GUMMY BEAR department…
"I want this mold modified according to the following specifications." "For extra-large gummy bears, my Fuhrer?" "Yes, Extra-large… and extra deadly." "Yes, my Fuhrer. You understand this will take some time." "I have time. But you would do well to use it wisely…"
10,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean
The lights in the cargo bay went out, and a moment later the rear ramp of the huge Lockheed C-130 began to drop. The four Oompa-loompa paratroopers stood up from their seats, made one final check of their gear, and moved to the back of the plane. "Switch to oxygen," the commander said, and his troops clipped their masks into place. At this altitude, they would surely pass out if they tried to go for more than a few minutes without supplemental O2. A tiny red light came on above the ramp, and the Loompas' eyes locked on it. "Ten seconds," the pilot's voice came over the speakers. "Over the target area." "Roger," replied the team commander. He waited, poised. The light turned green. "GO!" the Oompa-loompa team ran as one to the end of the ramp and jumped, launching into a headfirst freefall. They knifed down through the cloud layer, flattening their trajectories as they did so, their bodies now parallel to the ground. Underneath the clouds, the bright moonlight at high altitude was blocked; the only light came from the city and harbor below. The commander watched the altimeter on his wrist. Five thousand feet… "Pull chutes!" With a pull of cords, four black parasails blossomed into life. The commander was jerked upward, swung, and stabilized. "Switch to night vision." Raising his hand to his temple, he activated the goggles attached to his helmet, and the world was bathed in neon blue. The system was somewhat different than that used by the military, and far more advanced. Zooming in on his heads-up-display, the commander identified their target. The freighter lay at anchor in the harbor, the Chadworth logo on her smokestack visible even from this height. The Oompa-loompas drifted downward, steering themselves toward the massive vessel and the rows of cargo containers on deck. They were close enough now…
Locking his chute's steering mechanism for a few seconds, the commander reached behind him and pulled out a modified MP5, silenced and built custom-sized for Oompa-loompa hands. He flipped open an extending stock, and put the gun to his shoulder. A red crosshair appeared in the center of his visor. Scanning the freighter's deck, he identified three guards within his field of view: one at the bow, one atop a stack of containers, and one aft. "Ready," came a voice in his earpiece. "Take 'em down," he replied. Centering the middle guard's head in his sights, the commander fired a three-round burst, all but silent between the effort of the suppressor and the rushing of the air. Blood spattered and the man dropped instantly, at the same exact moment as the other two collapsed and fell from view. Holstering the gun, the Loompa commander unlocked his chute and angled toward the top of the container he had just cleared. His feet touched steel, and he slapped a control plate on his chest; his chute almost instantly whipping itself back into its storage rig. Three other equally deadly figures alighted on adjacent containers and retracted their chutes, unslinging their guns. "We need to get to the engine room," said the commander. The result of this mission would be a small blow, and one not initially attributed to its giver, but it was still necessary. The Fuhrer's pride was at stake, and the annihilation of a factory could not go unanswered. Attaching magnetic pads to their gloves, the Loompas silently descended the container stacks to the deck; a guard rounded the corner just below the commander. A throwing knife flashed, and the man fell with blood spurting from his throat. Retrieving the knife, the commander gestured, leading his men toward the stern of the ship.
The captain stood on the bridge, smoking a cigarette. He would set sail in the morning with thousands of tons' worth of delicious candy, but what should have been an easy job was turning into a nightmare. Since the destruction of Wonka, increased security was now mandated on all shipments as a precaution against any vengeful attacks by Wonka's supporters. The captain glanced at the wall clock: 1:00 AM, time for the hourly security check. He keyed his walkie-talkie. "Sykes?" No answer. "Sykes? Come in, Sykes." Those idiots; they were probably on the dock, drinking beer. Useless. The captain turned to the two security men on the bridge with him. "Go see what those imbeciles are doing. If we're lucky, they've fallen overboard and drowned." The men nodded and left the bridge, heading down the stairway to the deck. There was a muffled thump, and the captain looked up from his charts. From outside, he heard the voice of Johnson, the security chief. "Hammond? HAMMOND?! Oh my g…." There was a horrible choking sound, a few labored breaths, and then silence. The captain backed toward the emergency telephone, his eyes on the yawning doorway and his hand on the butt of the .357 revolver in his belt. He keyed the phone. "Get me Chadworth. Hurry!" Something scraped on the bridge roof, and the captain's eyes darted upward. Something moved on the stairs outside. The line transferred, and a sleepy voice answered. "Who is this?" "Mr. Chadworth, this is Captain Breisch. I think…" the line clicked. "Hello?" Breisch asked. "HELLO?" The sounds from outside had stopped. Breisch yanked the .357 from his belt, holding it in front of himself, like a ward against some supernatural evil. "WHERE ARE YOU?" he screamed, sharply aware that he was already surrounded. "Here." Breisch whirled… and didn't see anything. The Loompa commander sighed. Sometimes he hated being short. "No, dude. Down here." Breisch looked down and let out a yell of terror as a throwing knife whipped toward his face.
"That would have been a lot cooler if he had seen me the first time," the commander complained as he wiped off his blade. "I mean, I feel like a hobbit or something here. " "Actually, we're shorter than hobbits," one of his men said as-a-matter-of-factly. The commander glared, and then stitched up the impudent soldier with a burst of automatic fire. "Enemy got him; you all saw it." The commander said, and his other two troops responded with an immediate "Yes, sir!" "Now, where's that bomb?" Creeping from shadow to shadow, the Loompa commandoes made their way down to the freighter's engine room. A few of Chadworth's crewmen passed by, blissfully unaware of the carnage topside, but the Loompas ignored them. They didn't have long to live anyway. Planting charges on the ship's main fuel tanks, the commander set the timer for five minutes. More than enough time. On the way up, their path was obstructed by two crew members who stood talking at the topside hatch, enjoying a smoke before the ship set sail. Two shots rang out… just as one of them dropped his cigarette. One man fell, killed by a headshot. The other bullet came so close to the second man that it grazed the back of his neck. He shouted in pain and surprise, looking over to see… The man turned and ran for it, a volley of bullets sparking on the steel behind him. "Quickly, men!" the commander cried, and his two troops leapt up the stairs. The unfortunate crew member was heading for the cover of the containers when a bullet punched through the back of his skull.