Chapter 3: Complications (Part 1)
Kit's dreams rarely bothered him in his waking life; he always figured them to be mudpies from his mind. Nothing to concern him about or to fear when he wakes up. But there were some moments were he wanted to scream himself awake rather then continue on with the images from his mind.
He awoke the next morning, greeted by the silent bathing of sunlight from the windows. Rubbing his eyes, he went to the bathroom to shower. And when he got out, Baloo never so much as moved!
He smirked lightly as he toweled off his hair. Baloo laid there, snoring loudly.
A knock on the door and an envelope slipped under the door caught his attention. A small white block of paper laid there in front of the front door. He walked to it and picked it up, eyeing the gold trim and silver italic lettering and it with careful fingers.
There was no signs of tampering or dust with the crisp white paper, which excluded any kind of drugs or poisons. Karnage was known to hide poison inside his ransom notes, offering not only his hostage but the cure for the poison...for a price of course. He read the letter:
"Mr. Sinclair awaits your Presence in Hanger #12 at 14:00 hrs. Please bring your invitation for clearance.
Thank you"
He read it, read it again twice, then remembered that Sinclair offered to show them his new prototype today. 14:00 hrs, 2:00 P.M.. he thought it funny, in a peculiar sense, that a person like Sinclair would still use military time as a reference.
He opened the door, the letter still in his hand, hopping to catch the messenger before it was too late; and collided right into Mrs. Cunningham. They both fell to the floor, Kit's head struck the doorjamb and Rebecca let out a yelp of alarm. Actually, it was more of a screech then a yelp; but it was enough to awake Baloo into a frenzy. He leaped from his bed and ran towards them without questions. But failed to realize that his feet were getting entangled with his bedsheets, causing him to soon fall on his hapless boss and navigator. Kit, whose head was already hurting from the doorjamb, now found his face covered in Baloo's armpit. He screamed for fresh air. Rebecca struggled to get up, with Baloo's foot jammed in the small of her back.
Demitri watched all this from above, behind the ceiling mirror. His face held a grim smile and he shook his head sadly. The things you see without your camera, he thought idly.
Hanger #12
2:00 P.M.
The hanger door way was huge; not to say that it was large enough to hold several cargo planes and bombers, no. It was safe to say, it was Huge!! A set of double-door large enough to hold the Iron Vulture possibly with room to spare! It was hidden, or burrowed, on the side of a mountain. Demitri picked his island well and use of every inch of space that he could get away with.
The doors were protected by a set of AA Batteries, special ones that could be used on ground targets as well. Kit knew that such a modification was illegal and unethical in wartime confrontations. He didn't have to enlist to know that. The Batteries were well-hidden behind more layers of camo-cloth. Kit now noticed them when he knew what to look for. He saw heavy-caliber weapons being hefted by burly soldiers, more of Sinclair's men. Some held the standard Insonc LV-42A carbines, but Kit noticed a few with Levert T-23s slung over their shoulder. Whatever they have behind those doors, it was important enough for defend with T-23s. Kit remembered them well; special weapons that had two ammo clips meant for firing; one for maybe armor-piercing, another for tracers. The ammo-mix was interchangable. But the weapon itself was hefty, sometimes requiring the help of a tripod or a vehicle mount. Nasty and nastier...
Sinclair walked towards them, Zatherias in tow. They were both dressed neatly and casually. Demitri wore another set of his gray shirts and faded blue jeans. But he decided to wear the long-sleeved version this time, in total disregard for the humidity. Zatherias wore cleaner coveralls. Both must've suffered some ailment last night, Kit pondered for a moment. Demitri's right arm moved stiffly, not bending at the elbow. A light jacket covered what injury he might've sustained. Zatherias' left leg was also wrong; not moving at the knees, giving him the appearance of limping. He still walked a little stooped-over, but Kit didn't realize his problem until later when it counted.
"Good afternoon," Demitri greeted. "Shall we?" He gestured them to accompany them inside the hanger.
"Mr. Sinclair-" Rebecca started.
"Mrs. Cunningham," Demitri looked like he was just remembering something important. "I was going over your recommendations last night. And I've considered your problems." He turned to face her. "You are correct in this instance; I have decided to cancel your contract in this situation; you can go back at you leisure and you'll still retain my personal recommendations in the future. The business grant will continue as promised. Does this pose a problem?"
Rebecca shook her head. During their interviews with Sinclair's lawyers and consultants, she signed several papers about Sinclair's business grant. It was enough for her to live comfortably for a long time, whether Higher For Hire becomes a huge success or not. But she hoped to place it into Molly's trust fund, as she usually did when her profits warranted it. Sinclair's grants were enough for her, but his personal recommendation....she could only become mute with such grand shock.
"Good," Sinclair looked pleased but slightly distant.
Kit looked at the hanger doors with disinterest; not to say that he was bored with it. But he did notice the 4-inch armor plating on both sides with a concrete frame in between. And his noticed the machine gun nests and the AA batteries. So far, he seen everything but what was inside and that was something he'd want to avoid in any normal situation.
They stepped inside, via a man-sized door that had the looks of a bank vault.
Kit whistled, as did Baloo.
The hanger was huge!
If the door could allow an Iron Vulture through, the hanger could hold at least five Vultures as well! Underneath this mountain, Sinclair converted it into a giant hanger, compete with everything it would require machine parts in a warehouse, a metal shop if one certain part couldn't be found and had to be made from scratch. A library full of manuals. He could see several cargo specialists steering in the roll cages of their giant powerloaders, machines that resembled a skeletal mechanical Golem and much stronger. Kit never saw a powerloader but read about them in several articles. He saw the specialists grip the control grip that picked up their movements and transferred them to the metal arms and legs of the machine, multiplying their carrying capacity by a factor of hundreds, possibly thousands. Baloo and Wildcat watched as the Specialist used his loader like an extension of his own body, never over-compensating, never a wasted movement. The diesel engine to the loader's back groaned several times under the strain of a particular pallet but none for the ware. Kit could barely see the name Millipede under the layers of dirt and grit.
Wildcat whistled. He never saw a loader either, but was just as impressed as Kit was.
"Impressed?" Demitri asked kindly. His mood was casual, almost calming under the conditions he's endured over the months.
"Yes," Kit answered truthfully. "I never seen a loader before, at least not in person."
"If you like that, you're going to love this." Demitri pointed to the center of the hanger, where a huge mass stood idle.
They turned and gasped at the sight in front of them:
It was large and ungainly, but had an elegance about it. It's angular, slightly curvy hull stood a strong contrast with the oily, messy hanger. It's sleek, gunmetal gray color shone under the harsh lights. But dispite it's asthecticly appealing curves, it still looked slightly blocky and inelegant, like it was crudely fashioned at first with building blocks and then sculpted later on in the process. The back was mostly that, blocky. The front was curved appeared off except for the notched front which held the cockpit. Kit could see the windshield allowed the pilot to see both above and below him. The same sort of thing that resembled the work station of bombardiers of large bombers. Kit noticed that it could've been a freighter by its large mass and it's oversized cargo doors in the rear. The calm-shell doors that resembled those on the Sea Duck were nearly identical, except that these door could have the Duck fit right through. There were no wings, or external fuel tanks. The oversized engines fitted nearly flush against the haul, it's purpose given away by the air intakes and the massive exhaust ports. Baloo recognized them as only jet engines; he had to use a similar version before and was amazed to live it through!
Demitri walked towards it and the others followed. Dimly, Kit noticed that a few techs were staring at the group. Not in a noticeable fashion, but in an almost covert sort of way. He inched Molly closer towards him.
Baloo noticed the name and registry on the hull: Sulaco IPX-24601.
They looked underneath the Sulaco, seeing the two sets of bomb-bay doors. Both were concealed by the bulk of the engines and fitted nearly flush against the hull plating. Around him, Kit noticed several such platting with warning symbols in blood-red text: Danger, Explosive Bolts. More then several; almost all over the ship.
"As you can see here," Demitri pointed to the bomb-bay doors, explaining. "These are meant for several different purposes; with these, we could drop cargo, bombs, materials, whatever. But we configured them to hold a massive variety of aircraft, mostly small-sized interceptors and scout craft. They're loaded right now with our latest Wasp- class Interceptors. And two scouting crafts." He walked over to the engines and pointed to the exhaust ports. His voice like that of a almost excited child.
"These ports are what gives Sulaco a certain tactical advantage. The engines force air and pushes it downwards at an incredible speed, pushing the craft upwards. And we added some extra ports to increase the maneuverability."
