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The sky was
clear, dark, and glittering with stars. The ridgeline that separated Churchill City-State
from the coastline was backlit in shades of gray, making the ocean seem even
darker than the night.
A blue and
white tilt-rotor bearing the Oceanus Airshuttle logo and aircraft designation
of A-117 cut across the night sky, its formation strobes flashed rhythmically.
With its rotor nacelles down and locked into the horizontal position, it had
the appearance of a boxy airplane with oversized propellers. Through the
fuselage windows, passengers could be seen sleeping or amusing themselves at
seatback monitors. It seemed like just another late-night commuter flight to
the outer islands.
In reality,
things were quite different. Onboard the tilt-rotor, in stark contrast to what
the world thought it saw--courtesy of the nano-definition displays mounted over
the aircraft's windows--sat a twelve-member Recovery Squad clad in ADF power-armor.
Strapped
into their seats and drawing power via umbilicals from the aircraft's auxiliary
power unit, the troopers sat across from each other, their helmets off and Com
hoods pulled back, talking casually. Except for Centurion Stoner, the Unit
commander, who had his helmet in place and was seemingly engaged in a conversation
over his Comm.
"OK, listen
up…helmets on," ordered Stoner, engaging his suit's external speakers.
As the men
compiled with his order, reaching up to pull their comm hoods on before
lowering their helmets into place, Stoner sat patiently, waiting for everyone
to suit up and look in his direction before continuing. Glancing around, he
noticed one of his team was missing. Stoner turned towards the front of the
aircraft and barked in a loud monotone voice. "Scout, are you joining us, or do
you have something else planned for tonight?"
A small
toy-like head appeared over the back of one of the forward facing seat at the
front of the aircraft.
"On the move," it stated, though
its mouth did not move. It then leaped into the center aisle between the seats,
landing with a controlled thud, and sauntered toward the team.
It moved
with a sense of self-awareness beyond that of any man-made machine; its form
was unmistakably feline, but one also clad in the same style of power-armor as
the rest of the squad. It walked in among the seated troopers and sat regally
upright in front of Conley.
It took a
few minutes for the laughter to die down.
"All right, that's enough," said Stoner. He waited just a
moment longer before going on., "This is what we have… Brennen..." he said
turning to his second-in-command.
"Acknowledged," replied
Sub-Centurion Brennen and he briefed the squad. "Five hours ago, Scanning
picked up a hyperwave pulse emanating from the coastal mountain range north of
Churchill. The area corresponds to a known cave system that was under
investigation by a state geological survey team. Their base camp is set up in
what was once a lakebed near the cave entrance.
"According to their initial
reports," he continued. "The caves and connecting tunnels are vast and
potentially unstable. The original tunnels were cut out of the rock by water
running downhill toward the sea, but at some point an earthquake must have
opened up a fissure, and literally drain away the lake."
"Some fifteen minutes ago,
tilt-rotor one-twenty completed its flyby of our landing zone and the target
area," Stoner cut in, "Central has just finished its analysis of the images."
Over the squad's Pacscom channel
came the prompt, "Incoming overlay," along with Centurion Stoner's
identification icon in yellow. In response, the troopers stated, "granted," and
directed the incoming image to their helmets' main view screens.
Now an aerial image played before
their eyes and they watched as the scene showed a wide clearing among trees and
rock outcroppings. "This is our insertion point; as of 02:21, thermal imagining showed it to be clear," Stoner
continued.
The image pulled back to give an
overview of the landing site and target area before it shifted to a long, dry
river valley, which eventually opened up into a wide, flat basin. Arranged
along one wall of that basin was a cluster of buildings. Their geometric shapes
and metallic skins made them stand out jarringly against the rocky background.
"That's the base camp," Stoner told them. "So far there
seem to be no indication of movement in or around the area, and thermal imaging
shows no recent signs of habitation."
In
conjunction with his words, the thermal image was superimposed over the camp.
Everything was in shades of blue or black, indicating that the structures were
cold, no space heaters or warm bodies.
"Any
questions?" Stoner asked, and waited a moment. "Ok then…helmets off," he
ordered. Securing his own helmet to the top of his armor's pack, Stoner watched
his team as they complied. He noticed--not for the first time--that with their
helmets back and comm hoods on, the troopers looked more like astronauts than
infantrymen. He always insisted on looking his troops in the eyes when he
talked to them, for without this very human contact, there was no way for a
leader to determine their readiness. Satisfied, Stoner signaled Brennen to go
on.
Brennen
continued, "Supposedly the camp has been locked down for the last few months.
The state's survey team didn't find anything marketable down there, so they're
turning the site over to the university, who hasn't gotten around to moving in
yet."
"Is that
typical? I mean to put that much money into moving a prefab camp out here then
just giving it away?" asked Centurion Dante, leader of second squad.
"Pretty
much, they have dozens of site like this one," said Brennen, "They retain the
rights to anything that is found on the site, as well as to rent out space for
weather stations and communication relays."
"What we are looking for is
something called an ‘initiator' or ‘core,' it's that part of a stardrive that
initiates and maintains the drive field." said Stoner, "I'm told that it's kind
of a cross between a capacitor and a radio frequency crystal." The team seemed
a little apprehensive.
