Meteor
Disclaimer:
I do not own Alias; ABC, Bad Robot Productions and JJ Abrams do, and I give
full acknowledgement of that (good work guys). I do not own and am not affiliated
in any way, with the brands mentioned in this piece (such as Ford, BWM or Colt),
more than likely I've used them because they're known, or because they're very
nice bits of kit that I hope to have one day. Finally, I'm a student, don't
sue me, I've got nothing worth taking.
Authors note:
Well, after a little bit (read nearly 3 months) of a break, I've finally gotten round to updating the story, and its definitely got a way to go yet, and although I'm still rewriting a few of the bits I've already done, most of it is nearly there.
I hope you enjoy this chapter
- Spyder
Time frame:
None - Just generally set after Sydney becomes a double agent.
Somewhere in London
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed twice, as the owner of the office walked in fresh from lunch, strolling straight towards his desk.
"Nice lunch?" a voice asked from behind
"Yes, thank you Mr Huntingdon, a very filling ploughman's actually." He grinned as he sat down. "Waiting long?"
"No sir, not at all" the Commander replied, void of any feeling.
"Very well" the elderly man said, tapping a few keys on his keyboard. "You'll be glad to know that the tape was delivered to SD-6 right on time, and the safe house previously occupied by Agents Bristow, Vaughn and Weiss has been cleared and cleaned by Foxtrot unit - every item found is currently with analysis before it goes to technical services"
"That was fast"
"Yes, anyway, on with the briefing" the lights cut out and the big plasma screen was activated, showing a live image from an orbiting satellite. "How well do you know Oman, Mr Huntingdon?"
"Well enough to know that there is a moderately sized Alliance listening station, why do you ask?"
"Simple, you're going to Oman with Alpha unit - they're currently in Turkey running commando raids on known terrorist hideouts." The screen immediately showed a picture of a makeshift military base, enhanced by thermochemical optics and computer analysis identifying each person in the base and the surrounding area, marking them with a red dot.
"What's the plan?" Huntingdon asked
"This is a simple recovery incursion - infiltrate the enemy base, gain access to their central network, upload a virus, download an inventory list and get out. We'll hit the base with a tactical strike as you leave"
"Tactical strike? How?"
"A Meteor unit will hit the base with four deep ground penetrating cruise missiles, a pair of Joint Stand Off Weapons (JSOW) and another pair of clustering missiles."
"That's a lot of firepower - I take it you don't want to leave anything left?"
"Would you leave anything left Commander?"
The answer was simple enough not to need a reply.
"Take what equipment you need from the armoury - Alpha are already equipped for combat, but take them a few decent MRE's and some more ammunition. They probably need a little 'pick me up' after what they've done"
"Yes sir, anything else?"
"No commander, good luck"
Somewhere in Oman several hours later
The SD-6 listening post in Oman was a lot bigger than it sounded.
Hidden away in the dunes of the Omani Desert, the base comprised of a reinforced concrete listening post and command bunker, a large mechanics bay with adjoining power plant, a helipad, and a rather small barracks to support the permanent staff, which accounted for nearly everyone on site.
Looking out over the complex, James 'Jim' Callaghan, a former US Army Ranger and base commander, thought nothing of the warning that came from Arvin Sloane earlier that day as he calmly flicked the stubbly cigarette into the desert sands down below.
Using the railings to support him, Callaghan stretched up to his full height of six foot two, looking down across the well-lit base.
Since the phone call earlier, he had, as requested, beefed up security somewhat, but didn't think that anything would, or could happen - they were threatened by rebel groups all the time, but none dare try to assault the base or they would be cut down like sheep to the slaughter.
Although the numbers of security personnel here numbered less than fifty, they were all highly trained people, either with army or other combat backgrounds, and were all armed with a mixture of weapons, ranging form AK assault rifles, to SAW support weapons.
Anyone who tried to get in here would be sorely mistaken.
Turning to head back to the station, his footsteps crunched along the stoned surface of the roof, passing the massive communications antenna that stood out like a sore thumb.
He'd taken no more than two steps, when he heard a barely audible crack in the night, stopping him in his tracks. Turning slowly, he could see nothing wrong, and after a few seconds dismissed it as paranoia.
Probably one of the mechanics dropping or breaking something, he thought.
Walking on, he trotted down the metal staircase, and into the main office planning room, where he was greeted by one of the night staff.
"Greetings Sahib, how is the night?" the Arab asked, in heavily accented English
"All is well Iman, how are your troops?" he replied, courteously nodding towards the Arab at the mention of his men. A custom he had learnt of the hard way, as the scar above his right ear showed.