Baloo nodded. Khan had something similar in the works but never gotten the bugs out yet. But at least he got it out of his office, where Baloo crashed it at in the past!
Wildcat was admiring the landing struts; there was no tires to speak of, except for a set landing pads and some hydraulics struts to lower them and lift them from their housings. He kept Molly in tow, his hand wavering towards the airfoil hidden in the back of his sweater. Something was wrong; several of the techs were gone, most of the noises that came with working a hanger were slowing or stopping. The loading crews were almost gone and those that were left kept turning their heads at Sinclair's direction. Sinclair and them.
Zatherias was nearby, speaking silently to a scar-faced bear. The bear wore a gunbelt around his waist which hung low until it almost touched his knees. Kit could see the handle of a very large caliber handgun nestled in the holster. Demitri continued on with his dialogue with Rebecca.
"Four decks total, with enough fuel to circumvent the globe if need be.-"
Certain people were putting their tools away. Filing them at the tool desks for the night. Some were powering down their loaders, parking them into their proper spots. A very finite amount passed objects to each other, hidden by a piece of cotton cloth or something.
Baloo whispered to Kit: "You see them too," It wasn't a question. Kit nodded briefly, desperately trying not to look around or give his suspicions away.
"Excuse me?" Demitri stopped his speech and advanced towards Kit.
Kit didn't move; dared not.
Around him, it was becoming much more noticeable. Demitri knew it as did Zatherias and Johner. Johner silently signaled to his second-in-command, Londo, to send help. Londo did, moving quickly and swiftly to get the others of their security force. People, workers mostly, started to gather. Their once hidden objects now shown in the light: knives and firearms. Demitri felt like whistling in admiration; smuggling unregistered firearms into his complex was not an easy task, but it helped confirm what he already suspected. But he didn't let it show on his face. He continued on towards Kit and Molly. Kit's hands moved quietly to his airfoil. He gripped it, his thumb hovering over the safety catch. Molly's arm was gripped by his other hand, only not so tightly.
"Is there a problem?" Demitri asked politely.
Baloo inched closer to Rebecca and Wildcat. Around him, around them all, the workers surrounded them. Molly started to fidget, feeling the slight tension of the group. Wildcat was still busy admiring the landing struts of the Sulaco. Dimly, Kit could hear the sounds of wrenches being slapped over open palms, or screwdrivers gently scrapping over rusted metal drums.
"Oh, yes." Demitri's eyes scanned his surroundings, his head never moving. His eyes narrowed slightly and that enraged intensity returned. "You seem to have a slight problem, Mr. Cloudkicker,"
Kit gripped Molly's arm, ready to run. Molly starter to panic; they all were.
They notice it too, Demitri noted. They're not my workers; assassins, most likely.
"You have a piece of lint on your suit," Demitri admonished silently. "Let me fix that."
His lifted his stiff arm to Kit's shoulder; he could that their were nothing on his hand.
Kit didn't know what exactly happened; not even when Demitri pushed him and Molly away with his free hand. But he did recognized the familiar sound of a spring clip snap. The same spring clip that made Demitri's arm seem lame. The same that slapped a hidden handgun from it's hiding place up his sleeve into his open palm. Demitri fired a round almost as soon as the automatic was slapped into his hand, sending the nearest figure behind Kit down to the ground.
The results were almost immediate:
The Assassins charged them, their wrenches and screwdrivers rushing towards them. Baloo grabbed Rebecca and literally threw her up the Sulaco's cargo ramp and into the cargo bay. Wildcat joined her less then a second later. Zatherias ran inside the ship and slammed a alarm with his fist. A klaxon sounded over the hanger. Workers scrambled around, some screaming in panic, others running in panic. Johner pulled his guns out and joined Demitri in the fight. Two more went down, both by well-placed rounds from his gun. Demitri ran for cover, firing over their heads along the way. He found it behind a cargo pod. Johner hid behind a landing strut.
Kit and Molly ran; Kit grabbed her arm and was more carrying her then running besides her. Her screams traveled from one section of the hanger to the other. A loader was just up ahead and they hid behind that. Kit knew that it was a pretty lousy place to hide in a fight like this; but his mind a reeling for other options. He looked around, almost desperately for a better place of refuge.
The guards joined in on the fray. Firing at the workers when they had an open line of fire. But some fired back, hitting them and bringing them down. One Assassin took a T-23 from a dead solider and sprayed the hanger with armor-piercing rounds. Metal and plaster disintegrated by the T-23's rounds. It's loud roar echoed throughout the massive hanger.
"Zatherias," Demitri roared, trying to be heard over the "Dueler". "Start her up, NOW!!!" He dumped his spent magazine and inserted a fresh one, fired it almost blindly over the cargo pod.
Zatherias ran towards the ship, dodging bullets as he went. For such a large fellow, he was incredibly fast! Even with his stiff leg, he still carried some distance. But a stray bullet caught him on the shoulder, pinwheeling him to the floor. Zatherias almost didn't notice it, his eyes burning with more rage then pain, he reached into his pocket and suddenly his boot exploded. And so did the gaggle of Assassins running towards him. Zatherias turned his leg in another direction, firing the last round in his hidden "Bang- tube", basically a homemade grenade launcher that was strapped to his leg. With his ace-in-the- hole gone, he ripped the cotton fabric of his coveralls and undid the mounting straps to his 'tube with one hand, the same one with the wounded shoulder. While seeking safety with his working arm.
"Johner, cover Zath!" Demitri ordered. He fired another round, catching the one with the "Dueler" in the chest. His center of gravity shifted and he fell, his finger convulsive on the trigger as he now sprayed several of his fellow Assassins. Johner ran towards his fallen comrade but was cut off by more firing; he barely had time to fall back before he fell as well.
Kit was now working on a plan; getting Molly onboard the ship. It was risky but so was standing in a middle of a battle. He scurried his way inside the roll cage of the loader, desperately wishing that he read the manual more then he did the pilot's regs. He never thought he had to work a loader, but then he never considered being here with Sinclair, or a gunfight, or events that led up to this moment. He fingered and thumbed the various safeties and power switches. There was a loud rumble from behind him and that was enough to tell him that the loaders engine was working. He reached over and gripped the control stick with his hands and lifted the massive arm up, nearly flipping himself over in the process.
That's it, His mind shouted at him. And he reared his arm back, making the loader respond to his awkward movements, and slammed the loader's arm into a support girder. The hanger shook, tools fell from their resting places. A few people stumbled and fell. Kit pulled his one arm out and gripped the quick-release trigger of the roll cage. He had only one chance to pull off what he was planning. He reared his arm back and slammed it into the already-dented girder and that following rumbling was enough for him to tell him to get the hell out of dodge.
He hit the trigger and the roll cage flew up and out. He jumped off the loader, feeling a twinge of regret that he might not use another loader like it again, and grabbed Molly. His sprint was uneven by his own earthquake. Girders and bolts fell from above, crashing into equipment, people, and the ground. Dully, he could hear Sulaco's engines powering up, it's massive turbines spinning and humming loudly. He flipped open his airfoil and covered Molly with it like a makeshift shield.
Johner yelled at Demitri for something. Demitri, who was now inserting his last free clip, tried to hear over the earth's rumbling, the engines firing and the constant roar of gunfire. Johner was yelling for him to look at something, his hand waving in the direction of the gunfire. Demitri looked up, his sidearm ready.
Several patrols could be seen from the huge gap from the massive double doors behind the Assassins, all not firing. It didn't take much to tell him that they were help the Assassins and finish him off and the others just by sheer firepower and numbers. His mind reeled for solutions, logical and rational. One popped up, it was neither logical or rational.
"Johner, fall back!" Demitri roared.
"What about the rescue team?" Johner yelled back. His eyes went wild; Johner never liked backing off from a fight.
"We'll get to them later." Demitri looked for that fallen T-23, his eyes searching as he fired blindly into the hanger. "Now go, I won't be too far behind."
Johner nodded reluctantly. By his morals, he should be the last one to leave; first one in and the last one out while his comrades left. Even though he trusted Demitri less since Anya's disappearance, he obeyed regardless.
Demitri crouched-ran to the fallen Assassin with the coveted T-23, dodging fire as he approached him. He grabbed the Dueler with sweaty palms and checked the mags; both were half empty, but it would do the task that he required.
