind of alive as a car crash victim, but alive. “So that’s where our backup went,” Broca chuckled nervously. “Mind letting them go.” Mayday nodded, “untie them Greg. Skidmark?” Skidmark’s head popped out from the back end of their van, “yeah?” “I need you to get Wreckage to the nearest hospital. He’s shot up pretty bad. Take Spirit too.” “So is Hardhead. They caught us by surprise.” “I’m fine dag-nab-it,” an ornery voice echoed off the inside of the van, “now give me my gun and let me shoot some damn terrorist fuckers.” “Despite what he says…” Skidmark let the statement hang unfinished. Ice Cream and Schoolgirl hurried Wreckage over to the back of the van, while Widescope slung their unconscious teammate’s legs over the tailgate. Skidmark helped Spirit up into the cab. Schoolgirl paused, and reached down to squeeze Hardhead’s hand, “hang in there big guy. You’re supposed to take me out on your yacht tomorrow.” She tried to smile. He looked pretty bad, but none of the bullets had hit vital organs from the look of it. “Well, you better not get yourself shot, I’m not letting you bleed all over her decks.” Hardhead tried to smile, but in his ghostly-white face, it was more disconcerting than reassuring. “I promise,” Schoolgirl gave him a quick peck on the cheek, “daddy.” “I swear to god woman if you -” Schoolgirl jumped down and slammed the door, “go!” she called up to Skidmark. She needn’t have bothered she realized as the van shot around the corner. Down the alley, Captain Broca and Mayday were speaking in hushed tones, “bets on who gets first crack at the snakes?” she asked Ice Cream. “It’ll be us. Even if it has to be the hard way,” Ice Cream gestured subtly with his head. The Crimson Guard were huddled in a group, tending to their wounded, but the Joes had spread out, each near cover, in a semi-circle around the men in red, hands resting on holstered or slung fire-arms. Even though the Joes were outnumbered nearly two to one, if things turned ugly the numbers would be equaled in a few seconds. How it would have ended, no one got to find out. “Lieutenant Caorb,” Broca instructed loudly, stepping away from Mayday, “take your men back to base and get yourselves sorted out. My squad will be providing assistance to the G.I. Joe team.” One of the other Crimson guards nodded, and the more bedraggled of the lot began hiking off down the alley. “How do you want us?” asked Broca. Mayday paused to consider, then pointed, “you, and you” randomly selection two of the Crimson Guard. You’re our rear-guard with Takedown and Firing Pin. If either of the Guards had any thoughts of arguing, one look at the glower on Takedown’s heavily scarred face probably quietened them. “You,” she randomly selected another, “will go with Ice’s team, and you will come with mine.” “One Joe will accompany you and your remaining men. Each team will search one floor of the building.” “Understood,” acknowledged Broca. He looked over the Joes quickly. “We’ll take her,” he pointed at Schoolgirl, and replaced his helmet. She fought to keep a smile off her face but fell in with the five Guards as the teams split up with Mayday’s in the lead. “So, um…” Schoolgirl brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, “sorry about shooting your guy back there.” “It’s ok. He was only my twin,” shrugged Captain Broca. Schoolgirl froze on the curb, “oh god….” She was at a complete loss for words. “Just messing with ya,” Broca smiled patting her shoulder, “we just happened to look… a LOT alike. Its the hazard of the job. Come on.” They followed the other Joes across the street. There wasn’t really any point to handing over the key card she’d stolen earlier, so Schoolgirl stayed back while Robo-Joe broke the door down. Mayday’s team took the upstairs, Ice Cream’s the main floor and Broca’s the basement level. The building was still lit and it looked like the cleaning staff should be in here before the morning shift came in to start finishing the various items on the assembly floor. Somehow the complete normalcy of the place was creepier than if it had just been dark. It wa so strangely out of place how quiet it was as teams of soldiers moved through. Broca and Schoolgirl led the way down the stairs. From the slight buzzing she could hear from his helmet, she assumed they were communicating on a private frequency, and she felt somewhat left out. Of course, were the roles reversed, she reminded herself that she’d have done the same and decided to ignore it. They rounded the corner into a small hallway that split into three other rooms. Two Crimson Guards peeled off into each of the side rooms and Schoolgirl led the way into the one at the end of the hall. The room was filled with computer terminals running lines of code. It looked ransacked, compared to the factory floor above as if people had left in a hurry. Still there didn’t seem to be- The thought was cut off by a shuffling noise in the corner. Both she and Broca turned to find a Data Viper rising from behind a set of crates. Schoolgirl reacted first, turning and bringing a sphinx up and firing three shots directly into the chest of the Viper. Blood blossomed on the third, fountaining from a major artery. She didn’t didn’t see the real threat in time. As she stood there, she felt something sharp pierce her armor and the space between her ribs. Reflexively she gasped in a breath of air, and as she did, the blade twisted. She let out a gasp as her lungs collapsed, and she felt herself falling as the world around her went black. ----------------------------------------------------------- |
06-13-2015, 08:50 AM | #782 |
W.O.R.M.S. Commander
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Back in the US of A! (NoVA)
Posts: 10,649
|
No! Not schoolgirl! This is going to get ugly quick.
