(Verstand tanzt)
Dances of the Mind
Bourrée: Hot Stepping
Chapter 3:
In Preparation
Begin Message
***For Your Eyes Only***
Date: July 12, 2076
Source: Classified
Text: From the data, I gather we're dealing with something very important. Whoever is managing it has managed to cover their tracks, even going way back into the archives. It appears to be much older than we previously thought, though, and may have even been started during the original conflict. Perhaps earlier. Who knows. Whatever it is, it seems to me that its leaders are confident that it will undermine the defenses of Earth and, ultimately, the human race. I can't say for certain how valid these claims are. I need more time.
End Message
"Tripwire!" Sam Gradsen called, waving his arms. "They're looking for you back at CP."
"Oh?" Tripwire asked. "Direct orders I suppose?"
Sam nodded. "You bet."
Sighing, Tripwire slung his beam rifle over his shoulder. "You know sometimes I get to thinking that all this military stuff is too, well...Decpticon."
"Oh, don't sweat it. It's like getting drafted, you know. Teachers, factory workers, clerks—they all become soldiers when the draft comes. And you know what? I think its nice to know that normal everyday people can answer the call to defend the nation—or the world."
"Well, when ya put it that way, it makes it pretty hard to complain, doesn't it?" Tripwire laughed and followed Sam back to the command post.
When they arrived, a British SAS officer was poring over a map with a few US Army officers. "We've spotted a few emplacements over here and here," the SAS officer said, pointing to a region of the map. "They're defending this bridge right here, which is one of the three river crossings. All the crossings are defended, but we need to take and hold one, or we might leave our supply line vulnerable. On our side of the bank, you can see the road that comes up here—that's the road that connects the 105th with the rest of the 3rd expeditionary. Incidentally, all other passages through the area have been secured by hostile forces, including collaborating governments."
The British officer looked up at Tripwire. "Ah, there you are, mate. I was hoping to see you." Tripwire nodded in acknowledgement. "Take what you've got of your company and capture the bridge. Air support is on the wait for green flares, so when you've taken out the AA, give a smoke."
"Roger that. Sam, you in?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Tripwire walked away from the group of large tents that made up the main annex of the small CP. With Sam trailing behind, he walked over to where some men were badgering the supply officer.
"Oh come on, gimme a chocolate bar!"
"Go get an officer's signature, and maybe I'll give you one. I've got direct orders to keep the materiel safe."
"Materiel? Chocolate? Fuckshit Morgan, I'm dying here!"
"Don't you have better things to do with your time Kern?"
"As a matter of fact he does," Tripwire interjected. Sergeant Frank Kern snapped to attention. "Do I see one of my very own non-coms trying to exhort supplies from good old Uncle Sam, the great righteous and everpresent United States of America?" He stepped up close to Kern to emphasize his towering twenty-four foot figure. Keeping the tension just a long enough for him to sweat, Tripwire finally smiled. "At ease you fruit. Go eat an apple or something."
"Yes, sir!" Kern said, saluting.
"Oh, and while you're at it, gather up the company—we're heading out."
"Thanks, sir."
Tripwire turned back to the supply officer. "Oh, don't mention it. And hey—can you do me a favor?"
"Anything, sir."
"Put one of those chocolate bars on Kern's bunk, but with one of those little frilly pink bows on it, will you? You know, the ones the GIs love to give the USO show girls? Thanks."
Tripwire left the puzzled supply officer, wearing a smug sense of satisfaction. "I could get used to this," he muttered.
"Okay, troops, here's the situation." Tripwire projected a map in the air. "This river here borders the southwestern portion of the projected zone of engagement. Command wants us to secure at least one of these three bridges so our line of communications with the 105th doesn't get cut. I've already looked at the intel and recon, and have decided that we're going for the middle bridge. If resources and opportunity permit, we'll give a go for one of the other bridges.