"For starters it's not very big,"
said Stoner, now using his hands to demonstrate the size. "It's a cylinder
one-foot in diameter and three-feet long. They're normally carried in a
shielded transport container. If the container is opened under less than ideal
conditions, then the initiator picks up a background charge and start
transmitting."
Brennen joined in. "Central is
operating under the belief that either the component is stolen, although none
have been reported, or has been misappropriated by its owner."
"Either way, it shouldn't be here."
Stoner then added, "Licensed tactical nuclear weapons are easier to obtain than
these things."
"Approaching insertion point, ten minute", said the
copilot.
Looking over at the aircraft's navigational display, its
"God's eye" view of the surrounding area had the course line superimposed over
it. "Acknowledged," replied the pilot. "Make ready."
"Acknowledged," said the copilot, with that he engaged
the ships internal comm and depressed the ready alert button.
*
Sitting at the back of the group was the tilt-rotor's
crew chief, outfitted in same flight gear style power-armor; his job was to
handle anything and everything concerning the operation of the aircraft, that
is just short of flying it.
"Ding, ding, ding," the alert tone sounded in his
earpieces, and the ten-minute countdown clock appeared on his view screen in
red. "Ten minutes until insertion mode," stated the copilot.
"Acknowledged," the crew chief responded. "Ten minutes
until insertion, prepare for light out and maneuvering," he relayed to the
squad over his suit's external speakers.
"Acknowledged. Suit up," ordered Stoner, but even before
the order was given, the team was putting on their helmets and readying their
equipment.
Turning his seat to face the cargo ramp at the back of
the aircraft, the crew chief reached over and opened a large wall-mounted
equipment locker; after securing its cover back, he swung out a modified medium
gauss rifle mounted on an armature affixed to the nearby bulkhead. Turning the
weapon on its pivot so that it was aligned across him, he then pulled it toward
himself and locked it in place. From the same locker he withdrew a long "J"
shaped magazine and placed it carefully in his lap.
Turning his attention back to the weapon, he placed the heel
of his right hand against the top left side of the weapon's frame, and gripped
the feed port lever and squeezed the release. He pulled it back along the
weapon's frame until the port cover locked open. Then, using both hands, he
placed the magazine on to the frame's guide and support rail and slid it down
until the hook end of the "J" snapped into the feed port.
Pivoting the weapon, he gripped the
"H" handle at its rear and checked for freedom of movement on the armature.
Satisfied, he moved it back against the wall and locked it in place.
*
With a
reassuring double click, and a slight change in pressure, Conley reviewed his
suit's status display as he waited for the cabin lights to go out and his IR to
switch over. All was a go. Shifting his focus he found himself looking across
at Weapons Sergeant Patauski, who, like countless riflemen before him, was
readying his weapon, doing with one hand what took the crew chief two.
It seemed
that all Allied Weapons Troopers had to be built like typecast construction
workers, and Sergeant Patauski certainly qualified. Born in the Dominion of
Polish ancestry, his six foot two heavy body frame put him in stark contrast to
his five foot nine McPherren teammates. Like so many of his fellow countrymen,
he volunteered to serve with the Alliance,
whether it was to see combat or to support a high ideal, only he knew the
truth.
"Despite all that, in the end, all Sergeant
Patauski seemed to care about was if something was within his weapon's sights
when he depressed the trigger, it was dead, or at least desperately wanted to
be afterward," thought Conley.
*
Ma'Gow sat on the deck watching Conley go through his
ready procedures, which included loading and positioning his weapon against the
floor. Unlike his team mates, Conley carried a Gauss sub-rifle – or carbine –
which was almost a third shorter than the standard rifle, so to hold it against
the deck he must rest his palm on the butt plate and grip the sides. Not a very
dangerous looking weapon, it more resembles a small caliber target rifle than an
actual assault weapon.
Conley
was now just sitting and staring off into space, so Ma'Gow chose this moment to
leap up onto his right shoulder. The force of impact pushed Conley back into
his seat with a thump.
"Do you
know how much you weight!?" commed Conley sarcastically, as Ma'Gow maneuvered
across the back of Conley's armor toward his left shoulder, which would allow
him to face forward.
"It's in your job description: ‘Monkeyboy will act
as transport for Parr.'" SIcommed Ma'Gow; like an inner monologue, his words
resonated through Conley's consciousness.
Relayed through the suit's comm
system to the user's Synaptic Interface, the SIcom was literally like hearing
voices in your head. Conley grew up using this piece of built-in technology but
still preferred to talk, rather than think at people.
"I ready
doubt that the powers-that-be would use the word ‘monkeyboy' to describing us,"
he commed while trying to shift himself under Ma'Gow's weight.
"They must
have had a flash of insight that day," Ma'Gow SIcommed while settling down on
to the suits armored backpack. "Why don't you carry a full-size rifle like the
rest of the team? That sub-rifle just seems awfully small when it come to
protecting me."
Pretending
to think about it a moment, "No it's about right," Conley commed. "Just light
enough to offset the weight of having to carry a twenty-pound Buttcat on my
back all day." he finished.
There was a
thump to the left side of Conley's helmet, followed by a "Purrrrr" over his
SIcom. You little con-artist,
through Conley, resisting the urge to reach up and pet Ma'Gow, who was clad in
almost five pounds of body armor.
To be continued...
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