James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended (and would really be sorta whacked, given some of the events and persons depicted herein).
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Author's Note: Thanks again to Moonbeam, for her seemingly exhaustive, multi-volume encyclopedic answer to my one quick question. And she say's I'm obsessive about detail… :)
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XII – Let Slip the Dogs of War"Alpha team standing by," Mole muttered over the radio. He gave a quick glance to the five other transgenics that were with him, noting with satisfaction that they all seemed as calm as if they were back in Gillette, taking part in a simple live-fire exercise. You would never guess that we're about to jump down the throat of our greatest enemy.
"Beta team standing by," he heard several moments later. Now that the Black Omega team working with him had dug in and was prepared to cut off all avenues of escape, Mole knew the order to attack would come any second.
Simple tactics, he'd thought when the mission's commander, an ordinary Colonel named Jeffrey Hutchings, had explained the plan. The Black Omegas were to set up a secure perimeter, putting a bit of distance between them and the Familiars. The extra space would offset their inferior reaction times, allowing them to fully utilize their marksmanship abilities and superior teamwork, an asset borne out of years competing with the physically superior but less cohesive transgenics. Mole's transgenics would then hit the Familiar safehouse hard and fast, taking out as many as they could while letting stragglers flee if they had an opportunity. Not like they'll get very far…
"Alpha team, move in," Colonel Hutchings ordered. A flurry of quick gestures allowed Mole to relay the command to his squad, and in a blur of motion they were upon the building. An RPG reduced the front door to splinters moments before the transgenics arrived at the entrance, allowing Mole's soldiers to flood inside. The gunshots' bright, strobe-like flashes – accentuated by the deafening crackle of small arms fire – intermittently lit the foyer, providing more than enough illumination for Mole's team to do its job. The transgenics advanced through the rooms with frightening precision, cutting down one target after another. Mole noted that two hostiles eluded the transgenic assault, but the roar of assault weapons from outside assured him that his enemies' escape had been short lived.
It was all over within minutes, and by the time Hutchings had entered the secured building, Mole was puffing away on a cigar, standing over Gordon as he applied a field dressing to a flesh wound on his left forearm. "Sir," Mole said evenly, saluting the colonel as he entered.
"Nice job," Hutchings replied absently, already surveying the scene. "Have your people started looking over any captured intel?"
"Yes, sir," Mole answered. "There's a lot of it, sir. I don't think even our most optimistic analyses of the target expected what we found."
"How much?"
"Initial estimates guess we found everything, sir."
"Everything?"
"We're only beginning to look over the computer records, sir, but it seems we have identities and locations of over five hundred Familiars," Mole said, doing his best to seem nonchalant and unimpressed. He was intent on impressing his new C.O., but he doubted that raving about the success of his team's second assault was the best way to win over Hutchings. The man was a professional soldier cut from the same cloth as Lydecker – he was impressed only by cold, calculated efficiency.
"How long would it take to download everything and get it out of here?" the colonel asked, recognizing the importance of removing everything to a secure location.
"We're already working on that," Mole answered. "We'll need fifteen, maybe twenty minutes more. There are also several filing cabinets full of papers. We'll need help moving them out of here."
"Lieutenant," Hutchings called out. As if out of thin air, a short, balding man appeared at his side, settling a suspicious stare on Mole from the corner of his eye.
"Yessir," the lieutenant muttered with a sharp salute.
"Have your men assist in gathering together all of the hard copies of this information," Hutchings ordered. "Get on the radio, too. I want a chopper sent in; this is far too much to carry out on foot."
"Yessir."
"This could be everything we needed," Hutchings muttered. "Maybe now we can crush our enemy once and for all."
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Lillith sat back in her chair, dueling with her own guilt at having suggested a strategy that would doubtlessly lead to the deaths of hundreds of her own people. Not only grown men and women, but children, too… As much as she questioned the merits of her own scheme, she forced herself to face the uncomfortable fact that it was now far too late to go back. The information had been released – the government's Black Omegas now had enough information to destroy almost a thousand Familiars – fully ten percent of their total number. There's no telling what kind of assets we're surrendering, she thought miserably. To be convincing, she and her superiors had known that they needed to sell out some of their best and brightest. The ordinaries had to take significant losses if the ruse were to be believable. The Familiar targets had to fight tooth and nail to survive, as if they were in fact the last of their people. The selected individuals were strong enough to ensure that the deception would succeed.
A sudden crash from above knocked Lillith out of her reverie. She went through a mental list of everyone in the building, wondering who had caused the noise and what large piece of furniture had to have been knocked over. Another crash cut her thinking short, and the reverberation that shook the building's foundation told Lillith that the first noise hadn't been an accident. Her home was under attack.
As if in verification of her conclusion, gunshots erupted above. The government's forces, she thought, doing her best to suppress her panic. She'd been in far worse situations before; there was no way she would let fear cloud her mind. The entrance to the sub-basement is hidden, she reminded herself. I doubt they'll find it, even if they know to look for it. And besides, finding the entrance and getting in are two entirely different things. I should be safe enough until I can get some reinforcements.
She picked up her phone and dialed quickly, thankful that she'd had the foresight to insist on encasing the lines in steel-reinforced concrete. She doubted the transgenics would be able to cut her off before she called for help.
"Hello?" she heard Mr. Johnson's familiar voice ask from the other end of the line.
"This is Lillith," she said evenly, ignoring the fact that another blast almost shook her out of her chair. "The transgenics have located my home. I need reinforcements."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Mr. Johnson replied.
"What?"
"Well, Lillith, we had to make it believable, of course," Johnson responded coldly. "I think even the ordinaries would have figured something was amiss if everyone they captured was young. No, some of the older, more accomplished of our people also needed to be surrendered."
"That was not discussed," Lillith said hastily, extremely displeased that such a decision had been made without her input, regardless of how logical the decision had been.
"No, not with you it wasn't," Johnson agreed. "It was the elders' impression that it was only reasonable to conclude that you'd be willing to make the same sacrifice you so readily arranged for some of our people."
"I don't understand . . ."
"Fe'nos tol, Lillith."
"What do you mean?" Lillith asked quickly, her stomach lurching as a chill ran down her spine. The only response she received was a click as the line went dead. "Mr. Johnson?" she asked desperately. "Are you there?" The phone slipped from her numb grasp when she heard an echoing report of weapons that sounded suspiciously close-by. A brief, young girl's scream followed, and Lillith knew that her nine-year-old handmaiden, Felicia, had just been cut down.
They couldn't have gotten in this quickly; they couldn't have gotten past all of the guards… She walked toward the door of her office, placing her hand on the doorknob just as a heavy thud erupted from the other side. They're right outside, she realized in horror. The door held, but another thud followed. And another. And another. A moment later the heavy wood splintered inward, and she was looking down the barrels of several assault rifles. "But no one discussed this with me," she muttered lamely.
To be continued………………………………