"Let's rock!" Demitri roared in fury as he hefted the massive gun and emptied both mags into the furthest fuel tanks. There was dull-thump and then the tanks exploded, raining fire and smoke into the approaching patrols and the remaining Assassins. The entire hanger shook violently. Demitri fell to the ground and covered himself in a fetal position as the ignited fuel fell to the ground like brimstone. Blankets of flame covered entire sections of the hanger. Dimly, he could hear scream of the men on fire, their bodies consuming in colors of red and orange. The patrols flew back by the blast wave, toppling them apart like a deck of cards in a windstorm.
The turbines' hum was increasing and there was a slight squeak of the skids. Sulaco was moving! But slowly and dully, like it was almost lurching away from the chaos around it.
Demitri got up and felt brief stab of pain in his arm. A hole was burning inside his shirt and the flesh behind it as well. He looked down at the fallen Assassin that he took the dueler from and ripped open his shirt, hoping not to find what he was suspecting. There was nothing on his chest; no dog tags, no visbile scars. Disgusted and a bit disappointed, he left without fanfare to recover Zatherias and board Sulaco.
He was too late.
Kit stood alone with Zatherias, desperately trying to haul his bulk to the loading ramp. Molly stood at ramp, anxious at what was going on around her. Demitri ran faster and nearly slid at the two like a baseball player. The damage to Zatherias was severe: his legs were badly burnt, tiny blue flames still danced around the blackened fabric. The one side of his face was scorched and he stank of smoke. He wasn't going to live long, no matter what Demitri did and all three of them knew it.
"Head back to the ship," Demitri ordered Kit. "I'll bring him along,"
"No," Kit shook his head. "You need me to help him up." He didn't release his grip, but actually tried harder. His joints creaking under the strain.
"I'll do it," Demitri rose his voice. "Go, now!"
"No," They both looked down, surprise that Zatherias was still awake in spite of his injuries. "Leave Zatherias, leave now; leave in Sulaco." His voice was strained, dry and cracked.
"I'm not leaving a fallen man behind," Demitri retorted. "I'm not leaving you, friend."
Sulaco's landing skids were now a few inches of the ground, in a few moments, with or without them, Sulaco would leave them.
"Leave Zatherias." Zatherias' arm leaped out and grabbed Demitri's wounded one. He winced but didn't scream. "Listen to Zatherias: Find Lady Anya; protect her, you must."
"And I must help you," Demitri screamed. His voice breaking from sheer emotion rather then the intense heat and the smoke. Around him, every was in chaos. The smoke was getting thicker. His chest ached from the smoke, and his throat ached as well.
"Zatherias has been many things; Zatherias should've spoken when he could've; Zatherias had been foolish in the past; but Zatherias is still a protector of Sinclairs, all of them. You are Sinclair, and good friend. You are like brother to Zatherias." Demitri's eyes brimmed with tears, matching his dying friend's own. "Zatherias has been and always shall be your friend. And if you are friend to Zatherias, you will obey his final wish. Leave Zatherias and save Anya, before it is too late. Both of you." He glanced at Kit with sorrowful eyes. Kit's eyes matched his feelings. Zatherias reached into his bloodied shirt pocket with his one working hand and pulled out a string of prayer beads; he handed them to Kit.
"Give them to Zatherias' sister; tell her of Zatherias' bravery and honor. Will you do that, Kit Cloudkicker?" Kit nodded his head in silent determination and resolve. It was enough for Zatherias as an answer. Almost peacefully, he closed his eyes and waited for death to claim him. Demitri held him a moment longer, tears trailing down his sooty face. He hugged him in silent good-byes. And when the business was over, he gently laid him down on the ground and they both rushed to Sulaco's ramp, running up it and closing it. As the ramp lifted up, he saw the last of his old friend, laying there among fire and his own blood, silent but still vigilant. The best protector he could have as a friend besides Johner. And he left him out there to die...alone.
Around the ship, the hanger was deteriorating, girders started to fall in earnest. Some slamming against the hull, ringing it like a gong. Johner struggled with the controls as ship flew out of the hanger and into opened skies, a little scorched but none worse for wear.
Inside, Baloo and Wildcat had managed to understand the ship's controls in some rudimentary way. Pressing a button here and tapping a control there seemed to work. Johner came by and relieved Baloo from the pilot's seat and that was a slight blessing for Baloo, even though he rather be the one flying. Wildcat manned the Engineering station of the cockpit and they soon had the Sulaco in working order, ready to fly out of Demitri Sinclair's island and into the Settlements. Rebecca was in the cargo hold, hugging Molly and covering her with kisses, Molly did the same. She never cried throughout the whole scene in the hanger. More startled then scared. Kit stood nearby, fingering the prayer beads in sadness.
Nearby, inside one of the bathrooms, or Head, in naval terms, Demitri Sinclair sat alone on the cold tiles. His back was against one of the cabinets. His body reeked of smoke; his hands and face covered in soot. But his hands was buried in his face, muffling his sobs of anguish.
Londo Mitchell, second-in-command of Security, looked at the aftermath of the hanger. The fire was finally put out and the initial team started to sift through the evidence and the bodies. Most were burned beyond recognition by the fuel explosion. They already accounted that to a full-salvo burst with a dueler, which was either insane or just plain stupid. Zatherias was found among the dead and was placed in a body bag marked with his name; ready for autopsy and final burial.
The Sulaco was missing from the hanger. Witnesses reported seeing the craft leaving the hanger and heading due east, then making a sharp turn at north into the mountains of the nearest continent. Radar was useless there, making it perfect for such an escape route.
The initial investigation was far from over and already it looked bad: over twenty people dead so far, mist with weapons within their grasp. Military models and such. And the fire damage has literally destroyed all chances of finding their identities. And with the prototype now missing, and with it's unknown capabilities, it made an excellent getaway vessel.
So far, Demitri Sinclair was declared missing along with his guests. Security Chief Johner as well. That alone made him smile a bit; the so-called indestructible Johner now missing, probably dead, made him wonder about how long it'll take until he took over the late Johner's desk. Johner he could pretty much live without; but a high profile personality like Sinclair would be harder to hide from the public. And that problem with Anya....
He brushed the thought from his head; already it didn't look good. Several dozen shell casings and burnt bodies and a hanger that was still smoldering. Little evidence to deal with.
A security aide walked towards him, careful not to trip or kick away some important piece of evidence. Her movements were careful but precise. She held a small memo on her person and handed it to Londo. He opened it and read the contents, his expression getting more grim by the second. He nodded and walked away from the hanger.
He walked to the executives offices and walked into a certain one. The inside was dim, almost dark. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight. Behind the desk, a lone figure sat alone, smoking a foul-smelling cigarette. The cigarette dangled from between two nicotine-stained fingers.
"Sit down," The figure growled in a dry voice.
Londo did, finding an empty chair to sit in. This was not good.
"Do you know why I enjoy my work?" The figure asked silently.
Londo shook his head.
"It's a good kind of work; I make my own hours, I live for the Cause. And I know that soon, we will become a power to be reckoned with. And the only thing I have to worry about is someone who is capable of unraveling all that we've done coming around to do just that."
Londo nodded some more, just as the Figure exploded.
"And you let it happen!" He roared at him, unafraid or uncaring that others might be listening. "You've let him escape this island; and you let him hire some fringe elements that might already complicate matters further already. Like they haven't already been done with Anya."
"I told you before," Londo replied slowly, like he would to a stubborn child. "We should've killed her outright. A bomb or a salvo of rockets would've done the job. But no, you had to drop her off into enemy territory hoping that she would become a hostage. She should've died, and would've if you and your people listened to me."
"It was necessary to accomplish our objectives, of which are none of your concern." The Figure cut him off before he could continue. "I'm more concerned about Sinclair finding more about us."
"I know," Londo retorted. "I gave you the flight plan, and you said that the news would kill him. It didn't, it just made him more determined. And just how did she manage to send a message through a ECJ?" He opened his palms, expecting an explanation.
"She must've used every once of power she had available and went past the ECJs just by sheer force. It still amazes me about her abilities. First a few interceptors, then this. To be honest: We still don't really know."
"So what's the deal with Sinclair?" Londo asked impatiently.
"What are you talking about?" The figure replied slowly, the cigarette in his fingers dipped a little; the fingers numb.
"Why did you authorize the hit-men on them?" Londo answered, now unsure. Something was wrong here.
The figure stood up from his chair and took a puff from his cigarette. His answer was a deathly monotone, but a slightly unnerved one. "I thought you did."
"I didn't." Londo's eyes went wide. "You don't think-"
"Sinclair is not that crazy," The figure replied. "He's a bit unstable. He was even before Anya's disappearance, but not so much that he'd staged this. And for what reason: he's already hired some old friends of his from the Wars to help; he probably doesn't even need those fringe elements right now. He's got his rescue team, the prototype. He could've left at anytime."
