AUTHOR'S NOTES: Finally, an action chapter! This one is all Weiss' and Rick Tardor's. Many thanks to CT7567Rules for the use of Rick.

There is a few in-jokes here that I won't mention (if you get what the last part with Weiss and Rick is based on, you are definitely a war movie buff). But if you're not humming or listening to "TIE Fighter Attack" from the Star Wars soundtrack, or better yet, "Reminiscence Therapy" from the Solo soundtrack, then we can't be friends.

The Southern Mojave Desert

California Dead Zone, United States of Canada

13 June 2001

Weiss Schnee startled herself awake. She realized she'd fallen asleep, lulled by the noise of the four Ivchenko turboprops. She laughed softly.

Rick Tardor looked over at her with a confused smile. "What's so funny?"

"I must be a pilot," Weiss replied. She thumbed towards the engines. "I fell asleep to those." She yawned and stretched, then looked outside. The sun was already climbing overhead, promising a hot day. They'd left Phoenix at dawn. "Where are we?"

"Over the Mojave. About 250 miles to Tijuana…we should be there in an hour or so. Bit of a headwind." He pointed to navigator's position in the glassed nose. "You can probably see the Salton Sea from there."

Weiss checked the altimeter. "18,000 feet? Shouldn't we go higher?"

Rick shook his head. "GRIMM aren't the only thing to worry about here. We're damned close to Branwen territory."

Branwen. Weiss knew the name, of course; Qrow Branwen was Ruby and Yang's uncle. God, Raven Branwen! Yang's mother. "Any relation to Raven Branwen?"

"Yep. She runs the gang. Well, they call it a 'tribe,' but it's basically a gang." He pointed to the west. Through the heat haze Weiss could see distant mountains. "They usually operate out of what's left of LA. I'm hoping they won't bother with an old Antonov."

"How would they even know?"

Rick smiled. "Miss Schnee, they marked us the moment we took off out of Phoenix. The Branwens watch the airports. If we were carrying something they really needed—money, electronics, spare parts for aircraft—they'd force us down." He nodded back towards the pallets. "Those are airliner engines, too big for anything they fly. Probably won't be worth their time."

"What happens if they do show up?"

Rick checked the navigational display and made a slight turn to the left. "If it's one or two, we might could make a fight of it. That's why I'm at 18,000. We can get low and slow, and they'll stall out trying to get us, and we can maybe take one out with the tail guns."

"What if they send out five or six?"

He laughed without humor. "Then we do what they tell us. Generally speaking, the Branwens are pretty friendly to cargo pilots. They take the cargo, sometimes the airplane if it's something they can use. Then they let you go. Nine times out of ten." He shrugged. "But sometimes they just kill you. Depends on if it's the head bitch or it's one of her underlings…and what kind of mood Miss Branwen is in." He glanced at her. "Let's hope that doesn't happen. I doubt the Branwens would kill me, but they more than likely would grab you for ransom."

It was Weiss' turn to laugh. "They wouldn't get much."

Whatever Rick was going to say in reply would never be known, because his eyes suddenly went to the left side of the aircraft. "Oh, shit."

Weiss immediately got up and looked: any time a pilot said those words, it was bad. She opened her mouth to ask what he had seen, but then saw it herself, about fifteen miles ahead and below. Something was on fire, leaving a smoke trail. She looked at the radar display. There was a blip there, at the edge. The Antonov's radar was designed only to avoid collisions; it didn't have anywhere near the range or capability of her Typhoon's.

Rick switched on the radio. "Mayday, mayday!" blasted from the speaker. "This is Interjet Flight 929, we are under attack from GRIMM! We have lost an engine and my copilot is dead!" The voice was high, almost hysterical—not that Weiss could blame them.

Weiss wondered if that message would go unheard, but to her surprise, she heard a reply. "Interjet, this is Starbase. Squawk 7700 for a fix. State souls on board and type." On the radar display, rings appeared around the blip as the Interjet flight switched their transponder to its emergency setting. "Interjet, Starbase, we've got you. Will relay to Tijuana and sending CAP your way."

