One
Façade
New England is an ageless forested beauty, protector of ancient natural treasures of eras past. It had no defense however, against the only real two thieves it had to worry about, which were nature itself and time. The elements and age always weathered away the majestic rocks of northern Maine, or the granite mountains of New Hampshire, or the stubborn land plants of Massachusetts. Even the Appalachian mountain range, carved out of a few states in the northeastern region before extending south, faced the elements yet still stood tall and proud. For now however, despite the approaching winter, all was at peace in the region.
A young red-tailed hawk soared high above the green carpet of central Massachusetts. It was a cloudy day with cool and misty air, warning signs of the approaching change in season. The hawk was a straggler; he had been making the last few security rounds to his territory before heading to a warmer climate. The bird of prey stood out in its environment, a streak of red against the coniferous background below. The hawk was on the verge of obeying the instinctual command to head south, forgoing the hunt in favor of simply flying for the day. It could eat later or en route; no matter where one was there were always going to be tasty little rodents on the ground or schools of fish in the rivers and streams.
The hawk came to a light landing on a nearby branch, giving his territory a cursory glance. The area was critical to its survival, for the bird used the territory to climb up higher in the hawk hierarchy. Then the higher up one was, the easier it was to attract potential mates. The bird's golden eyes carefully scanned each tree, each branch, for any unwanted trespassers, and flexed its wings just in case a trespasser suddenly appeared. The air was still, was quiet…
No, the air wasn't quiet. The hawk tilted its head to hear the growling, grinding sound better. It was getting louder as the massive predator approached the hawk's boundaries.
A threat presenting a challenge.
With a loud rasping battle-cry, the hawk took flight, searching for the enemy. It was easy to find it because the enemy was always loud and easy to find. It was one of the giant, hard-shelled birds that usually came this way, reptiles with impenetrable wings, loud sounds, and oddly shaped tailfins that jutted out from the center of the rear part of the body. The hawk rarely had to engage one in combat; the creature would usually see it coming and duck down to avoid it. All the hawk really had to do was scare it into submission.
Not this time.
The creature did not duck. Instead, it continued on in its original flight path. Since it did not back down in submission, the hawk screamed and raked its talons all along the invisible surface and down the shiny surface of the body. It was the sonic screech of surprise that that forced the hawk to retreat from the aerial battleground. The bird soared underneath however to rake at the creature's unprotected belly, prompting another sonic screech that forced the hawk to fly ahead of the enemy. Angered, the bird swooped down in front of the invader and made a direct beeline for it, prepared to meet it head-on.
The combatants unknowingly attracted a spectator. At the nearby Fort Deven, the traffic controller jumped in his seat when he looked up at the large windows in time to witness a sudden explosion of red feathers against the green backdrop. He could only sit in stunned silenced as an F-22 came into land, its weapons folding down while still smoking slightly from the recent kill. The controller, having finally come to his senses, made a note of the lack of tailfin ID numbers, and then began jotting down the list of offenses for this pilot, starting with the death of the hawk. It was all going on the pilot's permanent record.
The radio crackled to life, and a male voice asked, "I am trying to locate the four-oh-first… where has the squadron been relocated?"
The controller wrote down the fact that the pilot failed to identify himself, the fourth offense in five minutes. "Please identify yourself or proper security measures will be taken," the controller ordered, his hand inching near a certain big red button on the panel before him.
"This is… Lieutenant Stryker Davis. Yes, I am the lieutenant," was the mystifying response.
Frowning slightly at the odd way the lieutenant phrased his response, the controller said, "Wait a moment please, lieutenant." He accessed the Air Force data log and began carefully sifting through the data. There was huge overload of new information, especially after the recent events. The destruction of the carrier USS Lincoln was now involving insurance claims, monetary reparations, and even a written death threat from the wife of one of the many victims. All that had been included into the log. The second item was that the National Security Advisor Galloway was attempting to sue both the Air Force and the Army for apparently ditching him on purpose near the country of Jordan via parachute because the jet in question was in flight. For some odd reason, the controller found that tidbit the funniest. All of the added information left the defense department in serious disarray, and it was confusing.
