Part 7
T minus 4.5 hours, Nan-Hue Valley:
They were back in the clearing where Mason and Fox had first agreed to help each other the night before. It looked like a completely different place in the late morning light. And to Mason, it now felt more like 12 days than the 12 hours it had been since they set off from this place. He glanced over to where he thought he might have been laying, unconscious, last night and wondered: How am I ever going to go back to a normal life after this? Indeed, this was by far the strangest and most intense mission he had ever been sent on.
It had taken them only a half-hour to get back here from the base using Fox's flying machine. Mason was surprised to know that Fox had not only his craft (which he referred to as the "Arwing") stored at this site, but also a massive metallic crate full of munitions and supplies. These had been rendered invisible by some cloaking device, which is why Mason could not see them the night before. Now he sat on a log with some weird contraption in his hand and an open instruction booklet on his knee.
Fox told me this is a rifle, he thought to himself, once more fixing his mind on trying to figure out how to operate the supposed weapon. Okay, there's the grip… the trigger… I guess that's the safety. He looked along the frame, searching for a magazine port, but found nothing of the sort. "Hey Fox," he called. Fox's head appeared around the large crate some feet away.
"What is it now?" he drawled. He apparently had not considered the fact that Earthlings were unaccustomed to alien weapons. This would make the fifth time Mason would ask Fox about the rifle within the last 15 minutes.
"Where does this thing chamber new rounds?" He was expecting Fox to give some obvious answer and return to his work (he was fitting the Arwing with more advanced weaponry). Instead, Fox looked bewildered.
"What?"
"Where do the rounds enter the chamber? This mechanism looks completely backwards to me."
"There are no rounds and no chamber—this isn't a grenade launcher, it's a pulse rifle." Fox was using that condescending tone again, as if this was something a first-grader could easily understand.
"Okay…" Mason had no idea what "pulse rifle" meant. "So where do you put the magazine?"
"Magazine?" Fox gave a short laugh, "What, do you think we live in the 23rd Cycle? There is no magazine. There's a micro-fusion generator attached just under the barrel; do you see the warning label?" Mason looked and, sure enough, there was a warning label showing a tiny crossed-out picture of a person (with a dog's head) opening the gun a certain way and evaporating. He thought the message was pretty clear.
"Why do I even ask…" he said under his breath—though a little too loudly, for Fox shot him a warning glance. He decided to switch to a more practical subject: "Let's form a battle plan."
"Well," began Fox, now abandoning his tasks to come and squat down by Mason, "I don't see any reason to be stealthy about this anymore. I say we go in with the Arwing. I'll fly it and do some bombing runs while you operate the guns I'm attaching now. Once we clear the base, we can focus all of our fire on the missile. Then, once that's good and dead, we'll take care of the site itself."
"You mean destroy the base?"
"Yes."
"…the entire base?" The notion made no sense to Mason; how the fuck are we going to blow up a place that big with such a small arsenal?
"You obviously don't know how the Star Fox team operates." Fox smiled, "We have been known to cause significant… collateral damage, let's say, in the past. Believe me, Alex, if you can build it, we can destroy it, as sure as the oceans of Aquas are deep."
Mason sat for a while. Then, finding no objections, he stood up and faced Fox, who reciprocated. "Okay, let's kick ass!"
"Damn-right, son!" Fox responded, and his fist met Mason's between them. Mason picked up the new weapon, shouldered it, made sure Sally was in her holster, and then followed Fox to the Arwing. It's time to end this.
T minus 4 hours, above the Hue-Sang NVA Outpost:
The sea of green trees that had been rushing by below them broke suddenly ahead in the gray square that was their target. A thought that had been bothering Mason had now become too much to bear; he had to ask the question.
"Hey Fox, won't they see us on RADAR? Shouldn't we be flying a little… lower?"
"Radar!?" Fox sounded like this question might make him crash the craft, "Do you think the frame is lined with polycarbon-solbendinite for nothing? You people really are living in the middle ages…" He trailed off, leaving Mason slightly offended. At least they didn't have to worry about detection right away.