"Starbase, Interjet; 30 souls onboard, type 737. ETA, Starbase?" The Interjet pilot sounded out of breath.

"Starbase CAP ETA two-zero minutes." Interjet was silent at that.

"Starbase," Weiss observed. "I think that's the Enterprise, CVN-65."

"Yeah, she should be on station out west of San Clemente." Rick gently pushed her back towards the copilot seat, opened the throttles up, and began a gradual descent. "I just hope those GRIMM didn't detect us."

Weiss strapped in as the An-12 descended towards the mountains—the Chocolate Mountains, she noticed on the navigational display. Rick throttled back: at full power, the Antonov left a smoke trail a blind man could follow. "Starbase, Interjet," the flight radioed. The voice was strangely calm now. "Lost our other engine. We're going down. Repeat, Interjet Flight 929 is going down, Chiriaco Summit. Trying to land on old interstate—" The voice suddenly cut off. Weiss leaned forward in her seat. There was a sudden blossom of orange to the right, then an ugly blossom of black smoke.

Rick divided his attention between the altimeter, the navigational display, and the sky. "Fuck!" he cursed, and pointed. "The bastards have spotted us." Weiss nodded, her stomach doing a somersault. They could see the specks of the GRIMM as they curved away from the funeral pyre of Interjet Flight 929, climbing back towards the An-12. He pushed up the throttles again and toggled the radio. "Starbase, Autumn Charter Flight 13. Interjet is down; doesn't look like any survivors. GRIMM are turning towards us. We could use that CAP, over."

"Roger, Autumn. Squawk, if you could—"

"No dice, Starbase; GRIMM home in on that. Our location is over the Chocolate Mountains, heading one-five-zero, angels 12, speed two hundred fifty."

"Autumn, Starbase, we have you. ETA one-eight minutes."

"Roger, Starbase. If we're still here, we'll be happy for the company." Rick tightened his straps. "Weiss, get back on the turret! We're going to have to stand tall!"

"On it!" Weiss unstrapped and jumped out of the cockpit. She raced between the crates tied down in the fuselage, keeping her footing in the diving turn Rick was flying, then clambered up the ladder into the tail. The turret was narrow, but she was able to squeeze into the seat. She gripped the twin handles that moved and fired the two Nudelman-Rikhter NR-23 23mm cannon that stuck out from under the tail. She found herself smiling. "I think I've seen this movie."

Rick added to that by yelling "Here they come! Raid count six Lancers!"

Lancers! Weiss thought with alarm. She'd heard of them, but never seen one. Lancers were one of the smallest GRIMM types, little more than a tiny jet engine, circular wings, and a narrow fuselage. They were rarely seen in air combat, because they were little more than kamikazes. Usually a larger GRIMM like a Nevermore carried them: they would seek out and destroy any target, and would loiter for up to two or three hours. Despite being fast, they were not very maneuverable; she could fly rings around them in her Myrtenaster, taking them out at range with missiles. Against something slow like the An-12, however, they would be deadly.

The Lancers swung back around, splitting into two groups, port and starboard, to bracket the An-12. Weiss flipped up the sight on the turret, waited a half second, and opened fire. Her first shots missed the nearest Lancer. Calm down, Weiss, she commanded herself. Pick your target and concentrate on that. Nothing else exists.

The Lancer suddenly put on a burst of speed, but Weiss twisted the turret to the right and fired. The shells tore the small GRIMM to pieces, and it exploded a moment later. "Splash one!"

"Great, kid! Don't get cocky!"

Weiss rolled her eyes. We're about to die, and he's quoting old movies. Then she was thrown into the side of the turret as Rick suddenly threw the An-12 into a hard left turn. The turret only had limited vision to the front and sides; Weiss hadn't seen one of the starboard-side Lancers climb and dive, aiming for the wing. It dived past and missed, beginning to climb to reacquire. Weiss, holding onto the handles, saw a Lancer fly directly across her gunsight, and she squeezed the triggers. It was a snapshot, but it worked: the GRIMM blew apart. "Splash two!"