"But he didn't." Londo was getting impatient with this issue, as usual. "He gotten that team set up for months; Why this small-time cargo business? Why them specifically?"
"Find out; that's what your there for."
Londo turned from his seat and started to leave, then something caught his mind.
"What if they compare notes?" He asked. "Sinclair's not stupid, neither is Anya for that matter. If they start to understand; I mean, if they understand the pure scope of it all-"
"It will be taken care of." The Figure ended that discussion quickly. "But one thing that still bothers me: You didn't bring in that hit-squad, neither did I. And Sinclair might not have. So the big question remains: who did and why?"
"Don't know, but we have to make sure the journey doesn't get easier for them." Londo retorted grimly.
"And how do you intended to do that?"
The Sulaco's corridors were small, to say the least. It was narrow, almost getting Baloo stuck against several bulkheads; they were also gray, and had a utilitarian design. There was no injuries except for a few scrapes and bruises, they were fine. Sinclair's arm wound was mostly cosmetic in nature, a small second-degree burn that was later treated by himself. Rebecca stood around the well-stocked infirmary supplying relief and medical aid whenever possible. And if they couldn't come to her, she came to them. Molly was spared such injuries, but her mother had a good-sized bruise on her shoulder from Baloo throwing her up the cargo ramp.
Talk was kept to the bare minimum. They've flown for almost three hours, keeping at an almost random course. Johner flew most of the time and Baloo stood nearby watching the other fly, remember the details of this craft. Baloo hated to have others flying for him, wanting to take the controls himself. Another part wanted to see just what this craft was capable of doing. Kit sat nearby at the navigator station, reading a map set over a drafting table and working a set of co-ordinates with a pad and pencil. He didn't hear about what the others were doing because he had a set of headset over his ears, tuned to the ships radio, his one remaining hand playing the nearby dials almost absently. The radio's model was familiar and Kit had no trouble making it work just the way he wanted it too.
Wildcat was looking over the blueprints of the Sulaco, see it's designs and abilities with almost wide-eyed glee. Baloo looked them over for almost several minutes but quit trying to understand them. Sinclair was excellent at creating the ship but his notes were scrambled and illiterate, like the writings of a doctor in a patient's chart.
The energy surge that was once in their systems were long gone, making them tired and slightly repressed and even more introverted. Most kept to their own counsel, trying to piece together what had just happened earlier. Johner was sipping a home- brewed power-shake that was in a thermos under the pilot's seat. He barely grimaced at the slightly foul odor and much fouler flavor. Baloo still looked over his shoulder, looking at the ship's controls. Johner would let in a piece of input to Baloo about the piloting of Sulaco and Baloo would ask some relevant questions, which were promptly answered.
Rebecca and Molly sat together at the lounge, which was on Deck 2, mostly the living areas and storage. Earlier, Rebecca looked at every room available, most were set as barracks of a naval ship, double and triple bunks lined against the walls with footlockers separating them. She looked at the military surplus footlockers and saw the hard wood texture and the checkerboard design on the top, meant for the bored solider to engage in a friendly game of chess.
Dimly, she saw Molly pick up a forgotten chess piece nearby. It was a white pawn.
That's just what we are, Rebecca thought hotly. Pawns, but for what? And who is the chessmaster of this sick game?
Molly put the piece in her pocket and looked around. The infirmary was nearby, where Rebecca found the medical equipment to treat the others, and her friends. She looked at everyone, at her insistence even Demitri. He did so, allowing his shirt to be removed and allowed her startled looks at the markings on his chest. Rebecca had seen many horrid things in her life, but never at a single individual. She tried not to stare, to gape, at the scars and the scar tissue that gathered around his chest and back like moss on a rock. The marks from crawling over countless barbed wire fences, the shrapnel that ripped his body, surgical scars from some triage in the middle of what can be safely be called "hell on Earth". Among the worst of the scars, she saw two star-shaped wounds on his chest, almost right into his heart and right lung. She visibly grimaced at a sight.
He gotten looked over and took some disinfectant and some gauze and went on his way. Rebecca hadn't seen him again after that.
The lounge was well stocked with games and puzzles, and that was enough to keep Molly occupied for the moment. Rebecca went to the galley nearby to see what they had for food. She looked into the latched cabinets and searched every one, each one made her more depressed by the moment. Sinclair was one of the richest people in the world, but his tastes in food were almost that of every common man. She saw large 5 lb. cans of tuna and Spam. She noticed several creates of dehydrated cold cuts. There were fresh cans of condiments, mostly mayonnaise and steak sauce, but not much else. She stopped the search after finding the ten pound cases of oatmeal. No doubt that his taste of food left much to be desired.
Molly was occupied with the puzzle in front of her, putting a piece here and trying out a piece there. In front of her, standing straight and tall like a sentry, was the white pawn.
"We have to go back," Baloo fairly shouted.
"Well, I'd like that too." Sinclair countered smartly. "But that hit squad that came for us earlier doesn't make me too happy with the idea."
They were still in the cockpit, now arguing over what was the next course of action. Johner learned to keep out of the fight, pressing his focus on flying the ship. Kit kept to his own counsel, looking at the maps and fingering the dials of his radio. So far, nothing has come through except for the scattered, random radio traffic.
"We have to explain about what has happened," Baloo argued.
"Is it that or your plane?" Sinclair crossed his arms tightly.
"Both," Baloo didn't waiver his gaze.
"Well, I sympathize, believe me." It was now Demitri's turn to act diplomatic.
"They might impound my plane!" Baloo roared.
"And they might land a bullet in your fat, lard-filled skull." Demitri forcibly pressed the point of his index finger to Baloo's temple to better describe the issue at hand. It was something he usually did to some stubborn airman under his command who thought he knew better.
So much for diplomacy.
"They just want you; they just might leave us alone."
"Listen to me, you fat-" Sinclair wanted to continue on with this argument but Johner's yelp of alarm cut him off. Johner wasn't known for panicking under anything short of a massive napalm attack.
Sinclair acted almost by reflex, his body flew from where he was once standing to hovering over Johner's chair.
Johner was tapping at a familiar gauge to his left, tapping it insistently. It was the fuel gauge, the one that spoke for all the four fuel tanks on Sulaco. The tanks were not full as he ordered but actually a quarter full.
"It just dipped down like that," Johner started to explain but Sinclair cut him off with a raised hand. He ordered the tanks to be completely full just a few ago and his orders were followed a far as he knew. The saboteurs at work...
"How much further can we go?" Sinclair asked. This wasn't a time to place blame, only to find solutions.
"About another three hours. After that, splat." Johner explained.
Kit was already looking over his charts, now at a faster pace. His fingers were off the radio and on his slide rule, his left hand working the ruler, the right hand writing down equations that he couldn't risk doing in his head right now. He tore off another piece of paper from the legal pad and worked on another piece.
"Head to heading 280, decrease speed by thirty percent." Kit ordered. "And decrease altitude to 120 meters."
Johner did so, dipping the control yoke slightly. He fingered the throttle on the control yoke as we went. His nerves calming, but slightly.
"Where are we heading, Little Britches?" Baloo asked.
Kit didn't listen to Baloo but to the headset, his brow creased slightly, then massively. Then, his expression was that of silent horror; His expression ashen.
"What's wrong?" Baloo pressed.
Kit tapped the overhead speaker control so everyone on the cockpit could hear what Kit've just heard. His expression never changed, but his gaze was now focused on Sinclair.
"Attention, attention." The radio chimed. "We bring you the latest news bulletin: A private island once belonging to airplane mogul Demitri Sinclair was just under attack by unknown assailants. Several people are reported killed by the siege. Sinclair may've been one of the casualties. A experimental prototype was stolen as a getaway vehicle; military and mercenary groups are receiving orders to search and destroy this craft at all costs. A six-figure reward is offered to anyone that can provide information that can lead to this craft's destruction."
The message repeated itself for several minutes, but Kit turned it off afterwards. The mood of the crew noticeably dropped. Sinclair's, mostly. Johner craned his head back just so he could share the same look with his old friend. And share a knowledgeable stare. The conspirators at work once again. They couldn't go far with the fuel they have, they can't call for help because that'll mean their deaths. And with Sinclair's reported death, that alone could destroy whatever creditability to Demitri's status.
Kit was tapping the mike to his headset when he answered Baloo's earlier question: "The only place we can go at this point: Louies."
