(Verstand tanzt)
Dances of the Mind
Bourrée: Hot Stepping
Chapter 4:
"The Face of the Enemy"
4:00:21 06.16.76, NetID 3012.1345.199.1 Port 1110, UserID 4453298 login Logging in to network…Negotiating with host…
Establishing DCP-3X Protocols…
Connected.
Receiving message from AG34E-21…
Begin Message
*Text only*
Preparations complete. Initiating Phase II action. Project {[encrypt] *charstring* [end_encrypt] //&code=L337&key=private&&%20% /Symbol="code-text1"} is underway. Results favorable. Further reports "as need to know."
End Message
open "logfile.001"
*Access Denied*
setpasscode= "Alpha-alpha-tango" + "%root%\user\passcode.ini"
open "logfile.001"
*Access Granted*
delete_entry "4:00:21 06.16.76, NetID 3012.1345.199.1 Port 1110, UserID 4453298 login" –admin_norecord=0 –reset_clock –clear_slot 1*Entry Deleted*
logout +run_ini "hidetrace.ini" –mask_entry=1
*Logging out*
*Modifying logfile*
…
4:04:00 06.16.76, NetID 3012.1345.199.1 Port 1110, Idle Time: 15 minutes.
"Heh, you know, I could get used to this planet," a gruff voice called.
"Don't know about you, but I could get used to stealing from this planet," a second voice responded.
A chorus of chuckles.
"Those autobots still out there? Dammit I say we slag 'em now while the slaggin's good."
"Shut yer trap, Cutaway."
"Why don't you shut yours, Switchback?"
"Quiet you two!" a third voice interjected. "We hold our positions until further orders."
A blue streak in the sky, then a small cloud.
Cutaway shielded his eyes. "Looks like 'the signal' to me."
The third voice called softly. "Time to move out. Keep quiet you two. Fire on my signal."
"Shhheeerrrr thing Jackknife. You're the boss-bot."
A shuffling in the greenery—they shift positions. Silence.
"Boy I sure could use some down time," the left autobot called out.
"You're telling me. Of all the chumps in the company, we get slumped with patrol," the second replied.
The first one stretched. "Once I'm off duty it's gonna be a gallon of Penzoil, straight and virgin, the way I like my sweeties."
The second one chuckled. "I hear you, soldier. Straight to 'The Hangar,' eh? Lookin' for some wartime encouragement?"
"Hey every soldier needs his morale…"
A nod. His hand dropped.
Flashes of red. The brief chatter of a .50-cal.
Silence.
"Recon?" Tripwire whispered.
A soldier hiding in the tall-grass of a hill continued to peer through his field glasses for a moment longer, then crawled back down to the company's main position. "The bridge is pretty broad down there, so it might be hiding something underneath, but from what I see, it looks like they've got a light patrol by the LL32s. I saw lots of smoke from the chimney's of the nearest buildings, and then some more further in town. Looks to me like they've holed themselves up pretty well."
"Then we'll just have to make sure that they don't get too comfortable." Tripwire turned as he heard the shuffling sound of boots on grass. Another soldier appeared to his left. He questioned him immediately, "Did you find the shallow portion that intel told us about?"
"Yes, sir," the soldier nodded. "About a good three-quarter miles upstream. The water's maybe a good twenty feet deep—not too bad if you ask me. The engineers are beginning to secure ropes for raft-crossing."
Tripwire nodded in approval. "Tell them to be ready to cross at fourteen-hundred. The covering fire begins five minutes before. Keep in touch on the shortwave only, got it? It wouldn't help for us to broadcast our position to the world. Remember: red flares for abort, green flares for go."
"Yes, sir," the soldier said, saluting crisply before jogging off at a low crouch.
Tripwire turned to face his detachment. "Ok, folks, here's the scoop. At five before fourteen-hundred, which is in ten minutes, we open up fire. I want the MGuns and LGuns to take up positions on the hill. Make sure you put one over in that grove at the base of the hill on the other side—nice view of the LL32s. Mortars and rockets at the LLs, got it? When you see the green flares, we bring down the heavy covering fire and push it up front. Mguns move it up the bridge, and the rest of us push it hard across. Demo team crosses when the guns are captured. We'll need a little TNT for the guns, but focus on defusing any charges on the bridge. Got it? Hold your positions for now. When I give the signal, no firing until I give the signal."