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Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome. |
06-13-2015, 07:29 PM | #783 |
Darth_Henning
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Canada
Posts: 21,174
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That was honestly not the part I expected to get a reaction.
Though I a glad to see that you apparently liked her. |
08-14-2017, 09:23 AM | #784 |
Cobra Viper
Join Date: Dec 2010
Location: Italy
Posts: 206
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long time and no updates; I await to read more
once I tried to write a fan fiction; it isn't difficult, it's really hard; hope you'll defeat your writer block |
08-15-2017, 07:57 PM | #785 |
Darth_Henning
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Canada
Posts: 21,174
|
Good grief. I hadn't realized it's been two years.
Thank you for the kind words omegamagnus. Sadly the problem isn't writers block it's time. I have the rest of the in process story planned, as well as several dozen others outlined in my head or on paper. Sadly I have no time available to actually put them in story form. I will attempt to change that. |
11-16-2018, 07:32 PM | #786 |
Cobra Soldier
Join Date: Nov 2018
Location: texas
Posts: 1
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I am new to this site. how do i read your heroes and terrorists stories?
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11-17-2018, 08:51 PM | #787 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: baldwinsville new york
Posts: 1,781
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not school girl !!!!!!!
and yes its very hard writing fan fic..like it bro...like it alot. good job
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samsson37 Feedback https://m.facebook.com/Samsson02/ https://www.patreon.com/samsson37 |
04-03-2020, 01:50 PM | #788 |
Darth_Henning
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Canada
Posts: 21,174
|
Its been 10 years since I started this thread...and 5 years since I actually wrote anything for it. Its kind of interesting to see how different my life is (and the rest of the world is) now compared to then.
Hopefully at least a few of the old readers may still be interested, and hopefully some new people will find something here to enjoy. I don't know if I'll ever complete the ambitious project that is laid out in the first post, but I will be updating a lot of the older work, and...in the hopes that there are a few who still care...OH LOOK NEW STUFF!! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 09/23/2034 - Nitro Fokino, China (Russian Administration) Outside the fall air was stagnant. It had not yet had time to cool, and for five days not a breeze had stirred the air of the coastal town. What few residents that remained stayed inside with the windows shuttered in a vain attempt to keep the inside cool. Inside, a tiny bead of sweat slowly trickled downwards, winding its way between the soot stains on a man’s face. He twitched his nose so it wouldn’t run into his eye. Success. It slid down along the bridge of his nose, across his forehead and into his skull cap, joining a small army of previous travelers. He’d spent time strapped to the underside of an armored car motoring through the jungles of Africa in the summer, even that hadn’t been this hot. The blood rushing to his head didn’t help either. Slowly, he shifted his hands on the rope, lowering himself another few inches down the ventilation shaft. Beneath the docks along the coast of the town lay a remnant of the Cold War. It had once been a bunker to store armaments for the fleet anchored above, but over time had come to hide some of the many advancements that Russia made in stealth submarines. During the last war, the closed town of Fokino had only managed to launch half the Russian Pacific Fleet before the North Korean army had begun its shelling of the city, aided by a rumored army of massive robots. There probably wasn’t a lot of truth to THAT part of the story, but the sunken hulls of ships meant that the assault was real enough. Much of the rest had been captured, and bolstered the Korean navy enough to mount a credible defence against the American and Russian Navies staging from Alaska and Japan. After the war, Russia’s fleet had been relocated to Vilyuchinsk, a much more defensible location, and farther from prying foreign eyes. Although the southern spur at the eastern edge of Russia had officially been ceded to the Chinese government, and was shown as such on most current maps, administration remained under Russian control everywhere east of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. And based on the buildup of military forces on either side of the railroad, it was inevitable that sooner or later the “official” boundaries would be changing again, even if they had to be redrawn in blood. The territorial debates everywhere east of Tibet and west of Korea continued to dominate agendas at half the meetings at the UN’s General Assembly, even all these years later. He didn’t particularly care, but his sister would not shut up about it, so he knew more than he cared to, Which was really just: when would the shooting start? Preferably with enough notice to get out first, or at least blow some stuff up. He did care, however, about making Cobra’s life as miserable as possible in this little section of the world, regardless of what side eventually owned the dirt above him. Of course, the Korean’s had never found the underground submarine pens during the war, and afterwards, the Russians had returned to find them empty. Someone else had scooped up the stealth submarines anchored inside. No one had seen them again until they showed up in New York in April. Oh yes, Fokino was officially abandoned by both sides as neutral ground between the increasing armies, but the exhaust heat pumping up this cleft in the rock wasn’t being made by gremlins. Cobra had returned the subs back home once they knew no one was looking. The rope snagged on something above him for a second, then continued to let him slide down. He had put in three separate anchors, so the jostle didn’t worry him, just as long as no rocks tumbled down to announce his presence. Another thirty feet and his head entered the submarine pen, with not a sole the wiser. Beneath him, he could spy a dozen or so technicians, most stripped to the waist working the control stations as the giant gantry arms did most of the work on the hulking vessel before them. Just one submarine in dock, it appeared. In frustration he blew a bit of air out of his nose. Well