Kit's dreams rarely bothered him in his waking life; he always figured them to be mudpies from his mind. Nothing to concern him about or to fear when he wakes up. But there were some moments were he wanted to scream himself awake rather then continue on with the images from his mind.
He awoke the next morning, greeted by the silent bathing of sunlight from the windows. Rubbing his eyes, he went to the bathroom to shower. And when he got out, Baloo never so much as moved!
He smirked lightly as he toweled off his hair. Baloo laid there, snoring loudly.
A knock on the door and an envelope slipped under the door caught his attention. A small white block of paper laid there in front of the front door. He walked to it and picked it up, eyeing the gold trim and silver italic lettering and it with careful fingers.
There was no signs of tampering or dust with the crisp white paper, which excluded any kind of drugs or poisons. Karnage was known to hide poison inside his ransom notes, offering not only his hostage but the cure for the poison...for a price of course. He read the letter:
"Mr. Sinclair awaits your Presence in Hanger #12 at 14:00 hrs. Please bring your invitation for clearance.
Thank you"
He read it, read it again twice, then remembered that Sinclair offered to show them his new prototype today. 14:00 hrs, 2:00 P.M.. he thought it funny, in a peculiar sense, that a person like Sinclair would still use military time as a reference.
He opened the door, the letter still in his hand, hopping to catch the messenger before it was too late; and collided right into Mrs. Cunningham. They both fell to the floor, Kit's head struck the doorjamb and Rebecca let out a yelp of alarm. Actually, it was more of a screech then a yelp; but it was enough to awake Baloo into a frenzy. He leaped from his bed and ran towards them without questions. But failed to realize that his feet were getting entangled with his bedsheets, causing him to soon fall on his hapless boss and navigator. Kit, whose head was already hurting from the doorjamb, now found his face covered in Baloo's armpit. He screamed for fresh air. Rebecca struggled to get up, with Baloo's foot jammed in the small of her back.
Demitri watched all this from above, behind the ceiling mirror. His face held a grim smile and he shook his head sadly. The things you see without your camera, he thought idly.
Hanger #12
2:00 P.M.
The hanger door way was huge; not to say that it was large enough to hold several cargo planes and bombers, no. It was safe to say, it was Huge!! A set of double-door large enough to hold the Iron Vulture possibly with room to spare! It was hidden, or burrowed, on the side of a mountain. Demitri picked his island well and use of every inch of space that he could get away with.
The doors were protected by a set of AA Batteries, special ones that could be used on ground targets as well. Kit knew that such a modification was illegal and unethical in wartime confrontations. He didn't have to enlist to know that. The Batteries were well-hidden behind more layers of camo-cloth. Kit now noticed them when he knew what to look for. He saw heavy-caliber weapons being hefted by burly soldiers, more of Sinclair's men. Some held the standard Insonc LV-42A carbines, but Kit noticed a few with Levert T-23s slung over their shoulder. Whatever they have behind those doors, it was important enough for defend with T-23s. Kit remembered them well; special weapons that had two ammo clips meant for firing; one for maybe armor-piercing, another for tracers. The ammo-mix was interchangable. But the weapon itself was hefty, sometimes requiring the help of a tripod or a vehicle mount. Nasty and nastier...
Sinclair walked towards them, Zatherias in tow. They were both dressed neatly and casually. Demitri wore another set of his gray shirts and faded blue jeans. But he decided to wear the long-sleeved version this time, in total disregard for the humidity. Zatherias wore cleaner coveralls. Both must've suffered some ailment last night, Kit pondered for a moment. Demitri's right arm moved stiffly, not bending at the elbow. A light jacket covered what injury he might've sustained. Zatherias' left leg was also wrong; not moving at the knees, giving him the appearance of limping. He still walked a little stooped-over, but Kit didn't realize his problem until later when it counted.
"Good afternoon," Demitri greeted. "Shall we?" He gestured them to accompany them inside the hanger.
"Mr. Sinclair-" Rebecca started.
"Mrs. Cunningham," Demitri looked like he was just remembering something important. "I was going over your recommendations last night. And I've considered your problems." He turned to face her. "You are correct in this instance; I have decided to cancel your contract in this situation; you can go back at you leisure and you'll still retain my personal recommendations in the future. The business grant will continue as promised. Does this pose a problem?"
Rebecca shook her head. During their interviews with Sinclair's lawyers and consultants, she signed several papers about Sinclair's business grant. It was enough for her to live comfortably for a long time, whether Higher For Hire becomes a huge success or not. But she hoped to place it into Molly's trust fund, as she usually did when her profits warranted it. Sinclair's grants were enough for her, but his personal recommendation....she could only become mute with such grand shock.
"Good," Sinclair looked pleased but slightly distant.
Kit looked at the hanger doors with disinterest; not to say that he was bored with it. But he did notice the 4-inch armor plating on both sides with a concrete frame in between. And his noticed the machine gun nests and the AA batteries. So far, he seen everything but what was inside and that was something he'd want to avoid in any normal situation.
They stepped inside, via a man-sized door that had the looks of a bank vault.
Kit whistled, as did Baloo.
The hanger was huge!
If the door could allow an Iron Vulture through, the hanger could hold at least five Vultures as well! Underneath this mountain, Sinclair converted it into a giant hanger, compete with everything it would require machine parts in a warehouse, a metal shop if one certain part couldn't be found and had to be made from scratch. A library full of manuals. He could see several cargo specialists steering in the roll cages of their giant powerloaders, machines that resembled a skeletal mechanical Golem and much stronger. Kit never saw a powerloader but read about them in several articles. He saw the specialists grip the control grip that picked up their movements and transferred them to the metal arms and legs of the machine, multiplying their carrying capacity by a factor of hundreds, possibly thousands. Baloo and Wildcat watched as the Specialist used his loader like an extension of his own body, never over-compensating, never a wasted movement. The diesel engine to the loader's back groaned several times under the strain of a particular pallet but none for the ware. Kit could barely see the name Millipede under the layers of dirt and grit.
Wildcat whistled. He never saw a loader either, but was just as impressed as Kit was.
"Impressed?" Demitri asked kindly. His mood was casual, almost calming under the conditions he's endured over the months.
"Yes," Kit answered truthfully. "I never seen a loader before, at least not in person."
"If you like that, you're going to love this." Demitri pointed to the center of the hanger, where a huge mass stood idle.
They turned and gasped at the sight in front of them:
It was large and ungainly, but had an elegance about it. It's angular, slightly curvy hull stood a strong contrast with the oily, messy hanger. It's sleek, gunmetal gray color shone under the harsh lights. But dispite it's asthecticly appealing curves, it still looked slightly blocky and inelegant, like it was crudely fashioned at first with building blocks and then sculpted later on in the process. The back was mostly that, blocky. The front was curved appeared off except for the notched front which held the cockpit. Kit could see the windshield allowed the pilot to see both above and below him. The same sort of thing that resembled the work station of bombardiers of large bombers. Kit noticed that it could've been a freighter by its large mass and it's oversized cargo doors in the rear. The calm-shell doors that resembled those on the Sea Duck were nearly identical, except that these door could have the Duck fit right through. There were no wings, or external fuel tanks. The oversized engines fitted nearly flush against the haul, it's purpose given away by the air intakes and the massive exhaust ports. Baloo recognized them as only jet engines; he had to use a similar version before and was amazed to live it through!
Demitri walked towards it and the others followed. Dimly, Kit noticed that a few techs were staring at the group. Not in a noticeable fashion, but in an almost covert sort of way. He inched Molly closer towards him.
Baloo noticed the name and registry on the hull: Sulaco IPX-24601.
They looked underneath the Sulaco, seeing the two sets of bomb-bay doors. Both were concealed by the bulk of the engines and fitted nearly flush against the hull plating. Around him, Kit noticed several such platting with warning symbols in blood-red text: Danger, Explosive Bolts. More then several; almost all over the ship.
"As you can see here," Demitri pointed to the bomb-bay doors, explaining. "These are meant for several different purposes; with these, we could drop cargo, bombs, materials, whatever. But we configured them to hold a massive variety of aircraft, mostly small-sized interceptors and scout craft. They're loaded right now with our latest Wasp- class Interceptors. And two scouting crafts." He walked over to the engines and pointed to the exhaust ports. His voice like that of a almost excited child.
"These ports are what gives Sulaco a certain tactical advantage. The engines force air and pushes it downwards at an incredible speed, pushing the craft upwards. And we added some extra ports to increase the maneuverability."