"Hold on!" Rick hauled back on the control wheel with all he had, and the Antonov groaned with the strain; it pulled out about two hundred feet above the floor of a narrow pass through the mountains. Weiss was treated to the rather disconcerting sight of sheer rock walls rising above her. One of the Lancers tried to follow the old transport out of the dive, and hit the ground instead. "Splash three! That one's yours, Rick!" she called out. Weiss craned her head towards the windows and she got back in the turret seat. "Two to starboard, one to port!"

"Roger!" Rick gritted out, slamming the wheel to the right to avoid a Joshua tree covered ridge, then leveled out, but only for a second. Then he was climbing over another hump. Ahead was open ground, a beach, and the Salton Sea. "It's gonna get sporty, Weiss!" He keyed the mike. "Starbase, Autumn, we've got Lancers all over us! CAP ETA!"

"Autumn, this is Fast Eagle Five-Two. We're supersonic; ETA six minutes."

"Rick, level out!" Weiss had fired a few more shots, but the turret was a bit slow, and she missed. The Antonov's wings leveled, Weiss aimed down the gunsight. The Lancer's tiny brain had apparently decided that its best means of destroying its target was to hit the tail. Weiss' mouth felt dry; if she missed this shot, she would no longer have to worry about her problems. She waited a precious moment, ignored her suddenly full bladder, and fired. The GRIMM disintegrated under the heavy shells. "Splash four."

"Hold on!" Rick said again, and this time Weiss felt herself pulled towards the low ceiling of the turret as the An-12 dived. The mountains disappeared behind them, then there was a stretch of dusty land, an old overgrown road, and then water. Weiss' stomach lurched: Rick had them a bare hundred feet above the Salton Sea. His sudden dive had worked, however: Weiss saw another Lancer try to race ahead of them, get too low, make one bounce off the water, and cartwheel into an explosion. "Splash five! Literally!" She hauled the turret to the right, seeing out of the corner of one eye the Lancer tearing in towards the left wing. It overshot, but climbed, rolled, and came in for another try.

"Rick, slow down!" she ordered.

"Like hell!" Rick shouted back.

"I'm trying to kill this damned GRIMM!" she snapped. "Now slow down!"

Rick threw down the flaps. The Antonov lost speed. The Lancer, sensing a kill, accelerated, so fast it was nearly a blur. Weiss, however, was not watching the GRIMM: she was pointing the guns ahead of it. She opened fire. It was a deflection shot, the most difficult of all firing solutions, but it was also simple math: she fired ahead of the Lancer, filling the air with shells, and the drone simply flew into them. A split second later, it exploded, the pieces falling into the water. The engines howled as Rick raised the flaps and applied power; the An-12 sluggishly hovered at the edge of a stall—Weiss tried to remember if the Salton Sea was the one that someone could just float in, due to the high salt content—but then it began to accelerate. "Splash six! We're clear!"

Rick let out a war whoop, and Weiss laughed, pounding the side of the turret. They'd made it. She laughed even harder when she realized that now she could add four kills to her total—if she ever got to fly a fighter again. Her fingers shook, but the adrenaline felt good. 16 kills. Ha! Puts me ahead of Ruby.

Then she saw another speck, above and behind them. It rapidly grew into the unmistakable form of a GRIMM. "Oh shit!" Weiss screamed. "Rick, check six! Ursa! Ursa!" She grabbed the handles and pulled the guns upwards, but the Ursa was already making its run. She felt the Antonov shudder with hits, and black smoke suddenly burst from the number four engine. The only thing that saved their lives was that the Ursa overshot them; most of its heavy cannon fire went into the water.