To the controller's delight, he found the record. He did not notice the footnote however that clearly stated that Stryker Davis had been released from military service. The controller didn't immediately speak with the lieutenant; instead he began entering the list of offenses onto the record, which included but was not limited to, improper paint schemes, lack of proper ID, failure to properly identify himself, and senselessly slaughtering a poor hawk.
"Did you find it yet?"
The controller nearly jumped at the sudden voice reminding him that the pilot was still waiting. "Lieutenant, sir, I regret to inform you but the Four-oh-first was officially disbanded two years ago," the controller informed him. "But if you wish to see the former commanding officer, she is currently stationed at the U.S. naval base in the East China Sea."
"Where's that exactly?"
The controller stared at the radio before replying, "The sea would be between China and Japan on the other side of the world. Is there any particular reason you are looking for the Four-oh-first?" he asked, the conversation growing odder and odder by the moment.
"Nope."
"One more thing, lieutenant," the controller said, and it seemed to him that the jet seemed to turn around in a minuscule turn to watch him. The controller took a deep breath and said, "For the next time you come here, please don't kill the local wildlife. Massachusetts takes great pride in the natural world here in the state, and we must respect that."
"Okay."
The controller could only stare in bafflement as the oddly-painted jet turned around on the runway and began to leave. If the lieutenant hadn't identified himself, the controller would have assumed that the pilot was a freelancer using illegal military equipment. He leaned on the console, watching as the fighter took to the skies… and abruptly disappeared altogether.
The controller froze, his gut churning uncomfortably at his brain tried to process what he had just witnessed. The jet had been there one minute, and then gone the next. The jet didn't even gain enough altitude to have vanished into the clouds. The controller felt his lunch returning to visit, and hustled off to the restroom, not caring that he was completely abandoning his assigned post.
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"Someone fix the damn TV… it's gone all snowy again!"
"You're the closest to it, you fix it!"
Ex – master forger Rodney Lockeys looked up in time to see two of his fellow inmates kick off a full-blown brawl while the source of the TV's problem, two oddly-shaped antennae on top, finally collapsed and snapped off the appliance completely. The two brawlers completed the damage by falling on top of the antennae and snapping both poles in half.
Things were always breaking here in this medium-security prison. Rodney knew that because after four years of enjoying nothing other than said TV, accidents like that happened daily. He didn't want to look out the window, because by doing so, all he would see was desert. Not even a cactus to break the tedium of sand and sky. The air conditioner inside only worked half of the time, and required a smack to the top to get it going. Insects and other creatures somehow managed to get their way in to torment the residents, both prisoners and guards. Rodney was still convinced he saw a black scorpion earlier that week.
News traveled slow, and the men had been relying on the dying satellite television set for news. Then the black metallic face had come on, warning them all of hostile takeover of their planet. The prisoners didn't care about the warning; they were more interested in the manhunt for the teenager Sam Witwicky. Bets had been placed on how long the kid would survive.
Nobody won.
Rodney had been close though. He had given the Witwicky about a week before the authorities caught up to him. The kid had taken eight days to resurface from wherever he'd been.
"Now we have no TV," Magdowl, Rodney's card partner, grumbled as he stared at his hand. "I even wouldn't mind seeing that metallic freak again onscreen just as long as it meant the TV was working."
"Here we are, wishing for a better TV when the folks topside get the fancy digital ones and complain about cable or something like that. I'm thrilled just to get reception… or I was thrilled to get reception," Rodney said, eyeing the broken antennae on the floor.
"Maybe the metallic freak can get us a better TV before he takes over the world," Magdowl grumbled as Laurent, a Grand Auto Theft master, slipped into an empty seat across from the two of them. Magdowl stared at him and said, "Go get your own table, this one's full."
Laurent ignored him. Instead he asked, "Did you not hear the news?" When neither Rodney or Magdowl responded, Laurent said, "The movie studio Mountains is being sued by the feds for causing a mass panic with the film of a scary metal guy. Apparently they were filming a remake of Orson Well's War of the Worlds, and wanted a genuine reaction from the public. The whole world has gone berserk since then."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Magdowl muttered. "Remember the whole controversy over the Mission City terrorist attacks and the United Nations? Remember Oroville before that? Talk about a serious mess. Kind of makes you wonder if the end of the world is in December… I wouldn't be surprised if it was."
"Where'd you hear about the feds suing?" Rodney asked curiously, pointedly ignoring Magdowl's peanut gallery comments.