Baloo nodded. Khan had something similar in the works but never gotten the bugs out yet. But at least he got it out of his office, where Baloo crashed it at in the past!
Wildcat was admiring the landing struts; there was no tires to speak of, except for a set landing pads and some hydraulics struts to lower them and lift them from their housings. He kept Molly in tow, his hand wavering towards the airfoil hidden in the back of his sweater. Something was wrong; several of the techs were gone, most of the noises that came with working a hanger were slowing or stopping. The loading crews were almost gone and those that were left kept turning their heads at Sinclair's direction. Sinclair and them.
Zatherias was nearby, speaking silently to a scar-faced bear. The bear wore a gunbelt around his waist which hung low until it almost touched his knees. Kit could see the handle of a very large caliber handgun nestled in the holster. Demitri continued on with his dialogue with Rebecca.
"Four decks total, with enough fuel to circumvent the globe if need be.-"
Certain people were putting their tools away. Filing them at the tool desks for the night. Some were powering down their loaders, parking them into their proper spots. A very finite amount passed objects to each other, hidden by a piece of cotton cloth or something.
Baloo whispered to Kit: "You see them too," It wasn't a question. Kit nodded briefly, desperately trying not to look around or give his suspicions away.
"Excuse me?" Demitri stopped his speech and advanced towards Kit.
Kit didn't move; dared not.
Around him, it was becoming much more noticeable. Demitri knew it as did Zatherias and Johner. Johner silently signaled to his second-in-command, Londo, to send help. Londo did, moving quickly and swiftly to get the others of their security force. People, workers mostly, started to gather. Their once hidden objects now shown in the light: knives and firearms. Demitri felt like whistling in admiration; smuggling unregistered firearms into his complex was not an easy task, but it helped confirm what he already suspected. But he didn't let it show on his face. He continued on towards Kit and Molly. Kit's hands moved quietly to his airfoil. He gripped it, his thumb hovering over the safety catch. Molly's arm was gripped by his other hand, only not so tightly.
"Is there a problem?" Demitri asked politely.
Baloo inched closer to Rebecca and Wildcat. Around him, around them all, the workers surrounded them. Molly started to fidget, feeling the slight tension of the group. Wildcat was still busy admiring the landing struts of the Sulaco. Dimly, Kit could hear the sounds of wrenches being slapped over open palms, or screwdrivers gently scrapping over rusted metal drums.
"Oh, yes." Demitri's eyes scanned his surroundings, his head never moving. His eyes narrowed slightly and that enraged intensity returned. "You seem to have a slight problem, Mr. Cloudkicker,"
Kit gripped Molly's arm, ready to run. Molly starter to panic; they all were.
They notice it too, Demitri noted. They're not my workers; assassins, most likely.
"You have a piece of lint on your suit," Demitri admonished silently. "Let me fix that."
His lifted his stiff arm to Kit's shoulder; he could that their were nothing on his hand.
Kit didn't know what exactly happened; not even when Demitri pushed him and Molly away with his free hand. But he did recognized the familiar sound of a spring clip snap. The same spring clip that made Demitri's arm seem lame. The same that slapped a hidden handgun from it's hiding place up his sleeve into his open palm. Demitri fired a round almost as soon as the automatic was slapped into his hand, sending the nearest figure behind Kit down to the ground.
The results were almost immediate:
The Assassins charged them, their wrenches and screwdrivers rushing towards them. Baloo grabbed Rebecca and literally threw her up the Sulaco's cargo ramp and into the cargo bay. Wildcat joined her less then a second later. Zatherias ran inside the ship and slammed a alarm with his fist. A klaxon sounded over the hanger. Workers scrambled around, some screaming in panic, others running in panic. Johner pulled his guns out and joined Demitri in the fight. Two more went down, both by well-placed rounds from his gun. Demitri ran for cover, firing over their heads along the way. He found it behind a cargo pod. Johner hid behind a landing strut.
Kit and Molly ran; Kit grabbed her arm and was more carrying her then running besides her. Her screams traveled from one section of the hanger to the other. A loader was just up ahead and they hid behind that. Kit knew that it was a pretty lousy place to hide in a fight like this; but his mind a reeling for other options. He looked around, almost desperately for a better place of refuge.
The guards joined in on the fray. Firing at the workers when they had an open line of fire. But some fired back, hitting them and bringing them down. One Assassin took a T-23 from a dead solider and sprayed the hanger with armor-piercing rounds. Metal and plaster disintegrated by the T-23's rounds. It's loud roar echoed throughout the massive hanger.
"Zatherias," Demitri roared, trying to be heard over the "Dueler". "Start her up, NOW!!!" He dumped his spent magazine and inserted a fresh one, fired it almost blindly over the cargo pod.
Zatherias ran towards the ship, dodging bullets as he went. For such a large fellow, he was incredibly fast! Even with his stiff leg, he still carried some distance. But a stray bullet caught him on the shoulder, pinwheeling him to the floor. Zatherias almost didn't notice it, his eyes burning with more rage then pain, he reached into his pocket and suddenly his boot exploded. And so did the gaggle of Assassins running towards him. Zatherias turned his leg in another direction, firing the last round in his hidden "Bang- tube", basically a homemade grenade launcher that was strapped to his leg. With his ace-in-the- hole gone, he ripped the cotton fabric of his coveralls and undid the mounting straps to his 'tube with one hand, the same one with the wounded shoulder. While seeking safety with his working arm.
"Johner, cover Zath!" Demitri ordered. He fired another round, catching the one with the "Dueler" in the chest. His center of gravity shifted and he fell, his finger convulsive on the trigger as he now sprayed several of his fellow Assassins. Johner ran towards his fallen comrade but was cut off by more firing; he barely had time to fall back before he fell as well.
Kit was now working on a plan; getting Molly onboard the ship. It was risky but so was standing in a middle of a battle. He scurried his way inside the roll cage of the loader, desperately wishing that he read the manual more then he did the pilot's regs. He never thought he had to work a loader, but then he never considered being here with Sinclair, or a gunfight, or events that led up to this moment. He fingered and thumbed the various safeties and power switches. There was a loud rumble from behind him and that was enough to tell him that the loaders engine was working. He reached over and gripped the control stick with his hands and lifted the massive arm up, nearly flipping himself over in the process.
That's it, His mind shouted at him. And he reared his arm back, making the loader respond to his awkward movements, and slammed the loader's arm into a support girder. The hanger shook, tools fell from their resting places. A few people stumbled and fell. Kit pulled his one arm out and gripped the quick-release trigger of the roll cage. He had only one chance to pull off what he was planning. He reared his arm back and slammed it into the already-dented girder and that following rumbling was enough for him to tell him to get the hell out of dodge.
He hit the trigger and the roll cage flew up and out. He jumped off the loader, feeling a twinge of regret that he might not use another loader like it again, and grabbed Molly. His sprint was uneven by his own earthquake. Girders and bolts fell from above, crashing into equipment, people, and the ground. Dully, he could hear Sulaco's engines powering up, it's massive turbines spinning and humming loudly. He flipped open his airfoil and covered Molly with it like a makeshift shield.
Johner yelled at Demitri for something. Demitri, who was now inserting his last free clip, tried to hear over the earth's rumbling, the engines firing and the constant roar of gunfire. Johner was yelling for him to look at something, his hand waving in the direction of the gunfire. Demitri looked up, his sidearm ready.
Several patrols could be seen from the huge gap from the massive double doors behind the Assassins, all not firing. It didn't take much to tell him that they were help the Assassins and finish him off and the others just by sheer firepower and numbers. His mind reeled for solutions, logical and rational. One popped up, it was neither logical or rational.
"Johner, fall back!" Demitri roared.
"What about the rescue team?" Johner yelled back. His eyes went wild; Johner never liked backing off from a fight.
"We'll get to them later." Demitri looked for that fallen T-23, his eyes searching as he fired blindly into the hanger. "Now go, I won't be too far behind."
Johner nodded reluctantly. By his morals, he should be the last one to leave; first one in and the last one out while his comrades left. Even though he trusted Demitri less since Anya's disappearance, he obeyed regardless.
Demitri crouched-ran to the fallen Assassin with the coveted T-23, dodging fire as he approached him. He grabbed the Dueler with sweaty palms and checked the mags; both were half empty, but it would do the task that he required.
