Title: Duty's Call
Author: Crazy Ivan and Lady Bethia
Series: Sub Plot in the Ranger Next Door.
E-Mail: lady_bethia@yahoo.com, the_crazy_ivan@yahoo.com
Home Page:
Pairings: None
Ratings: PG
Warnings:
Disclaimers: The X-Men are not mine. I am making no profit from this
story. James Smith is my original character.
Summary: Introduction of James Smith before he comes to Two Hills.
Happens before Teresa becomes the Ranger there.
Duty's Call:
In the 1960's the United States Government realized it had a growing number of threats and potential threats, and shrinking small numbers of ways to control them. Among these perceived threats was the rising menace of the X- Factor Gene. To combat this, the U.S. Military created zombie units that were called Chi Tau, or X-Terminators. In the intervening years these units have proven brutally effective in dealing with a variety of threats to this country. Threats ranging from those of Supernatural Origins to Extraterrestrial, and to the teams original reasons for existing, combating X-Gene'd individuals that were seen as threats to the people of the United States.
The United States Government and Military has persistently denied knowledge of these units. And denies their existence. Yet, in the realm of Urban Myth, they are known, on occasion scoffed at, and at times, feared.
Time: Today
Place: A village in the Columbian Highlands Threat: Terminated
The scene was surreal, like something out of Dante or one of those early Arnold movies. A heavy jungle surrounds the village, and the village itself looked dead, not old, comfortably dead, but new violently, most sincerely dead. Carbon scouring, small fires, and a heavy fog of smoke, humidity, and acrid stenches, most people couldn't recognize, and wouldn't want to even if they were there.
Moving through the landscape were a reinforced squad, wearing matte black equipment, face covering respirator masks, and the very latest in modern military firepower. The crunching of burnt refuse and other things thick under their boots. The sweeps were thorough, professional, and on occasion punctuated by the bark of a high-powered round, echoing through the jungle.
"Chief." A mechanically altered voice reverbs through team communicators, "Chief,"
"I've got an urgent message, from the World."
A large man, made even larger in his modern battle armour and kit turns and walks over to his radio telephone operator, takes an offered line, and plugs into the long range net.
A few minutes later, he unplugs, and broadcasts a signal to his team, 'Recall.'
And within minutes, they respond and fall back to an established LZ, to board heli-transports out of this little corner of hell.
The Devil's Butte Team was going home.
Another threat dealt with, that not even the 'National Enquirer' would print about even if they knew it.
And only the dead witnessed their leaving.
A day later, at their main base, the Devil's Butte Team was debriefing and doing routine maintenance. Routine when nothing else was jumping up, and demanding attention. The installation itself was dug into the Butte that gave them their name. Better yet, it was an old Missile Command base, one that had been officially down graded back in the 70's. It no longer housed nuclear tipped missiles. Now, it was home to 46 men and women, with different priorities, one of a score of Chi Tau Combat Team Bases hidden around the country. Waiting patiently for the call.
As a military instillation, it's walls were dove gray or battleship with hard tiled floors and basic equipment for comfort. But it also had the very latest for surveillance, and communications equipment with the newest toys for the big boys including revetments with air transport, and vehicles. Oh, and guns, lots and lots of guns, of various caliber, and type.
Yet, since these people were people, it had personalizing touches. Calendars with various scenes, from the sublime to the obscene, personal quarters were personalized, as much as possible, pictures, hobby materials and stuff. Yet, it was still just a venire over the military specialty of its occupants. You wouldn't mistake this facility for a frat-boy hang out, if you found it. In truth, not many of the locals knew it was even there because it was hidden on the Indian Reservation. Most of the Reservation Council knew of it only because of the rent payments to the Tribe for a few square miles of desert and that was about it.
Yet inside, the teams knew that one of their number was leaving. His door said, Smith, James, CW4, and nothing else. Inside, the man named Smith was packing his bags, the orders on his pillow. Proceed to assigned location, and begin a year's duty as a watcher. Nice boring duty. Except the last three watchers had been pulled out of Westchester County because the risk was to great of these watchers getting caught by the watched. So now, it was Smith's turn. A man known by his associates as 'The Ghost.'