Laurent shrugged. "It was the last thing the TV was showing before it got busted," he replied. He eyed the half-finished card game and asked, "Got bored?"
"I can play this game in my sleep and still win. It's frustrating, playing with amateurs," Magdowl grumbled. "Lockeys at least is a decent player compared to the rest of the little girls in this place."
"Harsh," Laurent said feigning hurt as Rodney rolled his eyes.
"Lockeys!" a guard shouted from the entrance to the rec room. "You've got a visitor!"
Rodney groaned as Magdowl roared in laughter. The visitor had better not be who he thought it was. "If it's my ma, tell her I'm deathly ill… and contagious!" Rodney shouted back, shrinking in his seat as though to hide from the guard's sharp gaze.
"Dude, you're the only guy I know whose mother still visits her son in prison. My mother officially disowned me when the FBI busted me with the trafficking of illegal goodies," Magdowl said, wiping the corner of his eyes with his grimy shirt sleeve.
"It ain't your mother Lockeys! Now get over here before I come in there!" the guard shouted from the safety of his security station. When Rodney didn't immediately get up, the guard shouted again, "Don't make me come in after you!"
"He wouldn't," Magdowl said dismissively. He began dealing another round.
"He would," Rodney corrected, remembering the last time. The guard had come in, and caught Rodney's shirt hem as Rodney tried to flee, knocking the prisoner to the ground. Then the guard has seized Rodney's ankles and literally dragged him out of the rec room. Rodney then had to explain to his mother why there was a large stain on the front of his shirt, on the account that he had slid along his stomach when the guard dragged him out.
"Lockeys!"
"I'm coming!" Rodney shouted back irritably. He got up from the table and said, "Laurent, my spot is yours."
"Thanks man!" Laurent said, and swiftly took over Rodney's seat as soon as it was vacated. Rodney however dragged his feet as he walked to the door of the rec room. He didn't want to see any visitors; he wanted to keep playing cards.
Outside in the hall, Rodney saw no sign of his visitor as he let the security guard handcuff his wrists together behind his back for the trip back to the cell. Rodney was used to all this; he'd been doing the same routine for the last four years now. Four years of prison food, four years of bad TV, four years of bi-weekly visits from his mother, four years of hammering out a rep amongst the inmates, and four long resentful years of hating the jerks who had originally thrown him here on the charge of being a terrorist's accomplice… and for forging licenses, FBI ID cards, and several federal documents. It was the first charge that made him angry the most though. He knew the Oroville charge was false; he'd saved newspapers from the last four years (when he could scrounge up the money to pay for them) and just knew that the metal aliens existed. There had to be a connection between Qatar in 2007 and the Jordan fiasco a couple of weeks ago. But as to expectation, the guard said nothing about Jordan to him, and Rodney only discovered it when he'd saved enough money for another outdated newspaper.
Nobody told Rodney anything nowadays. It was frustrating.
"Here you go," the guard said, pausing outside Rodney's room and unlocked the door. He opened the door and held it open, looking expectantly at Rodney.
"Um, what about the cuffs, sir?"Rodney asked, bewildered at the sudden freedom of greeting a guest without a guard present.
"Your visitor wanted a private meeting, so the cuffs are on your hands will prevent you from attempting to do serious physical harm to your visitor. Sorry, regulations," the guard replied.
Rodney wasn't sure to be complimented that the guard thought that him, a scrawny sort of guy, was capable of such violence, or to be offended that the guard thought he would even attack a visitor in the first place. Besides, he knew that he and his visitor wouldn't have privacy anyway; the guards would be spying on them via the small camera that was located in the corner of his cell. As he walked into the little room, he supposed it was a good idea that he was handcuffed; if it was his mother in disguise again, he might strangle either her or himself.
"You have fifteen minutes," the guard warned, and then gave Rodney a small shove so that Rodney would get into the room faster.
At least his visitor didn't try to hide behind the door or something cliché like that. As Rodney walked in, he immediately spied his guest sitting on the 'bed'. It was more like a cot. The visitor wore a large trench coat that covered the figure completely, and a sweatshirt underneath the coat so that the hood could be used to cover the person's face. Gloves and boots completed the outfit, and Rodney guessed that the guy was trying to conceal his identity from the curious onlookers in the prison.