"Let's rock!" Demitri roared in fury as he hefted the massive gun and emptied both mags into the furthest fuel tanks. There was dull-thump and then the tanks exploded, raining fire and smoke into the approaching patrols and the remaining Assassins. The entire hanger shook violently. Demitri fell to the ground and covered himself in a fetal position as the ignited fuel fell to the ground like brimstone. Blankets of flame covered entire sections of the hanger. Dimly, he could hear scream of the men on fire, their bodies consuming in colors of red and orange. The patrols flew back by the blast wave, toppling them apart like a deck of cards in a windstorm.
The turbines' hum was increasing and there was a slight squeak of the skids. Sulaco was moving! But slowly and dully, like it was almost lurching away from the chaos around it.
Demitri got up and felt brief stab of pain in his arm. A hole was burning inside his shirt and the flesh behind it as well. He looked down at the fallen Assassin that he took the dueler from and ripped open his shirt, hoping not to find what he was suspecting. There was nothing on his chest; no dog tags, no visbile scars. Disgusted and a bit disappointed, he left without fanfare to recover Zatherias and board Sulaco.
He was too late.
Kit stood alone with Zatherias, desperately trying to haul his bulk to the loading ramp. Molly stood at ramp, anxious at what was going on around her. Demitri ran faster and nearly slid at the two like a baseball player. The damage to Zatherias was severe: his legs were badly burnt, tiny blue flames still danced around the blackened fabric. The one side of his face was scorched and he stank of smoke. He wasn't going to live long, no matter what Demitri did and all three of them knew it.
"Head back to the ship," Demitri ordered Kit. "I'll bring him along,"
"No," Kit shook his head. "You need me to help him up." He didn't release his grip, but actually tried harder. His joints creaking under the strain.
"I'll do it," Demitri rose his voice. "Go, now!"
"No," They both looked down, surprise that Zatherias was still awake in spite of his injuries. "Leave Zatherias, leave now; leave in Sulaco." His voice was strained, dry and cracked.
"I'm not leaving a fallen man behind," Demitri retorted. "I'm not leaving you, friend."
Sulaco's landing skids were now a few inches of the ground, in a few moments, with or without them, Sulaco would leave them.
"Leave Zatherias." Zatherias' arm leaped out and grabbed Demitri's wounded one. He winced but didn't scream. "Listen to Zatherias: Find Lady Anya; protect her, you must."
"And I must help you," Demitri screamed. His voice breaking from sheer emotion rather then the intense heat and the smoke. Around him, every was in chaos. The smoke was getting thicker. His chest ached from the smoke, and his throat ached as well.
"Zatherias has been many things; Zatherias should've spoken when he could've; Zatherias had been foolish in the past; but Zatherias is still a protector of Sinclairs, all of them. You are Sinclair, and good friend. You are like brother to Zatherias." Demitri's eyes brimmed with tears, matching his dying friend's own. "Zatherias has been and always shall be your friend. And if you are friend to Zatherias, you will obey his final wish. Leave Zatherias and save Anya, before it is too late. Both of you." He glanced at Kit with sorrowful eyes. Kit's eyes matched his feelings. Zatherias reached into his bloodied shirt pocket with his one working hand and pulled out a string of prayer beads; he handed them to Kit.
"Give them to Zatherias' sister; tell her of Zatherias' bravery and honor. Will you do that, Kit Cloudkicker?" Kit nodded his head in silent determination and resolve. It was enough for Zatherias as an answer. Almost peacefully, he closed his eyes and waited for death to claim him. Demitri held him a moment longer, tears trailing down his sooty face. He hugged him in silent good-byes. And when the business was over, he gently laid him down on the ground and they both rushed to Sulaco's ramp, running up it and closing it. As the ramp lifted up, he saw the last of his old friend, laying there among fire and his own blood, silent but still vigilant. The best protector he could have as a friend besides Johner. And he left him out there to die...alone.
Around the ship, the hanger was deteriorating, girders started to fall in earnest. Some slamming against the hull, ringing it like a gong. Johner struggled with the controls as ship flew out of the hanger and into opened skies, a little scorched but none worse for wear.
Inside, Baloo and Wildcat had managed to understand the ship's controls in some rudimentary way. Pressing a button here and tapping a control there seemed to work. Johner came by and relieved Baloo from the pilot's seat and that was a slight blessing for Baloo, even though he rather be the one flying. Wildcat manned the Engineering station of the cockpit and they soon had the Sulaco in working order, ready to fly out of Demitri Sinclair's island and into the Settlements. Rebecca was in the cargo hold, hugging Molly and covering her with kisses, Molly did the same. She never cried throughout the whole scene in the hanger. More startled then scared. Kit stood nearby, fingering the prayer beads in sadness.
Nearby, inside one of the bathrooms, or Head, in naval terms, Demitri Sinclair sat alone on the cold tiles. His back was against one of the cabinets. His body reeked of smoke; his hands and face covered in soot. But his hands was buried in his face, muffling his sobs of anguish.
Londo Mitchell, second-in-command of Security, looked at the aftermath of the hanger. The fire was finally put out and the initial team started to sift through the evidence and the bodies. Most were burned beyond recognition by the fuel explosion. They already accounted that to a full-salvo burst with a dueler, which was either insane or just plain stupid. Zatherias was found among the dead and was placed in a body bag marked with his name; ready for autopsy and final burial.
The Sulaco was missing from the hanger. Witnesses reported seeing the craft leaving the hanger and heading due east, then making a sharp turn at north into the mountains of the nearest continent. Radar was useless there, making it perfect for such an escape route.
The initial investigation was far from over and already it looked bad: over twenty people dead so far, mist with weapons within their grasp. Military models and such. And the fire damage has literally destroyed all chances of finding their identities. And with the prototype now missing, and with it's unknown capabilities, it made an excellent getaway vessel.
So far, Demitri Sinclair was declared missing along with his guests. Security Chief Johner as well. That alone made him smile a bit; the so-called indestructible Johner now missing, probably dead, made him wonder about how long it'll take until he took over the late Johner's desk. Johner he could pretty much live without; but a high profile personality like Sinclair would be harder to hide from the public. And that problem with Anya....
He brushed the thought from his head; already it didn't look good. Several dozen shell casings and burnt bodies and a hanger that was still smoldering. Little evidence to deal with.
A security aide walked towards him, careful not to trip or kick away some important piece of evidence. Her movements were careful but precise. She held a small memo on her person and handed it to Londo. He opened it and read the contents, his expression getting more grim by the second. He nodded and walked away from the hanger.
He walked to the executives offices and walked into a certain one. The inside was dim, almost dark. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight. Behind the desk, a lone figure sat alone, smoking a foul-smelling cigarette. The cigarette dangled from between two nicotine-stained fingers.
"Sit down," The figure growled in a dry voice.
Londo did, finding an empty chair to sit in. This was not good.
"Do you know why I enjoy my work?" The figure asked silently.
Londo shook his head.
"It's a good kind of work; I make my own hours, I live for the Cause. And I know that soon, we will become a power to be reckoned with. And the only thing I have to worry about is someone who is capable of unraveling all that we've done coming around to do just that."
Londo nodded some more, just as the Figure exploded.
"And you let it happen!" He roared at him, unafraid or uncaring that others might be listening. "You've let him escape this island; and you let him hire some fringe elements that might already complicate matters further already. Like they haven't already been done with Anya."
"I told you before," Londo replied slowly, like he would to a stubborn child. "We should've killed her outright. A bomb or a salvo of rockets would've done the job. But no, you had to drop her off into enemy territory hoping that she would become a hostage. She should've died, and would've if you and your people listened to me."
"It was necessary to accomplish our objectives, of which are none of your concern." The Figure cut him off before he could continue. "I'm more concerned about Sinclair finding more about us."
"I know," Londo retorted. "I gave you the flight plan, and you said that the news would kill him. It didn't, it just made him more determined. And just how did she manage to send a message through a ECJ?" He opened his palms, expecting an explanation.
"She must've used every once of power she had available and went past the ECJs just by sheer force. It still amazes me about her abilities. First a few interceptors, then this. To be honest: We still don't really know."
"So what's the deal with Sinclair?" Londo asked impatiently.
"What are you talking about?" The figure replied slowly, the cigarette in his fingers dipped a little; the fingers numb.
"Why did you authorize the hit-men on them?" Londo answered, now unsure. Something was wrong here.
The figure stood up from his chair and took a puff from his cigarette. His answer was a deathly monotone, but a slightly unnerved one. "I thought you did."
"I didn't." Londo's eyes went wide. "You don't think-"
"Sinclair is not that crazy," The figure replied. "He's a bit unstable. He was even before Anya's disappearance, but not so much that he'd staged this. And for what reason: he's already hired some old friends of his from the Wars to help; he probably doesn't even need those fringe elements right now. He's got his rescue team, the prototype. He could've left at anytime."
