FMP: TSR is getting subbed, and it is so much awesomeness. It's Owari Day by Day as I had hoped to see it so far... awesome awesome awesome.
Did anyone go to Otakon this year? I actually asked the ADV panel what was up with TSR, the novels, the FMP: Sigma manga, and other stuff with the FMP license. They couldn't confirm or deny, which is ADV at-con language for "We're working on it." It'd be highly unlikely that they don't get the license for all the other properties, but since it hasn't happened yet, I'd like to know what's up...
This is being submitted with only 1/3rd of my beta readers signing off on it. It's been too long since I uploaded, so any changes will be coming through as they sound off.
Enough babble.
On with the show!
13: In This Last of Meeting Places
Somewhere over Iran
2:35 PM local time
The jangling of chains preceded the kchak of the key lock coming undone. Neither agent could read the other's facedue to the darkness, but even if they could, they didn't have much time to plan. The doors of the cargo box flew open, casting bright artificial light into the cargo container, simultaneously illuminating the cargo.
"Stakarj thoy..." one quietly exclaimed as he whistled, impressed.
It didn't get much farther than that. Kenji leapt out from the shadows, ducking low as he kicked hard at the muzzle of the rifle the man held. It spun backwards, smashing into the soldier's face; with a swift combination of footwork and leverage, Kenji managed to spin behind the soldier and execute a smooth hip-throw. A quick, sharp open-palm to the back of the man's head knocked him out cold.
"You're too damn fancy," Mark critiqued, standing over the prone body of the other soldier. The man's nose was bloodied and one eye looked bruised, swelling up and turning black. Mark grabbed the AK he'd dropped and checked the chamber, flipping the safety on. Kenji did the same with the other soldier's rifle.
"Some of us refined our martial arts, whereas others just scrapped too much on the streets in our youths," Kenji responded flatly. "Chain them together. Hurry!"
"Well, you're certainly creative," Mark remarked. He grabbed one end of the metal-link chain and tossed the other to Kenji. They wrapped the chain around the two soldiers' torsos and arms and fastened it around them with the lock. "Now what do we have here..."
The aircraft's cabin was noisy with the low growl of turboprop engines, and its internal lights shined clearly upon a gigantic metallic leg. Silver hydraulic tubes and masses of wiring, most of it shredded to bits, peered visibly under a patchwork of multicolored armor.
"We found our Leapfrog leg..." Kenji breathed, quickly striding up to it while checking for traps. "How big is this thing?"
"Figure at least twenty-five feet if this is a standard cargo container." Mark scratched his head before heading up to it, examining what he could from a hole in the thigh of the giant metal limb. "Jesus Christ, look at all this stuff. These circuits don't look like anything I've ever seen. They feel a little bit different than normal silicon, too."
"Mark, you were in the desk analysis division. How's your Russian?" Kenji pointed to a faded stencil, the Cyrillic letters "Вооруженный слейвд оружие Rk-65" barely visible in black spraypaint.
"A little bit..." Mark peered at the letters. "I don't remember much of it, though... MITHRIL's lousy with language training. Armament... servant cannon? I'm not sure. It looks like they're messin' with root words. Gef's the one who knows Russian, and we don't know where the hell she is."
"They took our Minoxes, didn't they?" Kenji patted his pockets. "Damn. We needed those cameras."
"Au contraire, mon friere," Mark said with a chuckle. "They took your Minox. But mine... well... it's hidden in the only place a black man wouldn't get checked."
Kenji turned to his partner. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Afro power!" Mark shouted, plunging his hand into his inches-thick 'fro and pulling out the tiny Minox covert camera.
Kenji blinked twice, then shook his head. "I cannot believe you keep your gear in your afro."
"Believe what you want," Mark quipped as he started snapping pictures. "Let's get some data and find a way outta this flying trash can."
"Sounds good. Cover me."
Mark chambered a round and moved to the side of the container, dropping down to one knee and sighting down the AK-47 towards the doors. "Clear forward," he said.
"OK. I'll go right." Of course, Kenji moved left, sighting down the rifle he had taken from the fallen soldier. He took one slow, deliberate step, taking his time and shifting his weight off of his stepping foot. The stalking maneuver wasn't meant for speed, but neither agent knew who – or what – might have come around to check up on their patrols.
One foot, then another, took Kenji to the open doors of the cargo container. The rear of the aircraft was empty; it had rows of jumpseats folded up. Probably an Antonov, he thought. Or maybe a cargo-conversion Tupolev Bear?
Kenji raised his left hand in a fist and then quickly dropped it down towards his elbow: the signal to advance. He could only hear Mark's breathing as his partner moved forward. Kenji kept sighting down the barrel of the AK, ready to fire.
They both jumped, almost pulling their triggers, when a loudspeaker crackled over the roar of the engines.
"Check all cargo for landing," an accented female voice called out. "Verify shock absorbers and clamp down the tensioners. This is a rough-field landing and we might blow a main tire. Five minutes to descent."
The engines' tone deepened as their power was decreased, slowing the RPMs.
"That wasn't..." Kenji shook his head. "No, no way. I-"
"Hey, beautiful dreamer, snap out of it. We gotta hide these guys somewhere and figure out what the hell we're gonna do once we actually touch down," Mark snapped, picking up one of the unconscious soldiers.
"Shit. You're right. Quick , roll their sleeves and cuffs over the chains and hide the rest in the folds of their clothes. Then we can strap them into jumpseats and think of something that way."