A jeep and a humvee drove up quietly on the dirt road. "And the mobile group?" a voice called from the jeep.
"Ah ha ha ha," Tripwire replied. "You can take care of yourselves, can't you?" he joked. "Take a few friends, storm it. You know, the usual."
"Sure thing fearless leader," the jeep called.
"You gonna stay back and watch us get slagged?" the humvee asked.
"No, but I certainly could if I wanted to. Anyway, I'll be up there with you guys, Flatout."
"And are you going to stay in robot mode?" the jeep asked.
Tripwire smiled, "That's my prerogative Cinder. Besides, it's a bit easier to give orders that way."
Cinder sighed. "You need to get back on Cybertron for at least a megacycle. Get in touch with your roots."
Tripwire laughed. "Don't worry, this bot is one hundred percent made on Cybertron."
"Hmmm hmm hmmm," Cinder replied.
Tripwire rapped on his hood. "Get in position."
"Sure, don't you worry about me...," Cinder replied mockingly as he drove off with Flatout.
Tripwire turned back to the soldiers, "All right, then. Let's get ready for the show."
"The offensive is going as planned," General Thormund Oslow reported.
"Excellent. Excellent," a sinister voice called through the darkness. A metallic hand appeared for a brief moment, gesturing. "Dismissed."
Oslow bowed once, turned crisply, and walked out of the pitch black room. He shivered as soon as the doors closed and he was out of visual range of the guards. Something had to be done about some of Magnatron's habits. His tastes and eccentricities made it particularly difficult and disquieting to deal with him. Still, he was quite a military asset, so he supposed they would have to tolerate him for the time being.
And by they he was referring to the Earth Planetary Coalition, a coalition hashed from Warsaw Pact nations and just about every other crooked and/or anti-Western regime on the face of the planet. It still lacked a single, united cause, but for the time being, its constituents were satisfied with the goal of defeating and overturning NATO and the U.N. He supposed that if they emerged the victor, the member-nations would all turn against each other in one bloody battle for global domination. But that was much further along the line. For now, there were more immediate problems.
The first was the United States. It still held on to its industrial strength, but many these days "prophesized" its demise and downfall, as everything that rose must eventually come down. Even Rome, in all its glory, succumbed to this entropic law, beat down by barbaric savages from the north and east. However, as long as the United Sates maintains its current relations with the autobots, there would be danger of increasing power. When the autobots first arrived on Earth battling the decepticons, most nations held on to the alliance as a matter of survival. However, human technology having progressed rapidly due to "foreign" exposure, the situation was becoming more equivocal. Some nations began to re-analyze the tactical situation, and decided that their national interests lay elsewhere. They allied with the decepticons.
At the time, it posed quite a question. Why ally with the decepticons, who were so bent on global dominance and human destruction? Perhaps the more intriguing question would be why the decepticons decided to honor such an alliance (at least for the time being). And so, questions afloat, the dance began, in quick duple time. One, two. One, two. A step here, a step there. Who would step on who's feet? Who would trip and fall first? A bourrée to remember; a night of hot stepping. When the night is young and the time is right, even foxes dance under the moonlight.
Straightening out his attire, the general proceeded down the corridors of the subterranean base to the central control room. From there, he could coordinate an entire war against any nation, should he desire to. As of this moment, though, his attention was focused to the small chunk of the World Map on the eastern portion of North America. Looking at the enemy positions west of their Virginia beachhead, he contemplated alternative attack solutions. He had done this many times before, and things still looked the same. They must push and push until they reached their objective.
The thrust was twofold. Ultimately, the capitol was their goal, but they intended on crushing Westpoint while they were at it. That would be a blow to the United States which would be felt more in the long term. Doing so would strike a concentration of the country's military intelligentsia, crippling its source of well-trained officers. At some point later, they would stage a similar thrust at the Air Force Academy in Colorado, if the opportunity permitted. They would proceed then to continue striking pseudo-military targets, maximizing civilian "splash" damage. The was for Earth would not be fought in the battlefield, but on the pulpit, in the office, and on paper. International media would be the weapon, double-edged and whimsical. For the Earth Planetary Coalition, it would just be a matter of prolonging the war until the civilian population of the United States cries out. Freedom of speech in the United States was its curse and its blessing. Although it allowed for much progress, it also hindered the much needed efficiency and speed in government action during wartime.