"But he didn't." Londo was getting impatient with this issue, as usual. "He gotten that team set up for months; Why this small-time cargo business? Why them specifically?"
"Find out; that's what your there for."
Londo turned from his seat and started to leave, then something caught his mind.
"What if they compare notes?" He asked. "Sinclair's not stupid, neither is Anya for that matter. If they start to understand; I mean, if they understand the pure scope of it all-"
"It will be taken care of." The Figure ended that discussion quickly. "But one thing that still bothers me: You didn't bring in that hit-squad, neither did I. And Sinclair might not have. So the big question remains: who did and why?"
"Don't know, but we have to make sure the journey doesn't get easier for them." Londo retorted grimly.
"And how do you intended to do that?"
The Sulaco's corridors were small, to say the least. It was narrow, almost getting Baloo stuck against several bulkheads; they were also gray, and had a utilitarian design. There was no injuries except for a few scrapes and bruises, they were fine. Sinclair's arm wound was mostly cosmetic in nature, a small second-degree burn that was later treated by himself. Rebecca stood around the well-stocked infirmary supplying relief and medical aid whenever possible. And if they couldn't come to her, she came to them. Molly was spared such injuries, but her mother had a good-sized bruise on her shoulder from Baloo throwing her up the cargo ramp.
Talk was kept to the bare minimum. They've flown for almost three hours, keeping at an almost random course. Johner flew most of the time and Baloo stood nearby watching the other fly, remember the details of this craft. Baloo hated to have others flying for him, wanting to take the controls himself. Another part wanted to see just what this craft was capable of doing. Kit sat nearby at the navigator station, reading a map set over a drafting table and working a set of co-ordinates with a pad and pencil. He didn't hear about what the others were doing because he had a set of headset over his ears, tuned to the ships radio, his one remaining hand playing the nearby dials almost absently. The radio's model was familiar and Kit had no trouble making it work just the way he wanted it too.
Wildcat was looking over the blueprints of the Sulaco, see it's designs and abilities with almost wide-eyed glee. Baloo looked them over for almost several minutes but quit trying to understand them. Sinclair was excellent at creating the ship but his notes were scrambled and illiterate, like the writings of a doctor in a patient's chart.
The energy surge that was once in their systems were long gone, making them tired and slightly repressed and even more introverted. Most kept to their own counsel, trying to piece together what had just happened earlier. Johner was sipping a home- brewed power-shake that was in a thermos under the pilot's seat. He barely grimaced at the slightly foul odor and much fouler flavor. Baloo still looked over his shoulder, looking at the ship's controls. Johner would let in a piece of input to Baloo about the piloting of Sulaco and Baloo would ask some relevant questions, which were promptly answered.
Rebecca and Molly sat together at the lounge, which was on Deck 2, mostly the living areas and storage. Earlier, Rebecca looked at every room available, most were set as barracks of a naval ship, double and triple bunks lined against the walls with footlockers separating them. She looked at the military surplus footlockers and saw the hard wood texture and the checkerboard design on the top, meant for the bored solider to engage in a friendly game of chess.
Dimly, she saw Molly pick up a forgotten chess piece nearby. It was a white pawn.
That's just what we are, Rebecca thought hotly. Pawns, but for what? And who is the chessmaster of this sick game?
Molly put the piece in her pocket and looked around. The infirmary was nearby, where Rebecca found the medical equipment to treat the others, and her friends. She looked at everyone, at her insistence even Demitri. He did so, allowing his shirt to be removed and allowed her startled looks at the markings on his chest. Rebecca had seen many horrid things in her life, but never at a single individual. She tried not to stare, to gape, at the scars and the scar tissue that gathered around his chest and back like moss on a rock. The marks from crawling over countless barbed wire fences, the shrapnel that ripped his body, surgical scars from some triage in the middle of what can be safely be called "hell on Earth". Among the worst of the scars, she saw two star-shaped wounds on his chest, almost right into his heart and right lung. She visibly grimaced at a sight.
He gotten looked over and took some disinfectant and some gauze and went on his way. Rebecca hadn't seen him again after that.
The lounge was well stocked with games and puzzles, and that was enough to keep Molly occupied for the moment. Rebecca went to the galley nearby to see what they had for food. She looked into the latched cabinets and searched every one, each one made her more depressed by the moment. Sinclair was one of the richest people in the world, but his tastes in food were almost that of every common man. She saw large 5 lb. cans of tuna and Spam. She noticed several creates of dehydrated cold cuts. There were fresh cans of condiments, mostly mayonnaise and steak sauce, but not much else. She stopped the search after finding the ten pound cases of oatmeal. No doubt that his taste of food left much to be desired.
Molly was occupied with the puzzle in front of her, putting a piece here and trying out a piece there. In front of her, standing straight and tall like a sentry, was the white pawn.
"We have to go back," Baloo fairly shouted.
"Well, I'd like that too." Sinclair countered smartly. "But that hit squad that came for us earlier doesn't make me too happy with the idea."
They were still in the cockpit, now arguing over what was the next course of action. Johner learned to keep out of the fight, pressing his focus on flying the ship. Kit kept to his own counsel, looking at the maps and fingering the dials of his radio. So far, nothing has come through except for the scattered, random radio traffic.
"We have to explain about what has happened," Baloo argued.
"Is it that or your plane?" Sinclair crossed his arms tightly.
"Both," Baloo didn't waiver his gaze.
"Well, I sympathize, believe me." It was now Demitri's turn to act diplomatic.
"They might impound my plane!" Baloo roared.
"And they might land a bullet in your fat, lard-filled skull." Demitri forcibly pressed the point of his index finger to Baloo's temple to better describe the issue at hand. It was something he usually did to some stubborn airman under his command who thought he knew better.
So much for diplomacy.
"They just want you; they just might leave us alone."
"Listen to me, you fat-" Sinclair wanted to continue on with this argument but Johner's yelp of alarm cut him off. Johner wasn't known for panicking under anything short of a massive napalm attack.
Sinclair acted almost by reflex, his body flew from where he was once standing to hovering over Johner's chair.
Johner was tapping at a familiar gauge to his left, tapping it insistently. It was the fuel gauge, the one that spoke for all the four fuel tanks on Sulaco. The tanks were not full as he ordered but actually a quarter full.
"It just dipped down like that," Johner started to explain but Sinclair cut him off with a raised hand. He ordered the tanks to be completely full just a few ago and his orders were followed a far as he knew. The saboteurs at work...
"How much further can we go?" Sinclair asked. This wasn't a time to place blame, only to find solutions.
"About another three hours. After that, splat." Johner explained.
Kit was already looking over his charts, now at a faster pace. His fingers were off the radio and on his slide rule, his left hand working the ruler, the right hand writing down equations that he couldn't risk doing in his head right now. He tore off another piece of paper from the legal pad and worked on another piece.
"Head to heading 280, decrease speed by thirty percent." Kit ordered. "And decrease altitude to 120 meters."
Johner did so, dipping the control yoke slightly. He fingered the throttle on the control yoke as we went. His nerves calming, but slightly.
"Where are we heading, Little Britches?" Baloo asked.
Kit didn't listen to Baloo but to the headset, his brow creased slightly, then massively. Then, his expression was that of silent horror; His expression ashen.
"What's wrong?" Baloo pressed.
Kit tapped the overhead speaker control so everyone on the cockpit could hear what Kit've just heard. His expression never changed, but his gaze was now focused on Sinclair.
"Attention, attention." The radio chimed. "We bring you the latest news bulletin: A private island once belonging to airplane mogul Demitri Sinclair was just under attack by unknown assailants. Several people are reported killed by the siege. Sinclair may've been one of the casualties. A experimental prototype was stolen as a getaway vehicle; military and mercenary groups are receiving orders to search and destroy this craft at all costs. A six-figure reward is offered to anyone that can provide information that can lead to this craft's destruction."
The message repeated itself for several minutes, but Kit turned it off afterwards. The mood of the crew noticeably dropped. Sinclair's, mostly. Johner craned his head back just so he could share the same look with his old friend. And share a knowledgeable stare. The conspirators at work once again. They couldn't go far with the fuel they have, they can't call for help because that'll mean their deaths. And with Sinclair's reported death, that alone could destroy whatever creditability to Demitri's status.
Kit was tapping the mike to his headset when he answered Baloo's earlier question: "The only place we can go at this point: Louies."