"The middle bridge is codenamed Nevada passage. The one to the southwest is Utah passage and the one to the northeast is Oregon passage. We're expecting about a company at each bridge, with another company in reserve for all three bridges. On the other side of the bridges, the terrain is all rough-and-tough cityscape. Most of the buildings have been long abandoned by civilians, so we shouldn't have any problems with ROE. In fact, any houses would most likely contain hostiles, if any people at all. This particular township has one large road that starts at the bridge and leads to a central square. It's a spoke-and-wheel type of layout, so all streets meet at the center.
"The biggest threat to us are the two LL32s that watch over the bridge. They're dug into firing pits, one on each side. Also, at the center of town is a small mobile SAM group. If we can take those out, then the blue boys up above can join the party in their F-22s and F-18s. Also, the airborne can drop in another company to help us get comfortable until division can scrounge up enough men for a real thrust. Mission priority is to eliminate the SAM group and to keep the bridge intact. I'm counting on Dreyfus and Shin and the demo team to take care of any charges they might have placed on the bridge. We'll keep things simple and split up by platoon. Watch for mortars and snipers—they've got plenty out there. Remember, intel loves prisoners, and what intel loves, you love. Let's move out troopers! Drop everything but weapons and ammo!"
The map, which had animated the briefing with visual display, disappeared as Tripwire turned to face two approaching autobots. One of them was a dark green-brown color of army camouflage. Attached to his side was a small sidearm, but he was otherwise unarmed. A small patch painted on his chest displayed his affiliation with the armored cavalry divison. The other autobot was notably larger. On his shoulder was a stout barrel with a gaping hole which would have been dismissed by anyone noticing had there not been the small stub of a warhead shyly peeking out of it. His tan camouflage paint was chipped here and there, and there was a dent or two on his front armor. His wheels, though vestigially perched on his back, still tracked an unusually dense clot of mud. In one arm, he held some monstrous gun that looked like it could down a bomber from cruising altitude. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Tripwire said, crossing his arms.
The first autobot chuckled. "Now that's a warm greeting."
Tripwire held his ground for a second longer before embracing his comrade. "Fairway! I haven't seen you since…geezes Christ…that last spat at, ah, Charleston, was it? Fucking slag, how long ago was that? Two months?"
Fairway spread his arms. "Where does the time go?"
"Thank the Matrix you're in one piece. Last time I saw you, you were barely in one piece!"
"Well, us recon and comm people get around." He slammed his chest. "This bot may get mangled, but he always pulls through!"
"Ha!"
"Hey it got me a purple heart."
"You're slagging me!"
"No shit-from-the-pit. Take a look."
Fairway produced the medal from a compartment.
"Haha. 'Wounded by an instrument of war in the hands of the enemy' eh?"
A cough.
Tripwire turned his attention to the other autobot who seemed to be rather impatient. "Something jittering your superstructure?"
"Sorry, sir, but we're on business. Are you in command of 3rd army, XII corps, 151st infantry, Dog company?"
"Yes I am."
"Field report sir—we have it from cavalry that there is another detachment heading towards the bridge. If you hurry, you should have enough time to assault and set up a base of operations before they arrive. From what I hear, the troops are just passing through, so they won't be on high alert. There will be plenty of them, though, so keep an eye on the field and on the watch. Eighteen hundred hours is the estimate, give or take a five or ten. Hope you find the info helpful."
Tripwire grimaced. "Sure, send my thanks to those waging the 'war away from the field,'" he said with a touch of sarcasm. "Shit, as long as we're not caught blind. Not like March…" he trailed off, staring into empty space for a bit. Shaking his head, he asked, "What's your name?"
"Highpot, sir."
"Well met. And drop the sir—we're comrades." Tripwire grinned.
Highpot nervously returned the grin. Swinging his gun around to ready position, he started, "Well, we'd better be off. We're expected back..."
"See you later Tripwire," Fairway said.
"Same to you, Fairway. Keep in one piece."
As they parted, Tripwire heard a few snatches of conversation.
"Shit what's with him?" Highpot whispered.
"Don't mind you," Fairway whispered, "but he was at Chicago during 'Blind Fire.'"
"Oh."
Jack Henley pored over the reports on his desk and frowned. Rubbing his forehead in frustration, he sifted through them and hoped there was something that he had missed. His second examination confirmed it: the reports officially said nothing.