Fox soon spoke up again, saying, "I'm going to circle around first; tell me what you can see of the activity."
"Okay," Mason replied. He turned to peer out of the cockpit. It was difficult to see the ant-like figures milling about the base. It was clear that they were on full alert. They were half-way through the circle when Mason noticed a horrifying absence. "Fox, the HINDs are missing!"
"What?"
"The HINDs—the choppers! You know, the other aircraft!"
"Oh shit, do they know we're here?"
"I can't tell…" Now both of them were looking frantically around the sky surrounding them.
And then he saw it. Straight ahead, like the devilish face of a crocodile, was the impending nose of a HIND-D helicopter.
"SHIT!" they both shouted at once, as Fox rolled the craft to the left. Now they were shooting straight down toward the mountainside.
An alarm abruptly came on in the cockpit: Lock-on! Lock-on! Evade! Evade!
Fox reacted just in time, as two missiles swerved just under the right wing, smashing into the forest below in an orange and black ball of fire. They leveled out and barely missed a tree.
"Alex!" Fox shouted, "Use the guns! Take out that bogey!"
"Roger!" Mason grabbed the newly installed controls in front of him. He had no practice—only what Fox had told him. He was operating the rear cannons. He got sight of the chopper, locked on, and pressed the trigger. On the screen, he saw streaks of green light blaze into the background. The frame shuddered slightly from the recoil, but the HIND immediately pulled away.
Shit! Mason had lost him. He glanced back and forth between the view of the outside and the rear view on the screen. Where the hell was he?
There! Diving from the right, the chopper was bearing down on them with its cannons flaring. Streaks of yellow shot past as the vehicle thundered overhead. Nothing hit—we're safe.
Then, Lock-on! Evade! "Shit, not again!" Fox cried, frantically pushing buttons and pulling levers.
"Can't you do something? Do that spin thing you did before—" Mason shouted back, frantically. He was now searching for the HIND once more.
"I can't at this altitude, we'll smash our wings on the trees!"
"Well if you can't do a barrel-roll, try a summer-sault or something—anything!"
"I know how to fly the damn Arwing!" Fox shouted, as he forced the craft into a steep, twirling climb. When they leveled out again, they were facing the other way—heading right at two missiles speeding forward.
"Fox…?" Mason's concern was mounting.
"Hold on," Fox said through clenched teeth.
"Fox!?" He could read CCCP on the side of one of them.
Suddenly, the Arwing tilted to the side and boosted ahead, forcing Mason back into his seat. He had just enough time to look up as the one missile flew straight above them. He knew the other just barely missed the underside of the frame. He glanced at the screen and saw the two long white poles try to correct course back to them, but smash into each other instead.
The HIND was once again heading right for them.
"I think this guy wants to play chicken, Fox," said Mason, grinning.
"Then let's give him a taste of his own medicine," Fox replied. "Fire everything!"
Mason pulled the trigger, and the sky before them was filled with blinding white light, just as an immense force rocked the cockpit. Fox dove down at an angle to avoid the debris and Mason peered back up at the destruction. Metal shards and flaming remnants fell from the sky.
"Boom, bitch!" Mason uttered. "Now what?"
"Now?" Fox turned, "Now we attack the base." He turned the Arwing sideways and 180 degrees later they were facing the mass of gray that was the base. "Get ready…"
Now they were almost skimming the surface as the base sped towards them.
"Okay, give 'em HELL!" shouted Fox, and Mason rolled out the thunder. The bombs fell from the Arwing like explosive shit from a very angry bird. Mason looked out of the window at the blurred images of burning death as limbs flew off of the NVA soldiers and blood exploded into the air.
Once the Arwing was clear of the base, the AA guns fired up. "Bit late to the party, guys!" Mason shouted back at them. Fox turned to him and said, "We'll make another pass, then I'll drop you at the rocket. I'll fly around until you're done with your business, then just contact me on the radio, okay?"
"Okay," Mason agreed. Flying low, they came up to the base again and bombs flew from their hatches, raining more death from above. The craft slowed after its second pass and banked to the south where the missile still rose into the sky. It came to a hovering stop right beside the tall, slender, metallic shaft of the rocket.