that wasn’t as fun as he’d hoped. The image stenciled on her prow was of a man on a horse with a sythe. Probably meant that was Death, one of Cobra’s four main underwater staging bases, purloined from a Chinese dry dock after World War III. The noises below him were muffled by sound dampening baffles placed along the ceiling, used to fool sonar from above more than limit the noise from inside, but he couldn’t take the chance of hammering in another anchor point here. Lowering himself another couple feet finally allowed him to bend at his waist, the blood rushing out of his head…and allowing some beaded sweat to roll down from the edge of his skull cap into his left eye. One hand tugged the sodden skull cap from his head, and wiped at it in irritation before stuffing it into his belt. He ran a hand along his head, the sweat streaking the smooth bald crown as he considered his best move. There would be no opportunity to get near the submarine herself without talking his way past a half dozen guards. That wasn’t his forte. But the crevasse he had descended opened into a fissure which ran across the cavern, and that provided him a highway to exactly where he needed to be. The bright orange gantry supporting the crane ran perpendicular to this crack, and stood directly over the superstructure of the submarine. Crawling there would be nearly impossible if the crack were any wider, but the fissure was just wide enough for him to stretch across with his arms extended. Tightening the straps on his rucksack, he hooked one ankle, then the other, and then his fingers around the near edge of the lip. Using those three points to hold himself steady, he carefully unfolded the climbing spikes from his wrists and ankles, locking them in place, before letting go of the rope. It swing in the open air, but the metal teather didn’t contact the rock. If someone looked up carefully, it was unlikely they would notice the slight movement now, as the black rope would fade in with the darkness up top of the cave. It took nearly forty minutes to carefully shimmy through the crevasse above the dock, and facing down allowed plenty of time to study those below. There must have been fifty technicians going over the outside of the submarine, with half again that number coming and going from the interior confines. Without a closer view than 60 feet in the air, and a better knowledge of engineering and naval work, it was impossible to know exactly what they were doing in the vessel, but there seemed to be more material coming out than going in. When he finally reached the center of the fissure, a new problem presented itself. The rock ceiling was a good 10 feet above the top end of the crane’s supports. Close enough that a jump wouldn’t be fatal unless he missed, but far enough that there would be no way out the way he came in. That was hardly new. If there wasn’t an exit, he could always make one, but better be prepared now than scuppered later. There were sets of Eel dive gear hung up near the mouth of the cave, and a massive iron door stood open at the opposite end of the cavern. There was, however, no way of knowing how large the underground facility was behind those doors before the road he’d seen emerging from the “abandoned mine” just outside of town before he had descended to the depths. That made the dive gear the safer choice. Even if he hated swimming. He blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and eyed the gantry below him. The beams looked to be a good six to ten inches wide at the narrowest, which was enough for a solid grip, but wouldn’t hide him from onlookers down below. His grey poncho would blend with the rock of the ceiling, but an astute observer might still be able to make him out. Therefore, he waited. The strain had long since passed into numbness in his arms, and he’d need time to get the feeling back before he proceeded. It was almost another ten minutes before a particularly large piece of...something...was swung out from the tower on a winch and lowered towards the rock pier. He gauged his timing as closely as he could, and let go of the rock just before the bang of the item landing on the dock. His crashing thud onto the metal gantry came a half second later, and he held his breath, but the echo of the two sound blended together and reflected off the rock walls. Now that he was away from the ceiling, he understood the numerous sound baffles that had been installed up top. The cavern was riotous with noise from those working inside. A private fresh out of basic training taking a leak above the hole would have known what was going on down here without them. The crane beneath his feet began to grind on its tracks as it rolled across the bay. Clipping the climbing spikes back into their holsters he lowered himself to drop onto the platform as it passed beneath him. The operator’s cabin was suspended beneath the rolling beam but the woman guiding the levers didn’t even glance up at him. Crawling to minimize the vibration through the structure, he moved to one end, removing an orange canister and shaking it vigorously. At the machine wheeled to a stop, he opened the lid and sprayed the liquid into the gears and wheels that kept the machine on its tracks. The silvery liquid gleamed briefly before turning a rusted hue, and letting off an acrid stench as it burned into the metal. Sliding a small wire from a spool in his collar, he held one end to the gear. Pressing his left thumb and third finger together around the wire initiated a short lived electric current which melted the end of the wire, securing it in place. Crawling slowly across the gantry, the wire spooled out slowly behind him. Ever few meters, he’d stop, press the wire down to the beam he was crawling across and cover it with spray from the container to hold it in place. Above the operator’s cabin he had to be careful not to cast a shadow from any of the overhead lights down into the cabin as here was the hardest part. Five pounds of semtex was strapped to each thigh. He undid the package from his left, and strapped it into place, spraying the liquid around it to hold it to the wire and the crane itself. From the watch around his left wrist, he pulled a pin. Once it was free of the metal band, a small LED on the top began blinking red at five second intervals. He twisted it slightly to the left, and the flashes came faster, less than a second apart. Sticking the pointy end into the semtex, he began to crawl across the other side of the gantry, repeating the process with the wire as he went, until he reached the wheels on the far side. As he traveled the