"Lost number four!" Rick quickly pushed back that throttle, feathering the propeller, and hit the fire extinguishers. Caught low and at slow speed, he fought the An-12 out of another stall, but there was wing damage too. "Fast Eagle, Autumn, we're in deep shit! Lost an engine!"

"Fast Eagle, we're—what the hell is that—" Fast Eagle's voice turned into a scream and cut off. Rick heard the other Fast Eagle report to the Enterprise that he was under attack from a high-speed aircraft, then he was cut off as well.

Weiss heard it, but the more pressing problem was the Ursa. It was coming in, this time ranging shots towards the left wing. She slewed the turret around, and opened fire; the 23 millimeters spoke five times and then stopped. She was out of ammunition.

It was enough, but just barely. The Ursa sparked, staggered, and dived. Weiss thought she'd gotten it, but then it suddenly pitched upwards, leveled out, and fired two missiles, before its starboard wing tore free and it spiraled into the water. Weiss braced herself.

The missile shots were hasty, and one missed, sailing past the cockpit to explode harmlessly ahead. The other tracked true, and struck between the number one and two engines. Fuel ignited, followed by both engines failing. Rick hit the fire extinguishers again. "Weiss! Get up here!" Weiss pulled off her headset, dropped out of the turret, and ran forward, nearly falling as the An-12 began to heel over towards the dead engines. She instantly sensed the problem and dropped into the copilot's seat, grabbing the control wheel. Rick stole a moment to feather the damaged engines. "How far can we fly on one engine?" Weiss asked.

"Not far," he replied. "And we'll lose the wing before long either. Did you get the GRIMM?"

"Yeah. Where's the Navy?"

"Don't know. They radioed they were under attack. I have a very bad feeling about this." Another alarm warbled on the instrument panel. "Fuck! Number three's overheating. We're going to have to put this bitch down."

Weiss pointed. "The beach."

"Yeah, worth a shot." Rick keyed the mike. "Starbase, Fast Eagle, I don't know if you're still out there, but this is Autumn. We're going down. Going to try and land at coordinates 33'12 by 115'51." There was no response; Weiss saw that there were high mountains between them and the Pacific, an easy hundred miles away. The carrier might not have heard them.

Rick kept the number three engine as high of a speed as it could go, then dropped the flaps. "Keep her nose up. She's going to pull to the left."

"Got it." Weiss nearly had the control wheel wrenched out of her hands, so she put her arms underneath it and pulled back. The nose came up and stayed there. Rick kept the gear up; a belly landing in this scenario might work better. The altimeter wound down as the water disappeared beneath them, then they felt the transport shudder as the tail hit first. A grinding noise resounded through the aircraft, followed by the entire airframe shaking. Weiss let go of the control wheel rather than have her arms broken by it, as the nose came down and dug into the sand. The soft sand gripped the An-12, and it slowed gradually to a halt with the sound of glass shattering from the nose cone. Then they stopped. Rick stopped the number three engine before it tore itself apart. The two exchanged looks, grinned at each other, then both smelled gasoline.

"Get out!" Rick yelled. Weiss dropped out of the seat and headed for the crew door. Luckily, it hadn't buckled, and she was able to get it open. Rick dropped into the navigator station, grabbed his M4, and followed her out the door. They ran for the salty surf, slid to a halt, and waited.

It was silent, other than the ticking of the engines of the transport.

After ten minutes, Rick sighed. "Okay. I don't think she's going to blow. Let's grab some supplies. We may be here awhile."

"Right." Weiss followed him back to the Antonov. It was a bad situation, she reflected, but not an impossible one. Assuming the aircraft didn't explode, it would give them shelter from the sun and the night chill, and they had enough emergency supplies to last awhile. The Navy, the USAF, or the Mexican Air Force would—might, Weiss corrected herself—send out a rescue mission. Assuming that the Branwens didn't find them first.

Something caught her eye, a flash of sun against metal in the sky. She felt the icy hand of fear—if it was another GRIMM, they were both dead—but whatever it was didn't attack. She stopped and shaded her eyes. "What is it?" Rick called back. He was at the aircraft.