"This is your stop, Alex," Fox jested.
"Yeah, thanks cabbie," Mason shot back. "Don't lollygag too much when I call—I don't want to get caught in a fucking bullet-net by fisherman-Charlie."
"Don't worry about it!" said Fox, popping the hatch open. Humid air rushed in and brushed its warmth across Mason's cheeks.
"Catch you on the flip-side!" Mason jumped from the craft, landing hard on the concrete ground. He heard Fox shout something at him, but he didn't know what. The engines roared, the cockpit closed up, the Arwing rose and turned gracefully in the air, and it was off in a burst of blue fire. "Good luck… Star Fox…" Mason turned towards the missile's imposing mass, fingering the C4 in his bag.
T minus 3.5 hours, Hue-Sang NVA Outpost Missile:
Mason peered down the sights of the blaster-rifle as the attached light illuminated the darkness that had once more consumed the missile interior. He was confident the Dominic Mayhem was dead, but he wasn't going to take any chances. He skirted the circular walls, scanning for its hulking form and listening for its heaving breath. Nothing—nothing except the bloodied form of Corman on the floor. Mason had feared this; Mayhem was nowhere to be found. Oh fucking well,he thought, If he isn't here, that's good news.
Keeping the rifle handy, Mason kneeled down and set to work planting the charges. "Shit," he laughed, admiring his finished work, "there's enough C4 here to blow a hole in the world." Detonator in hand, he strolled back outside and down the steps. Now he took the radio from his belt and pushed in the button to talk.
"Come in, Fox, this is Alex, do you read me? Over."
Nothing.
"Fox, come in, this is Alex! Over."
Suddenly, there was a voice coming from his left: "I am afraid you will find your radio no longer works."
Mason spun around and raised the rifle. Leaning against the south wall was the dark-skinned man with whom General Corman had spoken before.
"You!" shouted Mason.
"Yes, me," said the man in a casual voice. "My friends call me Jerry, and I call this an EMP generator." He held up a mass of blinking lights and wires. "It has fried all of the electronic devices you currently possess." Mason noticed that he man was otherwise unarmed and quite alone.
"What do you want?" he asked cautiously, keeping the rifle's sights trained on Jerry's head.
"Merely your life, Mr. Mason," Jerry grinned.
"What are you playing at?" Just then, Mason heard (and felt) heavy footsteps coming from behind him. When Mason turned, what he saw nearly knocked him to the ground.
There was Dominic Mayhem, fully functional, carrying two objects. In his left hand was the Arwing, clutched by one of its wings and its cockpit window shattered. In the right hand was Fox, apparently unconscious.
"Son of a—!" Mason was cut off when Mayhem hurled the Arwing at him like an obscenely massive Frisbee. Mason dodged to the right just in time as the craft crashed past him, wrapping itself around one of the rocket's fins. Mason raised the rifle and was about to fire on Mayhem when he noticed, with a sickening pang in his stomach, that it was holding Fox like a meat-shield in front of its head.
"Can't you tell your pet to cut-the-hell-back!?" Mason shouted back at Jerry.
"I am afraid that would be… counter-productive. Mayhem only answers to me."
"So…" Mason said, as Mayhem stalked forward, still holding Fox aloft. "That's it, then, huh? You're the true mastermind behind this whole thing! And Corman was just your puppet—this whole base is just your fucking puppet!"
Jerry began to clap slowly as his grin broadened. "Very good, Mason, very good. How insightful you are."
"Let's just say it runs in my family. I don't suppose you've ever heard of my father—a famous detective by the name of Cole Phelps," Mason replied, backing away from the impending doom of Dominic Mayhem.
"I certainly have," said Jerry. "Be sure to give him my regards when you see him, will you?" His smile broke into a hideous, toothy grin. "Mayhem, KILL!"
The beast grunted and brought a large blade out from behind its back.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Screamed Mason, but it was too late.
He saw blood squirt from between Fox and the monster as he fell to his knees.
To Be Continued…
