Albert strode down the deserted hall and through the shabbier of the two story waiting room, nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms stood talking by the soda machine.
The door to the outside landing was chocked open, a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much longer. He hoped that it wouldn't complicate matters, although he figured it probably would.
Albert took a left and started down the winding corridor that led to the helipad, absently running through a mental checklist.
…hailing open, procedure, weapons, gear, report ...
He already knew that everything was in order, but went through it again anyway. Control was what being a competent leader was all about.
But to close this case-
He shut the thought down before it could get any further. He knew what had to be done, and there was still plenty of time. All that mattered now was getting the Bravos back, safe and sound.
Albert opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped out into the bright evening. The rising hum of the 'copters engine and the smell of machine oil filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was cooler then inside, partly draped by the shadow of an aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Phinello check out both birds yesterday and they'd been fine, all systems go.
He dismissed that train of thought as he walked toward the 'copter, his shadow falling long across the concrete. It didn't matter, not anymore. What mattered was what came next.
"Expect the unexpected" That was the S.T.A.R.S. motto- although that pretty much meant to prepare for anything.
"Expect nothing" That was Albert Hawkin's motto. A little less catchy, perhaps, but infinity more useful. It virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise him.
He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a shaky thumbs-up from Baljeet; the man looked positively horrified, and Hawkins briefly considered leaving him behind. Phineas was licensed to fly, and Baljeet had a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if there was trouble. Then he thought about the Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue mission. The worst Baljeet could do would be to throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly, and Albert could live with that.
Albert grinned suddenly, wondering what Francis Monogram was doing right now.
Shitting his pants, no doubt. Albert chuckled as he stepped back onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a sudden clear mental image of Monogram, his cheeks red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Monogram was a power hungry psychopath, and that made him an idiot.
Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with a little bit of power. Albert had found some evidence that didn't show the chief in a positive light. He had no intention of using that info, but if Monogram attempted to screw things up one more time, he had no qualms about letting that info get out...
… or at least tell him I have access to it; that would certainly keep him out of the way.
Ferb Fletcher stepped onto the concrete, carrying the ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started for the 'copter. Phineas and Phinello followed, Phineas with the sidearms and Phinello lugging a satchel of RPGs, the compact grenade launcher slung over his shoulder.
Albert marveled at Ferb's brute strength as the Alpha climbed in and casually set down the bag like it didn't weigh one-hundred pounds. Ferb was a genius,sure. But in the S.T.A.R.S. muscle was a definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good shape, but compared to Ferb, they were pencil necks.
As the three of them stored the equipment, Albert turned his attention back to the door, watching for Isabella. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been just under five minutes since their last contact with Bravo, they'd made excellent time... so where the hell was Isabella? He hadn't interacted with her much, but her file was a rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations from everyone she's worked with, praised by her last captain as highly intelligent and "unusually" calm in a crisis.
Prodigy or not, she could stand to buy a decent watch. He silently urged Isabella to get her ass into gear and motioned for Baljeet to start the 'copter.
It was time to find out just how bad things were out there.