crane moved back and forth. Its ponderous pace laborious enough that it didn’t jostle him enough to disturb him, but fast enough that he had to be careful when he sprayed, lest any of the corrosive liquid drip and draw attention, or worse yet, fly in his face. The canister ran out of liquid when he had only sprayed half the wheel assembly. He cursed slightly under his breath, recapping the bottle, and jamming it into a crack between the frames that held two axles. Any leftover in the bottle would still be close enough to have an effect. Using the wire snips embedded in his right glove between the pinky and ring finger he cut the wire from the spool at his neck, and used the electric current from his left glove to secure it firmly to the middle of the red rusty liquid on this end. He had to wait, crouched by the edge for the crane to move again, and as it passed below a maintenance ladder, he swung himself up onto the third rung, and onto a catwalk that ran across this side of the cavern. Motion at the far end caught his eye, and he reached for his right thigh, fingers closing around the grip of Betsy. Betsy was a custom weapon, courtesy of every Joe’s favourite crazy engineer, Walli. A pistol grip curved into a shoulder stock and a single thick barrel designed to fire miniature RPGs. It could be fired with the same speed as a pistol, but packed a punch equivalent to many assault weapons. Discretion was the better part of this job though, so his hand slid to the other grip, a silenced semi-automatic minirifle. Solid stopping power, but less blast radius and chance of drawing attention to himself. But the shadows moved on out of sight towards the massive iron door at the inner side of the docks. Moving the opposite direction, he skulked along the catwalk, trying to muffle his footfalls despite the cacophony down below. Nearing the end of the catwalk he glanced down the service ladder. Empty. Good. He took a few moments to watch the work going on. It was still impossible to tell exactly what was being done with the refit, but in a few minute it wouldn’t matter. The crane itself was not tethered to something inside the ship that would be winched out. That left it perfectly positioned to finish the job. With a final check of the landing below him, he confirmed that two sets of dive gear hung near a man-sized airlock embedded in the rock. He turned the bezel on his watch from its neutral position to the first notch. The watch vibrated slightly to confirm that it was now linked to an activated detonator pin in range. All he’d have to do is press the button on the left of the watch to trigger it now. He scrambled down the ladder as quickly as possible to avoid being noticed and dropped to a crouch at the bottom. No shouts, no movement in his direction. So far, so good. He approached the nearby airlock, opening the close door. It slid open. Unstrapping the semtex from his right thigh, he went to work. Wedging a third of it above the outer airlock door, another third across the top edge of the inner airlock door, and then rolling the remainder into a thin snake that he wedged into a seam between two metal plates along the roof of the airlock, connecting the two masses. A second detonator pin was slid from the band of his watch, its red light blinking. He wedged it into the plastique above the outer door, before double checking that there was no break in the explosive. Satisfied, he opened the inner door again stepping back out onto the stone quay. Still abandoned at this end, he moved to where the dive gear was stored. The rack could accomodate a couple dozen pieces of dive gear, but there were only two sets currently there. He shrugged, check the oxygen levels on the closest tank, and finding it full, slid his arms through the straps. He didn’t bother with the wetsuit, his own gear was designed to be waterproof as well as blastproof, and he just needed to be far enough away when he blew the charges. As he put on the dive fins, he heard a chime from the airlock. His head snapped around towards the noise, and the light above the inner door went from green to red. He didn’t know with certainty what that meant, but he could make a reasoned guess. Struggling to pull the fins off took precious seconds, and unfortunately, enough of them for the lock to cycle. As he pulled the second one off, the inner door slid open, and six Eels began to emerge. They were engaged in some form of conversation through their suit radios, until one pointed in his direction. “Hey boys...nice day for a swim?” he asked as he snatched Betsy from his belt and pulled the trigger, any hope of stealth gone now. The gun Barked as he dove behind a ridge of the rock floor, so he didn’t see where the miniature RPG landed when it detonated, but by the time he peaked out from cover, two Eels were on the ground not moving, and other four were moving for cover positions. At the far side of the underground hangar, he could hear an alarm claxon and frenzied shouts. Slapping Betsy back into her claps, he pulled out his minirifle again and took some shots towards the closet Eel. A couple rounds struck the woman in the chest, dropping her, but he had to take cover again from the return fire. Even there he wasn’t safe, a trio of Vipers were running full tilt down to quay towards him from the main hangar. One of them paused and took a potshot at him with his rifle, forcing him to roll behind a stone ridge in the floor beside some crates. He fired a couple quick bursts without looking in their general direction, bullets now peppering his hiding spot from both directions. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Big Ben would say, he shrugged, turned the bezel on his watch to the second notch and pressed the left button with his thumb. Nothing happened. Right. He never changed the five seconds on the fuze. The blast echoed in the chamber, sending two of the Eels’ bodies flying off the stone quay, and various pieces of equipment flying. Even behind the stone ridge, his body was pressed to the ground by the shockwave. The remaining three must have been crushed by the explosion, or the following gout of water. He shook his head to clear it as a massive clang sounded above him. The remnants of the outer airlock had just scythed through the air where he would have stood had he not been tonguing the floor and was followed almost instantly by the rush of water. The shouts from behind him were turning from angry instructions to sounds of panic now. He glanced over his shoulder, and could see why. The airlock was spewing a two meter wide column of water into the subterranean