"Hey, Gun Runner. Who'd you piss off, to get this assignment???" Comes a voice from the req room.
"Hell if I know." Comes CW4 Smith's response.
"Guess someone needed the best of the best."
"Too bad, they got me."
"Remember, Chief, Happiness is a confirmed kill." Comes the joking response.
"Ya, I know, I know."
The Chief stands up, looks over his bags, nods, "And which of you low life lifers is gonna help me get my kit to the bird???"
A couple of troopers rustle themselves, and make noises about doing that, or something like it.
SFC Landrum is the first to the door. "Chief, How long you goin' to be at this site?"
"Till I get caught, or I'm relieved, or I retire."
"You got the 'Rodent' at this fancy school."
The Chief grins, "Eyup. Even know his favorite bar. May be goin' out for a casual drink. And if I just happen, happen, mind, to run into this little scrapper, maybe I'll have a friendly little talk with him. SFC Landrum guffaws in response, and several others openly laugh.
"That would be a sight for these old eyes," another Warrant adds, the name tape on his uniform announces 'Heath.' "That would be a sight indeed."
"Especially after what he did to 'Old Frosty.' Hear he's still in the hospital. And it's been a couple of years."
"Yeah, Sergeant Major Frost was one of a kind. Just dumb luck he got caught by the rodent. Worse, he was making an evac, just got caught in a cross fire."
"True, but I still want a piece of the 'Rodent.'"
"Amen," comes the response.
Landrum grins, "Any chance getting that fight on film? I'd pay good Yankee dollars to see that little dance."
"I can but try, Now let's get my gear to the bird."
A few minutes sorting, and moving and a small group starts working it's way to a jeep, then drives quietly to the airstrip.
Then another few minutes getting gear stowed on a C-141, destination, Norton Air Force Base, in New York State.
Once secured, the Chief turns to his friends, shakes hands then salutes, and they return it. Then he boards the plane, and they watch it close up, taxi off, and then lift off down the runway. Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters was about to have a new watcher. And Woe be to the wicked, or the X-Men, if Chief Smith find them doing anything wrong.
Duty's Call:
In the 1960's the United States Government realized it had a growing number of threats and potential threats, and shrinking small numbers of ways to control them. Among these perceived threats was the rising menace of the X- Factor Gene. To combat this, the U.S. Military created zombie units that were called Chi Tau, or X-Terminators. In the intervening years these units have proven brutally effective in dealing with a variety of threats to this country. Threats ranging from those of Supernatural Origins to Extraterrestrial, and to the teams original reasons for existing, combating X-Gene'd individuals that were seen as threats to the people of the United States.
The United States Government and Military has persistently denied knowledge of these units. And denies their existence. Yet, in the realm of Urban Myth, they are known, on occasion scoffed at, and at times, feared.
Time: Today
Place: A village in the Columbian Highlands Threat: Terminated
The scene was surreal, like something out of Dante or one of those early Arnold movies. A heavy jungle surrounds the village, and the village itself looked dead, not old, comfortably dead, but new violently, most sincerely dead. Carbon scouring, small fires, and a heavy fog of smoke, humidity, and acrid stenches, most people couldn't recognize, and wouldn't want to even if they were there.
Moving through the landscape were a reinforced squad, wearing matte black equipment, face covering respirator masks, and the very latest in modern military firepower. The crunching of burnt refuse and other things thick under their boots. The sweeps were thorough, professional, and on occasion punctuated by the bark of a high-powered round, echoing through the jungle.
"Chief." A mechanically altered voice reverbs through team communicators, "Chief,"
"I've got an urgent message, from the World."
A large man, made even larger in his modern battle armour and kit turns and walks over to his radio telephone operator, takes an offered line, and plugs into the long range net.
A few minutes later, he unplugs, and broadcasts a signal to his team, 'Recall.'