"Something up high. Can't make it out." Weiss found herself wishing for Ruby's silver eyes, that could pick out stars in the daytime.

"Let's hope it's one of the Navy guys." She followed him into the transport, and they quickly gathered supplies. There were still gasoline fumes, and it would be a good idea to get away from the aircraft until they dissipated. Weiss saw the ruins of an old house some distance away; little more than adobe walls, but better than nothing. "How's our water?" she asked.

"Not great. And we can't drink from the Salton Sea; it's more salty than the ocean." Rick hopped out of the Antonov and pointed south. "I think I saw a brook over in that direction, so we can move that way. But we should have enough water for today."

They began to trudge through the sand to the ruined house. Weiss looked upwards; the distant aircraft was gone. Then her eyes caught movement—not in the sky, but to the right, in the sand dunes. "Down!" she shouted, and pulled Rick into the sand. A shot rang out, and the sand puffed in front of them.

"Run!" Rick said, rather unnecessarily, as Weiss was already up and moving. He raised the M4 and fired three rounds in the general direction of the shot, then raced after Weiss. Another shot cracked past them, but then they were over the adobe walls.

"Are they Branwen's people?" Weiss asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Rick shot back. He braced the M4 against the wall and fired a shot, then ducked down as a fusillade of bullets struck the wall. "Whoever they are, they're armed. Speaking of which, do you have something?" Weiss pulled the PPK from her duffel. Rick snorted, reached into his bag, and threw her a M1911. "You need something with a bit more range."

"Assuming this doesn't break my arm." Weiss winced as a piece of adobe flew off and nearly hit her in the face.

Rick cocked an ear. "Sounds like a couple of hunting rifles, maybe an AK or two. They might be local scavengers. A lot of people live off whatever they can find out here, then sell it to the Branwens or the Mexican cartels. They don't take prisoners." Another shot spanged off the wall, crumbling more adobe. Then, without warning, there was a bloodcurdling yell, and a dozen people, dressed in odds and ends of clothing and armed with sharpened pieces of metal, charged the house.

Rick rose up for a moment, aimed, and fired the M203. The grenade spiraled out and exploded in the middle of the group, throwing them back in a spray of blood and sand. About five turned and ran back to the cover of the dunes, while a sixth managed to crawl back under cover. The other half dozen lay still.

"Well done," Weiss complimented. "They won't try that again."

Rick got back down. "Yeah, but that was also my one grenade."

Weiss leaned back around the wall. "There's six of them trying to flank us." There was a shot, and she ducked back under cover, but it was Rick that fired. Another quick glance, and one of the scavengers was lying face down, a scoped rifle sliding down a dune, along with a good portion of the sniper's skull. "Nice shot."

"Lucky." Rick spit on the M4 to get some of the dust off of it.

Behind him, Weiss saw someone stand up. They held a bottle with a rag stuffed in it, raising it to throw. Weiss brought up the pistol and fired twice. The .45 bullets threw the scavenger backwards, and the Molotov cocktail thumped harmlessly into the sand. Rick shook his head to clear the ringing; Weiss had nearly fired it next to his ear. "Nice shot."

Weiss flexed her fingers. "Lucky."

Rick popped back over the wall and fired off two three-round bursts, the ducked back down. "You're right. They're trying to flank us, all right. Let's switch." Weiss handed him the pistol, and accepted the M4, thinking to herself that, between this place and Beacon, she might as well have joined the army. "I'll take care of the flankers," Rick told her. "The rest of them are going to try and cover them when they rush us. You keep their heads down."

"Roger that."

Rick stole a quick look. "Here they come! Let 'em have it!"

Weiss stood and braced the M4. Sure enough, a few heads popped up above the dunes. Weiss carefully fired at each before they could shoot at her, aiming down the ACOG sight and firing single rounds; she had no idea if Rick had extra magazines. Two fell dead, and the rest took no further interest. That left the five men charging the house without cover. Rick rolled out from behind the wall, raised the M1911, and fired, emptying the magazine. He only missed twice; three tumbled to the ground. The other two hesitated, fatally, as Weiss swung the M4 around and killed them. Then they got back under cover. Rick slapped a new magazine into the M1911, then reached into the duffel and pulled out another for the M4. "Last one."