cave, and cracks were beginning to spiderweb towards the bigger hanger door to the submarine pen. He popped his head out from his hiding place. Two Vipers were still visible on the quay but they, like the technicians on the far side, were facing away from him as they ran for the far end of the cave. Already the big iron doors sealing off the interior of the facility were starting to roll ponderously closed, and a klaxon was now sounding with flashing red orbs above the door. A smart choice he thought, starting to stand, before dropping flat again as a barrage of rifle fire stitched the rock above him. Three more vipers were standing atop the submarine. He couldn’t tell what they were using, but he did know they had chosen a horrible place to stand. He turned the bezel on his watch back to the first notch, smiled, pressed himself as flat as he could, and pressed the left button. And… A massive blast rocked the cavern, followed almost instantly by two smaller ones, and the rending shriek of metal as the gantry above the submarine exploded from its tracks and down onto the submarine below. The resulting crashing noises lasted almost a full minute, and by the time that it was safe to look, whatever Cobras had been running for cover had been either crushed by falling debris, flayed by shrapnel, or sealed themselves behind the door. Taking off at a run towards that internal door, it was obvious that the water level was rising towards the dock, partially because of the water pouring in from the ruptured airlock, and partially because the submarine that had been undergoing repairs now listed heavily to one side, with the remains of the crane gantry atop it, having mangled its command tower. One less weapon in the Cobra naval arsenal. Skidding to a stop in front of the now sealed metal doors leading into the interior of the underground base, he took stock of what he had left for explosives. The narrow ventilation shaft had prevented him from bringing as much as he would have liked, but he still had a coil of plastique in the top edge of each boot that he kept handy for windows and doors. There wasn’t nearly enough to meaningfully breach the massive iron door, even with its advanced age. But it WAS big enough to punch a small pinhole into the seam, and that’s all that was needed. Even as the water rose around his ankles, he carefully pressed as much as he could into the crack between the two leaves of the door, and with what was left made a conical mound to direct the blast pressure directly down into the gap between the two doors. He paused only a second before pulling the third timer from his watch. This time he remembered to twist the head all the way to the left, and the LED went solid red. Armed and instant triggering. A grin lit his face beneath his sodden moustache as he slid it into the mound. The art of destruction was something his parents always told him he’d learned at an early age. He’d just gotten a bit better at it with time. The crane was gone, so there was no way to clambour up there near his abandoned harness, so he ran back towards the catwalk he had taken earlier, aiming for the nearest maintenance ladder. Ominous noises issued from the main door of the underground harbour as the geyser of water began to strain the edges of the great door. The creaking grew louder as the fountain of water cresting through the rent in the rock, still visible over the listing hulk of the submarine, grew ever wider. It was a challenge to run in thigh-deep water which was still rising, the bottom edge of his blast-resistant coat now dragging at the crests of the swell, but he reached the ladder and was a few feet up when the creaking door gave way with an ear-piercing screech. He climbed, barely able to hear the massive metal sheet slam into the tail of the submarine, his ears still ringing. With the newfound gap to pour through, the seawater below him rose almost as fast as he could climb, but it still roiled far too dangerously to dare clambouring into. By the time he reached the catwalk, the inflow had slowed. Water was still pushing into the cave, but it was limited by how fast the air could be forced out through the vents in the roof now. Debris floated everywhere. Somehow the overhead lights had stayed on, but it was only a matter of time before they shorted out. It took a few seconds to locate the part of the catwalk directly under the fissure he’d used to clambor across the cave earlier. And now he waited. Watching the water slowly rise up beneath the catwalk. It was still a few feet below when the power was finally overwhelmed. Sparks flew from a few of the exposed fixtures, and he swore he could feel the catwalk hum with energy as the short circuits ran through the metal beneath his insulated boots. Now blinded from the dark, he ran his hands across his blast jacket searching for each of the sealed zippers and making sure they were closed to protect the sensitive gear. Satisfied that nothing would be lost, or risk electrocuting him, he began tapping his foot on the gantry. For a minute, maybe more, there was the usual satisfying thud of the sole of his boot hitting the metal. Then a bit of a different feeling, and finally a sloshing as the water rose. Gripping the catwalk’s rail with one hand, he stood there, feeling the water rise to his knees, then his waist, before he raised the rebreather around his neck, and cranked on the oxygen tank still strapped to his back. Buoyancy slowly lifted him from the catwalk. Keeping one hand on the rail as his body rose he raised the other. The ceiling was too far above him to feel so he waited. One minute, then two, then three just to be safe. It was impossible to see the bubbles rising up, but if he rose straight up in the now seemingly calm water, he should be right in the middle of the ceiling crack. Blowing out a breath, he let go. As he rose he could feel some of the bubbles brushing his forehead, hopefully a good sign. A few seconds later his right shoulder bumped the ceiling, even as his left kept rising. Almost perfect, he smiled, then spat out oily-tasting water where he’d let his grip on the rebreather loosen. He used his hands to guide himself along the rock channel in what had once been the ceiling. The tank scraped against the occasional protrusion, but eventually his face found the danging rope from his original entry when the metal clasp almost took out his eye. The exhaust ventilation shaft had been barely wide enough for him to fit through going up, so after reattaching the rope to his harness, he slid the oxygen tank off his back. Breathing deeply a half dozen times to