To fool the enemy, Magnatron had devised a transponder that carried his a copy of his unique signature. From that, the Allied troops would think that Magnatron himself was leading the invasion when he was, in fact, laying low and waiting for the right moment. Much of his time was spent locked away in that dark room, communicating with Cybertron—superiors or subordinates, Thormund knew not which, nor did he care—he had his own superiors to report to.
He walked to a security door, slid a card, and punched in a sequence of numbers. The door slid silently open, admitting him. The room he entered was sparse, on civilian standards, but rather luxurious from a military perspective. The simple rectangular room was obviously an office, but could easily have been at any corporate headquarters rather than some dank military base. At the opposite end of the room was a steel desk painted a matte black that smelled of pure functionalism. A tall potted plant sat in the far corner, and some pictures on the steel walls. There were no windows, as the base was underground, but on the wall on one side was a flat, window-like video screen that displayed a fairly realistic outdoor scene.
At the desk sat a short man, half-balding and in a faded green uniform of some antiquity. His mustache was no longer dark brown, but a light brown mixed with silver. On his breast were eight rows of ribbons and numerous medals and pins. He sat straight-backed, a feat for a man of his stature, and was tapping at a laptop with incredible efficiency when the general walked in. The man did not so much as flinch, and continued to tap away, forcing Thromund Oslow to wait until the man decided to notice him. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the man leaned back in his seat and regarded the laptop screen with satisfaction. Turning it off and pushed it aside, he then looked up and for the first time, made eye contact with Thormund.
"Ah, Mr. Oslow, I see you have visited me in this most opportune moment," the man said.
"I hope I am not disturbing you, Secretary-General," Thormund said obsequiously.
"No, no, no," Secretary-General Heinrich Goldstein waved him off. "As a matter of fact your visit is rather well timed. I was just sending a message to our friends in Asia," he said, motioning to his laptop. "It seems that they have something in mind themselves." He grinned impishly. "With all luck, the west coast of the United States will fall without and within. I have word that at least twenty-five thousand in San Francisco and Los Angeles together are allied to their mother country. Once they are supplied by our munitions, they will strike from within the United States like a poison."
Thormund smiled too, "So the time has come then?"
"Yes. We have come a long way, have we not?" the secretary asked, not looking for any real answer. "Come. Sit. Have a drink to celebrate." He moved over to a steel cabinet, unlocked it, and removed a decanter and two glasses. Smiling, he placed these on the desk as Thormund took a seat. "I don't like the lower ranked officers to see alcohol in my office. It helps to maintain discipline if they see me as severe and strict." As he said this, he poured some brandy into both glasses. He raised his glass in a toast, "To the downfall of the United States."
"Here, here," Thormund said, raising his glass. The secretary knocked back his glass as Thormund took a sip. Making a face, the secretary exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair.
"Now then, what is the purpose of your visit?" Secretary-General Goldstein asked.
"Magnatron has sent orders to move out more troops. Do you trust him?" the general asked directly.
Heinrich remained calm. "He will do what he will. So what is it if we humor him now? He has proved to be useful indeed, so why stop him? Out troops our loyal to us, and take our orders, so we have nothing to fear. We just need to make sure that he takes more losses than we do."
"And how would we do that, sir?"
This time Heinrich sat up straight and leaned in a little. He spoke quietly with the slightest hint of a grin on his face. "We play down our power, play down our technology. That is all. He will be forced to use his own men to accomplish his goals. Did you make sure that our armies were refitted with the old relics from World War II?" When the general nodded, he continued, "If the enemy must see you and know you, let him see the ugliest and oldest, most inferior portion of you. Show not your true strength to the face of the enemy, for it is better the enemy underestimate you rather than overestimate you. Now," this time the Hienrich spoke at a bare whisper, "does he know yet that we have developed energon-harvesting technologies?"
Thormund spoke softly in response, "No, sir. That information we have been sure to keep most secure. There are no documents or records kept of the existence of the program, and all the scientists are quarantined. Absolutely no outside contact is allowed with the Siberian base save our own hand-picked soldiers."
"Then we have the advantage…for now. If there is one fatal flaw in Magnatron it is his ignorance of the full capabilities of human beings. He sees us as inferior to him, but let him. It will lead to his downfall."