And within minutes, they respond and fall back to an established LZ, to board heli-transports out of this little corner of hell.
The Devil's Butte Team was going home.
Another threat dealt with, that not even the 'National Enquirer' would print about even if they knew it.
And only the dead witnessed their leaving.
A day later, at their main base, the Devil's Butte Team was debriefing and doing routine maintenance. Routine when nothing else was jumping up, and demanding attention. The installation itself was dug into the Butte that gave them their name. Better yet, it was an old Missile Command base, one that had been officially down graded back in the 70's. It no longer housed nuclear tipped missiles. Now, it was home to 46 men and women, with different priorities, one of a score of Chi Tau Combat Team Bases hidden around the country. Waiting patiently for the call.
As a military instillation, it's walls were dove gray or battleship with hard tiled floors and basic equipment for comfort. But it also had the very latest for surveillance, and communications equipment with the newest toys for the big boys including revetments with air transport, and vehicles. Oh, and guns, lots and lots of guns, of various caliber, and type.
Yet, since these people were people, it had personalizing touches. Calendars with various scenes, from the sublime to the obscene, personal quarters were personalized, as much as possible, pictures, hobby materials and stuff. Yet, it was still just a venire over the military specialty of its occupants. You wouldn't mistake this facility for a frat-boy hang out, if you found it. In truth, not many of the locals knew it was even there because it was hidden on the Indian Reservation. Most of the Reservation Council knew of it only because of the rent payments to the Tribe for a few square miles of desert and that was about it.
Yet inside, the teams knew that one of their number was leaving. His door said, Smith, James, CW4, and nothing else. Inside, the man named Smith was packing his bags, the orders on his pillow. Proceed to assigned location, and begin a year's duty as a watcher. Nice boring duty. Except the last three watchers had been pulled out of Westchester County because the risk was to great of these watchers getting caught by the watched. So now, it was Smith's turn. A man known by his associates as 'The Ghost.'
"Hey, Gun Runner. Who'd you piss off, to get this assignment???" Comes a voice from the req room.
"Hell if I know." Comes CW4 Smith's response.
"Guess someone needed the best of the best."
"Too bad, they got me."
"Remember, Chief, Happiness is a confirmed kill." Comes the joking response.
"Ya, I know, I know."
The Chief stands up, looks over his bags, nods, "And which of you low life lifers is gonna help me get my kit to the bird???"
A couple of troopers rustle themselves, and make noises about doing that, or something like it.
SFC Landrum is the first to the door. "Chief, How long you goin' to be at this site?"
"Till I get caught, or I'm relieved, or I retire."
"You got the 'Rodent' at this fancy school."
The Chief grins, "Eyup. Even know his favorite bar. May be goin' out for a casual drink. And if I just happen, happen, mind, to run into this little scrapper, maybe I'll have a friendly little talk with him. SFC Landrum guffaws in response, and several others openly laugh.
"That would be a sight for these old eyes," another Warrant adds, the name tape on his uniform announces 'Heath.' "That would be a sight indeed."
"Especially after what he did to 'Old Frosty.' Hear he's still in the hospital. And it's been a couple of years."
"Yeah, Sergeant Major Frost was one of a kind. Just dumb luck he got caught by the rodent. Worse, he was making an evac, just got caught in a cross fire."
"True, but I still want a piece of the 'Rodent.'"
"Amen," comes the response.
Landrum grins, "Any chance getting that fight on film? I'd pay good Yankee dollars to see that little dance."
"I can but try, Now let's get my gear to the bird."
A few minutes sorting, and moving and a small group starts working it's way to a jeep, then drives quietly to the airstrip.
Then another few minutes getting gear stowed on a C-141, destination, Norton Air Force Base, in New York State.
Once secured, the Chief turns to his friends, shakes hands then salutes, and they return it. Then he boards the plane, and they watch it close up, taxi off, and then lift off down the runway. Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters was about to have a new watcher. And Woe be to the wicked, or the X-Men, if Chief Smith find them doing anything wrong.