fill his lungs with as much oxygen as he could he clamped his teeth on the respirator and let the canister drop, catching it between his feet. He’d hold it there as long as he could, until he needed his legs to climb, continuing to breath as deeply as possible, but he knew eventually he’d have to release it. Hand over hand, he pulled himself towards the surface. You can do this Steve, he thought to himself. You didn’t survive eight days under Bagdad to die in this snake-infested hole. Oh. Right. He’d almost forgotten. Keeping his left hand firmly clenched on the rope, he gripped the bangle of his watch through the fabric of his sleeve, twisting it to the third notch, and then pressing the button. He could feel the concussive force through the water beneath him as a shockwave rolled over him as the door to the inner part of the base gave way from the blast. A second past as the pressure dissipated, and he could feel the water above him being sucked back as it was pulled in to fill the gap, and the rooms behind the second doors. First his head, then his whole body pulled free of the water. He didn’t know how long her had, but he took one final deep breath, spat out the rebreather, dropped the tank, and climbed as fast as he could. Beneath him he could feel as much as hear the water roiling as it sought level again. Depending how long it took for the door to fully give way under the pressure of the water, he could have only a few seconds before it rose up to meet him, or a minute. No more than that. His knees banged against exposed rock, and his biceps burned as he hauled himself hand over hand up the thick rope, the small pointed knobs studding the palms and fingerpads of his gloves the only thing that allowed him to keep traction on the sodden line. At some point, he didn’t realize exactly when, he rose above sea-level, the rope now dry, and the first dot of sunlight appearing above him, allowing him to slow his climb. He paused, letting the adrenaline-fueled race ebb. He hung suspended in the shaft for a moment, breathing heavily and then continued the last few feet of his climb. He was only a few feet from the surface when the ground shook. He couldn’t hear the roar, but it could only be another explosion. He smirked to himself. One of the snakes must have happened across the tripwire he’d left at the entrance to the mine earlier that afternoon. There had been no way to know if the decades-old mining explosives that had been left in a side room still worked, but at least some of them apparently did. Even if only half of them had triggered, there was more than enough to collapse the first fifty feet of tunnel. They may not all have drowned beneath him, but the caverns would be their grave, watery or not. The thought wasn’t a comfortable one, although it meant a successful mission. He was good at his job, but he still didn’t like killing, even if it meant a few hundred fewer threats to his family back home. Blowing things up was fun, and he loved that challenge, but people weren’t things. He shook his head to focus on climbing the last few feet. As he emerged from the rock shaft, he flopped onto his back, and stared up at the darkening evening sky. His body was going to hurt for a few weeks he expected after this particular mission. Probably even worse than it had after that time in Iran. A noise sounded to his left. He looked around, his hand automatically gripping Betsy’s grip as he simultaneously realized it would be too wet to fire now. Defiantly, he stared into a set of hooded blue eyes, before a grin split his lips. “I LOVE the smell of Napalm in the morning” he growled. “Baaaaahhaahhhhh” bleated the goat before loping away down the hill for more grass. Code Name: Nitro File Name: Steve Earls Birthplace: Daysland, Alberta Rank: E5 Primary Military Specialty: Sabotage Secondary Military Specialty: Demolition --------------------------------------- |
04-06-2020, 09:53 PM | #789 |
Darth_Henning
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Canada
Posts: 21,174
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Happy Quarantine all.
In addition to the new material, I'm also going back through all the old stuff and updating it to make sure that everything dovetails together. Some of the early work had plot threads that got dropped, and didn't include key points that were invented later. You'll see in the first post which stories have been updated. I hope to have them all done in the next couple weeks. Any that get taken out will be removed from the index, but the originals will remain in this thread, and any that get re-written significantly will be reposted here. But I encourage everyone to take a gander back at any of the old ones they missed, or that they loved. Even I don't remember everything as it turns out. But without further ado.... ----------------------------------------- 10/03/2021 - The Baroness Baroness Anastasia Chantelle DeCobray wasn’t actually sure who she wanted to kill more at the moment. The German Chancellor at the far end of her sniper rifle’s scope, or the man sitting on the rooftop not four feet away, with his gun pointed as squarely at her forehead as her sidearm was pointed at him. On one hand, she had been planning this operation to take out the Chancellor for almost a year now, and everything was in place. Her best operatives had steered the Chancellor away from the main party and into the courtyard with no less than two major political rivals. Any assassination now would majorily destablize the federation as none of the leaders would survive the scandle. But by contrast, she knew exactly who sat opposite her. The gleaming silver faceplate and blue military-style uniform told her all she needed to know. “Commander.” She acknowledged, mixing three or four different European accents together to make the title sound as demeaning as possible. Her title was British. Her names Russian and French. Her estate home was Austrian. And she was...well it hardly mattered did it? She was THE Baroness. At least that’s what those who knew of her existence, and still drew breath, called her. “Baroness.” He replied. American sprinkled with Oxford. Somehow both guttersnipe and pretentious at the same time. Oh he’d had extensive vocal coaching, she of all people could tell, but it hadn’t been enough to hide the base. Still though, it explained some of his success. Appealed to the masses while still sounding JUST smarter than the average nincompoop. She’d watched his Coil organization grow first on the far side of the Atlantic, and then branch into England. She hadn’t been terribly concerned even