"You didn't carry more?" Weiss asked as she reloaded. "I thought you said you flew into some rough places!"

"Yeah, but I usually didn't have to shoot this much." He made a quick inspection of their handiwork. "We've gotten over a dozen of the bastards. That takes care of the boys, now bring on the men!"

Then they heard the sound of engines. Weiss was the one who looked. Chugging down the old highway was an old garbage truck, with heavy slabs of steel crudely welded to the side. The truck sounded like it wasn't long for this world, but it didn't have to be. Weiss gave Rick a dirty look. "You just had to say something. I don't suppose you have a LAW or something handy?"

"Can't say as I do." Rick crawled forward. "There's that Molotov cocktail that dead guy dropped. Maybe if the truck gets close enough, we can toss that." Rick sounded like he didn't have a lot of confidence in his plan. Neither did Weiss. "We'll have to let them get in close."

"Wait." Weiss held up a hand. It was silent, except for the chugging of the truck and the odd angry shot against the adobe. "Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear—" Then Rick did hear it, and grinned. "Hot damn, a helicopter!"

The sound was now unmistakable, and loud enough to hear over any noise: the clattering, eggbeating sound of a UH-1, the immortal Huey. It came in from over the mountains, turned over the Antonov, then settled over the Salton Sea. It turned, and fired a fusillade of rockets. The garbage truck was torn apart under the rocket hits, stopped, and burned. Then the helicopter turned again, this time firing machine guns into the sand dunes. If anyone survived the strafing, they stayed out of sight. Rick and Weiss cheered, then hugged each other. The Huey was the light gray of the US Marine Corps. It hovered over them, then landed a short distance away in a spray of sand. The rotors slowed, and through the manmade dust storm, they saw figures moving towards them. Rick slapped Weiss on the shoulder, got her to her feet, and raised the pistol over his head, waving towards them. "Yo, jarheads! Glad to see you bast—"

The shot took Rick high in the chest, throwing him backwards into Weiss. Both went down. Weiss got out from under him, and looked down. Blood ran from the wound, in the center of the chest. "What the hell?" Rick croaked, sounding more surprised than hurt.

Then Weiss saw. The men and women who stepped out of the sandstorm were dressed similarly to the scavengers, but moved with far more precision, fanning out to flank the adobe house, covering those checking the dead. In the center, dressed in a black flight suit with red highlights, was a woman with reddish eyes and black hair, a sword at her side. She strode up to them, and Weiss knew instantly who it was. The family resemblance was unmistakable. "Raven."

Raven Branwen stopped, eyes widening in surprise. "I'll be damned. Weiss Schnee."

One of her men walked up to her, his M16 pointed in their direction. "What do you think, ma'am?" he asked.

"I think we just hit the jackpot." She waved two of her troops forward. "Take her. If she resists, break one of her limbs." Weiss raised her hands and rose. The M4 was underneath Rick, and she knew she would die if she raised it. The PPK was somewhere in the sand. The men quickly pulled her hands down behind her, and she felt them ziptie her wrists together. She dug her heels in the sand and faced Raven. "Don't kill him," she said, nodding at Rick.

"He's already dead." Raven motioned to her troops, who began pushing Weiss along. Raven knelt next to Rick, expertly looking at the wound. She drew her sword. "You're going to bleed out, one way or another. Any last words?"

Rick grinned at her through bloodstained teeth. "Fuck you."

Raven smiled. "Nice." Then she raised the sword and plunged it into Rick Tardor's throat. The last Weiss would ever see of him was one of Raven's men dragging him into the surf of the Salton Sea. It was also the last thing she saw for awhile period, as a black hood was dragged over her face.