"They are well, slightly weary from the days trek, but they will survive"
"Good, what extra security measures have you taken?"
"We have increased the outer patrols to four men each, totalling sixteen men" the Arab replied, taking a sip of water from the plastic cup in his hand. "There are guards stationed in every building, as well as along section of fence - no-one will get in here tonight, you have my word Sahib"
"And your word is all I need, Iman" Callaghan respectfully replied.
Walking off, Callaghan knew while the Arabs were competent, he would have definitely preferred his own team of Rangers with him, but alas, it was something he could not have. He knew the CIA could not acknowledge its affiliation with SD-6 in any way.
After a few minutes of wandering around the building, Callaghan found himself in the security station inside the base gazing at the wall of monitors showing every corner of the base - both internally and externally.
Mechanics working on a jeep in the repair bay.
A group of Arabic soldiers patrolling by the northern gate.
Then something came up - a sentry missing from his post by the power station.
Reaching for a radio on the desk in front, something on the monitor caught his eye.
"Sir?" one of the technicians asked
"Camera 4, can you zoom in on that?" he asked pointing to the foreign object on screen.
"I'll try sir" the tech said, panning and zooming the camera in as much as possible. The screen flashed twice, and the tech sighed. "Sorry sir, but that's the best I can give you"
Callaghan just stared at the image for a second, when he realised what the object was - a boot.
Grabbing the radio as fast as he could, he held the unit up to his mouth, just in time for the power to fail, sending the underground room into complete darkness, as the ground shook slightly.
Someone had taken out the power generators.
The base plunged into complete darkness, as the world above him seemed to explode with gunfire.
Screeching into the radio, Callaghan yelled into the mouth piece as loud as he could, but feared it was too late. "We're under attack, all units report in!"
He clicked the 'talk' button off, and got nothing but static.
Over in the corner, one of the technicians' flicked open a lighter, and the room was filled with a faint, orange glow. "Sir?"
"Grab a weapon, and keep trying to raise anyone out there" Callaghan said, fumbling for the lighter in his pockets.
Finding the lighter, he pulled it out just as a series of shots were heard directly above him.
Everyone stopped for a moment, as footsteps were heard coming down the stairs, accompanied by an angelic glow coming from a torch.
The light grew louder, and so did the sound of the footsteps, as one of the technicians passed Callaghan a pistol, then knelt down by his desk, in the hope of affording some protection.
It gave him none.
Their assault was as swift as a falcon, as violent as a lion, and as cunning as a fox, turning off their flashlights before entering the room, destroying Callaghan's night vision.
Kicking in the door, they flicked their flashlights back on, blinding everyone before the silenced cough of suppressed weapons fire took out the two technicians before they realised what was going on.
Callaghan dived away, but wasn't fast enough - he was shot in the shoulder and went down hard, his gun skidding across the floor.
The light died, as Callaghan blacked out momentarily.
Pulling himself to his feet, he grunted as he felt the bullet hole in his shoulder burn like hell, trying hard to ignore it.
Removing the lighter lighter, he flicked it open and walked over to where the technicians were, finding only their bodies - they'd been shot in the head with lethal accuracy, as brain and skull fragments were splattered across the walls and equipment, while their blood glittered from the orange light of the lighter.
Callaghan very nearly hauled himself from the room, and up the four flights of darkened stairs onto the roof; the only sounds heard being the clang from his feet impacting the metal steps.
Finally reaching the roof, he stumbled out the doorway tripping on the last step, as his face came down on the gravel hard, adding a few minor cuts to the gaping bullet wound to his shoulder.
Picking himself up, Callaghan managed to reach the railings before looking up.
He saw a single man, in desert camouflage running full pelt towards the fence.
Callaghan tried to yell, but the words just gurgled in his throat, as he coughed up some blood.
He watched the man jump up at the fence and clamber over it as if it was nothing, disappearing into the desert night almost as fast as he appeared.
The he heard the high pitched whirr of a rocket motor, and knew it was the end.
Callaghan watched as the world around him went blindingly bright white, feeling a burning sensation all over, moments before the world went red, and finally black.
Back in the CIA command centre in Los Angeles, via a two-hundred and fifty mile orbit, Michael Vaughn watched in awe as the SD-6 listening post went from a series of concrete and steel buildings, back to the sand it was based on in a matter of seconds.
A hard chill ran down his spine, as the black-and-white monitor showed him something scarier than death itself. He was in awe, and so was everyone else around him.
There was nothing left of the base.
Not even rubble.