It was definitely not his mother.
"I'd love to know how you got in here looking like that without questions from the guards," Rodney said, edging along the wall on the opposite side of the cell, just in case his visitor was planning to kill him in here. The handcuffs prevented him from defending himself, and the guards could only get to the cell only so fast. On top of all that, the guest had that air around them that suggested they had killed in the past.
"The disguise wasn't for in here, just for the trip," the visitor replied, the distinct and familiar feminine tone tickling Rodney's memory. "I… had to evade somebody," the person continued, pulling the sweatshirt hood off to reveal a face that Rodney knew well and never wanted to see again until he'd left prison.
Suddenly, he wished it was his mother under that disguise sitting here before him.
"What the hell are you doing here? Why are you here?" he said, jerking back in a similar fashion to an offended and angry cat.
"Where I come from, people usually say 'hello' before jumping to accusations," Air Force commander Antonia Stanton remarked, eyeing him.
"Where I come from, people usually don't try to give prison inmates heart attacks," Rodney replied carefully. Trouble usually followed this woman around, and he'd gotten caught because of it one time. "If you're here to entice me into another job…"
"You have no tools," Stanton reminded him bluntly. Rodney's shoulders sagged at the reminder, but the woman seemed unbothered. "Actually, I was here to pass along a few messages and, well, offer a work opportunity. I can always work something out with the guards," she said, folding her hands in her lap.
"Fine, shoot," Rodney muttered, and then quickly added, "Not literally!"
Stanton smiled a thin smile. "They relieved me of all my weapons at the door," she said. "Even the small handgun, so don't worry so much. As for the messages, one is that your sentence has been shortened from life to thirty years. The secretary of defense was still displeased with the fact that you forged his signature on several documents, drew up your own, and signed his name on those too."
Rodney scowled. "You paid me to do that, remember?" he asked.
Stanton nodded. "If you remember correctly, I believe you said that you were having fun doing it?" she asked calmly.
Rodney looked as though he had swallowed an extremely sour lemon. But she did have a point, and he could remember the entertainment he'd gotten from working at his craft. "Did you ever get anything from that incident in the end?" he asked.
Stanton nodded. "It didn't come back to bite me until early last year when Keller made a few connections I neglected to mention to him, and he pressured Thayer to knock me down on the ranking systems," she said, heaving a sigh. "Then he assigned me a 'bodyguard' whose job it is to make sure I stay within regulations and don't do anything crazy like disappear off the map again and blow something else up."
"Is that the person you're hiding from?" Rodney asked.
Stanton nodded. "Problem is that I saw a guard here who knows the bodyguard, so I can't stay long before I get dragged out of here," she said. "Now the second message is from Twitch, and he says 'hello', and wants to know what it's like to be behind bars."
"Tell him to pay a week-long visit here and he'll get the best firsthand experience ever," Rodney said coolly. "The nation's car industry and products aren't safe while he's running around."
"I actually saw him in Hangzhou, China a month or so ago," Stanton said. "He was stealing… as usual."
"I don't get how he evades the authorities," Rodney said, relaxing his stance a bit.
"Me neither. Now, I do have an offer for work for you. It's case sensitive, so I can't explain it here," Stanton said, leaning forward.
"I'll pass… I like it in here where I know that there are no crazy women and only just tough guys to worry about," Rodney said quickly without considering the offer.
Stanton tilted her head, and then said, "Well, think on it. I will hopefully see you again," she said, standing up and walking to the door. She tapped her knuckles hard against the metal, and the guard outside opened the door and let her out. Rodney heard her thank the guard, and then an encroaching silence as her footsteps faded away down the hall.
Rodney wandered out of the cell, and then asked his guard, "Can I go back to my card game now?"
The guard had no remorse in his tone when he said, "No. Free time is over."
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A/N: Welcome to Operation Jaguar! While this story is the sequel to Air Force One, it can work as a stand-alone. Be forewarned: this story will contain spoilers and details from the '09 Transformers movie, Revenge of the Fallen. Yes, I did make up the name of the movie studio; I didn't want to use the real name and risk getting sued. Transformers and all related media are the property of Hasbro. All original characters, both old faces and new, belong to me and require my written permission to use elsewhere. Finally, no real red-tailed hawks were injured in the making of the chapter.