then. England had always been an island built on discontent, and there was plenty to share there. But she’d grown annoyed as he had attempted to push farther into Europe and his organization had clashed with her Medusa. To this date, she hadn’t quite figured out how he kept his supply lines operating. She hadn’t ever been able to pin them down. His outfit just seemed to ‘appear’ in various cities, and spread, like a fungus. At least the Neo Nazis had the good graces to be obvious about how they spread, allowing her to eliminate her most dangerous rivals with political ambition. “You’ll have to forgive me, I was never a fan of Dumas.” She nodded towards his helm. He sat there, implacable. In all honesty, the only reason she hadn’t was because the shot would be loud enough to alert the Chancellor, and he no doubt knew that. Yet this time he hadn't moved to interfere. Only six months prior to tonight’s rooftop meeting she had been in Catalonia. Her people had been hired to promote the separatist movement, and cause havoc. Enough to weaken Spain’s government, and eventually lead to the schism of one of its wealthiest regions, one which would then be beholden to Medusa, providing sanctuary and funding. However, she had underestimated the forces at play. The Coil was not as new to the region as she had been led to believe. While she did not know his name, two of the surviving members of her team reported that the Coil’s forces had been dressed by a man in a black uniform, black helmet, and black face scarf, who they could only describe as El fantasma. It seemed that Spain was not prepared to let Catalonia go so easily. Those who had organized the protests had died, including those who had been to pay Medusa. Medusa’s operatives, carefully secreted throughout the crowd were somehow hunted down and eliminated. Not publicly, not in any way to draw attention, but with a complete lack of finesse and complete brutality. Three months ago, she had been in the ravaged towns of Northern Italy, intending to spend the month dispensing medicine and vaccines in the aftermath of the global pandemic as the face of Medusa, growing support and recruits. She had ensured that the critical medical supplies that Medusa would be handing out would be brought in by ARBCO, the company that had become the most reliable shipping company on the continent, well, any continent, following the devastation of COVID. And yet, despite their nearly flawless delivery record, the trucks had been robbed on route by the Coil. The supplies had never made it. And instead of a hearts-and-minds campaign drawing the willing to her organization, they had appeared on the black market, available only to those who joined the Coil. More and more young people had slipped away, leaving a region already devoid of the elderly, equally devoid of the young. Aid shipments had arrived eventually through the government itself, entirely defeating her purpose in that part of the world, leaving her with nothing to show for a month’s effort. And then, then there was this past week. It had escalated from a competition into all out war. While she was bent on killing the Chancellor and ingratiating Medusa to the successor, whoever that may be and from whatever party that may arise, the Coil appeared dedicated to keeping the Chancellor alive and eliminating any potential rival. And so, the streets of Berlin and Frankfurt had become a game of shadows and knives. Among other weapons. Medusa’s agents had been forced to slit the throats of two would-be assailants in the kitchen of a restaurant popular with diplomats at high noon in Frankfurt. One of her best five-person hit squads had succumbed to an engine fire in their van outside the Chancellor’s apartment complex. Three of the Coil’s loyal agents had had an unfortunate run-in with the wrong side of a commuter train. And tonight, she realized, the two women guarding her downstairs must already be dead, and given the fact that the Commander hadn’t been blown backwards over the railing by a hollow-point bullet at this point, presumably her spotter on the next building was as well. She sighed, and lowered the pistol, if he was going to kill her, he probably would have already. “So what do you want? Other than to be a consistent problem?” “It would seem,” He paused, and similarly lowered his pistol, “the same thing you do.” “The last week would suggest...otherwise.” Her tone dripped with a Scilian level of sarcasm. “Given your reputation for subtlety, I’m disappointed in you ...Tasi.” Her pistol was pointed at his face again, “NO ONE, calls me that!” She snarled. Not anyone who was still alive anyway. And certainly not someone who was a complete stranger to her. How he could possibly have known about that old nickname… “My apologies.” He spread his hands cutting into her thoughts, “but you seem one who appreciates knowledge. More than the usual mongrels.” She didn’t deny it. But she didn’t lower her pistol either. He stood, and began pacing. It forced her to make a decision, stay prone and maintain her shot on the chancellor, or roll to face him and keep him in her sights. She cursed to herself and rolled. “You see, Catalonia teters on the brink of armed revolution now. The protests died with their leaders, but the people became afraid...and vengeful. We have poured weapons and men into the region for the last six months while you licked your wounds in Seville. There won’t be protests this time, there will be assassinations. Spain will send the army, like any jack-booted dictator would.” He pivoted on a heel then continued, “the results to that point would be the same had yor protests galvanized the people as intended, but with a major difference. The world may continue to ignore the protests that go on in Hong Kong. They’re Asian. And Chinese. No one cares.” He waved a hand dismissively to emphasize the point. “But European protesters firing back as tanks roll into their streets? It will be the lead story on every newscast. Spain will have no choice but to bow to international pressure, and Catalonia will be independent by this time next year.” “Perhaps,” the Baroness began, “but that level of bloodshed…” “Could of course be avoided. If you wished to take the slow route, and risk exposure. How long would the organizers have needed Medusa to prop them up? How long would you have been at risk of being discovered? My men have already left the area now that the weapons have been delivered. The revolution will run itself, without risk of discovery. Yes, more will die, but if we have learned anything this past year, life in Spain is...expendable.” Callous