"Got something there?"
Henley
looked up calmly, his heart racing. "Sir,"
Jack stammered, shooting to his feet. "I
didn't notice you walk in."
Ian Pershing, Director of the CIA, waved him off. "Don't worry about it. I'm technically a civilian anyway." He smiled, "Frustrated?"
Henley
collapsed back into his chair. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"What have they got you doing? Predicting troop movements? Satellite photos? Enemy installations?"
"Hit the nail on the head."
Ian snorted and looked away. "Absolute garbage." Then he suddenly whirled in his chair and slapped
both of his hands on the desk. Leaning
in as he spoke, he lowered his voice slightly, "You want a real job?"
Jack raised an eyebrow. "What have you got in mind."
"Only the most important project to the survival of the human race."
Tossing his pen onto the desk and scooting in his chair, Jack challenged, "Shoot."
Ian got up and went to the door, glancing quickly down the hallway. Closing the door and locking it, he returned to his seat and pulled a large steel object out of his jacket. After hefting it a few times, he flipped a switch on its side and placed it on the desk with a small thunk. Henley recognized it as a small jammer, used typically to prevent bugs or recording devices from discerning the dialogue of a conversation. Whatever the CIA director had in mind must have been very important, or he would not use a jamming device. This office was deep within allied territory, and the chance that any sort of enemy surveillance was anywhere nearby was minimal.
"Do you remember last March?"
Jack bit his lip and tried to recollect. "Do you mean Chicago?"
"Yeah, 'Blind Fire' they
called it."
Jack started, "You're not going to…" He was cut off by Ian's hand.
"Don't say a thing until I've finished," Ian said authoritatively. Jack nodded and acquiesced. "Anyway, as you may know, 'Blind Fire' was the codename they gave to the Decpticon ambush on the president's convoy last March. Total annihilation. The convoy was taken out, as well as a good chunk of the Army and the Illinois National Guard. Funny they never found the body of the president, but that's another issue. Anyway, some research turned up a few interesting tidbits.
"Before I get to that, let me let you in some stuff you may or may not be aware of. Since the beginning of the autobot-decpticon struggle here on Earth, there has been a small division created within the CIA to handle matters with the transformers and Cybertron. The division was kept secret because of the obvious security reasons, and because the methods required to obtain intelligence on Cybertron are…unorthodox. Anyway, it's practically an independent organization now. It taps into just about every government organization for resources, and the government, if accosted, will deny its existence.
"A few years after creation of the organization, known only as Echo-Tango, we started receiving reports of the most disturbing nature. Having suffered a number of serious losses and setbacks, and in lieu of Megatron/Galvatron's defeat, the remaining decepticon leadership decided that other means were necessary to obtain victory. The decepticons started a project to infiltrate earth's defenses and launch a massive assault from within."
Ian Pershing paused to let his words soak in. He smiled, folding his hands in front of him. "How would you like to work on the biggest intelligence and counter-intelligence scheme ever since the heights of the cold war?"
Jack scratched his chin in thought. "I don't know…it doesn't seem much different from the usual stuff. Decepticons have been infiltrating for a while, I mean they're goddam transformers. Hell that coffee pot over there could be one right now."
"Yes but what kind of responsibility do you place upon a coffee pot?"
Jack frowned. "I don't see where you're going…"
Ian glanced around nervously. This time his voice dropped uncomfortably low. "Let me give you a little help. Our contacts reported a large number of resources going into research of biological and chemical nature, namely genetics and gene manipulation."
Jack thought about it more, "Biological and chemical weapons? That's not really infiltration…"
Ian shook his head. "Certainly its something they've looked into, but that's not what I'm talking about. Gene manipulation, Jack, genetics?"
"Sorry, Ian, I can only think of some specially catered virus or something…"
"Jack, get your head out of the sci-fi books. What do we do with out knowledge of
genetics?"
"Ummm, clone sheep?" Jack
asked as a joke. Ian was not
laughing. Then it hit him.
"Goddamit, Jack, they're cloning humans."