and cold, the Baroness fumed, she had lost friends in the pandemic. But...he also wasn’t wrong. Her earlier criticism of the accent was gone. The tone was still jarring to her, but the man could orate she conceded. “Now, your plans for Northern Italy were indeed more elaborate than my own. But I could not allow you to jeopardize the formation of a new cell. I trust you’ll understand.” She did, but she did not like it. “The problem we face here,” he took a seat again, in the same place where she had originally seen him, “is that you are not dreaming big enough.” “Not dreaming big enough?” she asked, laughing, “No? Destabilizing one of the planet’s biggest democracies, and ingratiating myself to the replacement is not big enough?” “And what do you do after?” “After?” she frowned, “build up my operations here of course.” Now it was his turn to laugh. It was an uncomfortable hiss combined with a snarl. “Dear Baroness, you do not think big enough. Germany is but a stepping stone. Control it properly and you have access to the EU, NATO, the G7, and the rest of the alphabet soup. Look through that scope and tell me, who would give you that power.” She sensed a trap, and waited. But the Commander just sat there. Patiently. Rolling back onto her stomach she looked through the scope. It took her a moment to find the Chancellor again. Now surrounded only by the leaders of the seven main parties, near the outer wall, their respective security details having ushered away even the Medusa operatives. She looked across them, but the answer was obvious. The FDP was most likely to serve her purposes now, and she admitted as much. “Very well,” the Commander replied. “Watch” And watch she did. Not two minutes later, a butler came hurrying out of the building, and down the park path to where the leaders stood. Inexplicably he peeled of the leader of the FDP, leaving the others engrossed in their chat. “How did…” “Watch,” instructed the Commander. A tanker truck slowly rolled down the street outside the party, moving slightly below the speed limit. Not an unusual site in and of itself, but in context, it struck her as odd. Especially as it suddenly accelerated towards the garden wall. She watched as an apirtion leaped from the front door. “El fantasma,” The Baroness breathed involuntarily. The man was dressed head to toe in black, from his helmet, to the fabric covering all of his face but the slit around his eyes, to the military uniform that matched the Commander’s. He rolled expertly despite the rifle strapped to his back, and had run out of site as the truck plowed into the wall just to the left of the assembled party leaders. They were frozen with fear. If they had run then, they might have had a second’s chance, but the tanker tipped plowing into the wall beside them. Instinctively, the Baroness closed her eyes, and barely in time. The bright flash wouldn’t have been caused by the impact of the tanker with the wall, but a series of explosives igniting the gasoline. The booming roar rolled across the city, and when she opened her eyes and tried to look towards the gardens it was as bright as day with people running both towards and away from the conflagration. The Baroness could only stare open mouthed. It was so indiscriminate, and yet…as she thought to what she had said a second ago, so expertly targeted. She turned to the Commander but he was already standing, “I do hope you made the right choice. It will be in both our interests.” His hand reached out to her and she reached for it. “This number will work once. And only once. Be sure of your decision.” He said, handing her a laminated business card with five double digit numbers on it. Routed through France she immediately recognized as he walked away. ----------------------------------------------------- Six Days Later The number on the card had been her third call after that evening, after speaking to the FDP leader, and his wife, and getting exactly what she wanted. NowThe Baroness stood, a large hat shading her eyes as she looked up at the scaffolding covering Notre Dame where she had been instructed to wait It would never be as beautiful as it had been when she was a child. The ancient timbers of the roof could simply not be replaced anymore, and that was a shame. She shifted a few inches to her left, then right. Yes. Here. This was where she had stood when she watched it burn. It had broken her heart to order that the work-lamp be shorted out, but it had been necessary. A slight shiver rolled down her spine. Not even the Commander could know that…could he? “You have decided then.” The voice came from a fencepost beside her, but it was the same grating mixture of American and Oxford she had first heard the past week. She held back any further reaction. “Yes. We can either waste resources fighting each other, or we can build something together with our own particular talents.” “Good. Welcome to the Coil.” “Not if you insist on keeping that name. We need something better, and less...trashy.” Even the word hurt her sensibilities to say. The Commander paused at the suggestion, and she could hear another voice, a female voice just out of range of the receiver. “Yes. The Coil has lived its usefulness as a name I’m advised. It is time for a rebranding.” He paused, then continued, “perhaps The Serpents. For now. As a placeholder.” She glanced down at the red serpentine broach on her dress. Coincidence? “Nothing is coincidence,” the speaker hissed, and for the first time in many years, the Baroness looked around nervously. Guileful, clever, and deadly. An appropriate description she supposed once they combined his brute force with her subtlety. It would do. It would do for now. |
04-11-2020, 07:51 AM | #790 |
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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Damn! I forgot how much I missed this. 5 years is a long time. I'm trying to go back and read some old posts to refamiliarize myself with the timeline and cast of characters. Still these two stories are a great jumping off point. I can't wait for more!
Nitro's story is great and the level of detail and description is outstanding. You seem quite familiar with rock climbing or cave exploration. Still these new characters are really what makes your stories unique. And the Baroness story really sets the stage for everything. A nice sort of resetting of the storyline.
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Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome. Last edited by Loose Cannon; 04-11-2020 at 07:59 AM.. |
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