The droning of the engines deepened as the pilot reduced a little more power and the cargo plane entered into a long, slow descent. In the cargo area, the two unconscious soldiers had since been strapped down to look like they had simply fallen asleep on the long flight. The two agents were nowhere to be seen.
"Commencing descent. Prepare for any possible evasive maneuvers; the Soviets may shoot at us," the voice called out once again. Though he wasn't visible, Kenji still felt more nervous than he should upon hearing it speak. "We'll be in Helmajin Shartash within a half-hour," it concluded with a hint of triumph.
32,000 feet over the Sinai PeninsulaSeptember 11th, 1981
5:30 AM local time
"Drop point IP inbound: six minutes. Commence depressurization. CAVOK."
"Load bolsters removed, all chocks disengaged. Crew boarding and securing complete. Armament checks handed over to drop team."
"Roger. Balrog Five reports pre-drop checklist complete. Switching drop control back to Balrog Lead."
"Balrog flight, this is Lead. Threat warning receiver indicates 'Tall King' search from Cairo, 'Straight Flush' radar from the Suez belt defensive line, and intermittent 'Long Track' search radar coming from two-five-five, most likely also from the Suez line. Possible Blindfire and Dagger indications from the Israeli front line. Radar, aircraft, and drop parameters are well within acceptable range for deployment. Continue the drop."
"Balrog Five copies. Advise as to status of our cargo. Not equipped with Pattons."
"Balrog Two copies. Still rerouting hydraulic pressure to our primary disengagement system. Not within acceptable parameters, repeat, NOT within acceptable parameters. Preparing for emergency re-engagement system. Loadmaster recommends abort, over."
"Copy, Balrog Two. Stagger to number five position and stand by. Sequence update moves Two to Five's position. All aircraft, re-form in left wedge formation. Balrog Five, abort your drop, maintain formation."
The 'front office' of the lead C-5 was tense. The pilot had his hands full controlling the gigantic cargo aircraft, and the constant beeping of his threat receiver indicated sweeps from Soviet and Israeli surface-to-air missile radars. Fortunately, the radar-absorbent coatings on the Galaxies did just as they had been developed to do. The copilot was busy working on engine and fuel output, load-balance trim, and pressure management all throughout the aircraft, not to mention maintaining the secure laser-communication link between the aircraft, a task made difficult by high-altitude winds. Neither was able to function without sweating, either from the burden of the high-altitude drop or the subtle presence of a commanding general behind them.
"This is far too easy," General Andrew Sachar grumbled. He had been strapped into the jumpseat behind the flight crew since the clear air over the Indian Ocean had allowed him one last visit to the head. "I don't like this situation one bit."
"I know it's less than optimal," a tinny, disembodied male voice echoed through his headset. "To be frank, the entire situation concerning the Snowdrift and the Pattons has been less than optimal since your predecessor was running NAPA VALLEY as an agent."
"Movement on the ground has steadily increased since the balloon went up. There are a total of three Egyptian and one Israeli heavy armored divisions fighting on a front that spans the entire western Sinai Peninsula. The Israelis have been contesting the Egyptian air superiority over the battlefield for the past six hours, according to satellite and command-level intelligence, so we're going to be dropping our Pattons in unsupported. We can't run the Galaxies in at low level with the SAM threat, and there's no way the Apaches will be able to get set up and moving in the time it'd take for them in free-fall."
"It'd be best if they had the air cover for this battle, but the shock of seeing them should be all that's needed to begin operations. SIGNET CARVER is meant to accomplish exactly the same thing as SIGNET RING. So far, everything is going as it should."
"But SIGNET CARVER doesn't need the Pattons to succeed, Commander," Sachar pleaded. "We can't do this just yet. It tips our hand. The Soviets have been a generation ahead of us for some time now, and the Americans... well, they sure as hell won't like having the lid blown off of their pet project either!"
"General Sachar, I am aware of your protests against the Pattons and SIGNET CARVER as it stands," the voice replied. It was soothing, almost reassuring, saying "I'm on your side" without speaking the words. "The state of the situation required me to issue the orders. We can't hold off the third Gulf War for long. There are flare-ups across the globe. MITHRIL's back is against the wall; the Americans are engaging in militaristic policy enforcement in MITHSOUTH's area of responsibility, MITHEUR is busy operating against the Turkish Army's insurrections into Kurdistan, MITHAF is trying to suppress rebellions all over the continent, and I don't need to tell you about the tensions between Iran and Iraq. The Soviets are backing everyone from Cuba to Cambodia. Simply put, we cannot ignore the scale and scope of the Cold War anymore. If we do, it turns hot very, very quickly."
Sachar was silent.
"I do understand," the Commander reassured. "So long as I am in charge of MITHRIL and the men and women who fight under us – be they mercenaries, mechanics, or volunteers – I will forever abhor the practices that force us to escalate our involvement. But I swear upon the credo we all swore upon. We will do whatever is necessary to protect humanity, just as mithril, the mythical metal, was valued for its unflinching, unbreaking protection."
"I understand, sir," Sachar nodded, exhaling deeply.
"I know that you can pull this off, Andy," the Commander said encouragingly. "Three wars in this region is far too many. It's up to you to stop it, and I know that I can count on you."
"Understood, Commander. Sachar out."
General Sachar took off the spare headset plugged into the alternate secure laser-comm radio frequency. "What's our status?" he asked as he put his crash helmet back on.
"ETA at drop point is two minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Balrog Two has shifted to abort position. Balrog Five has confirmed its position on the outside line and is turning back to refuel at Diego Garcia. No radar acquisition as of yet," the pilot reported.
"On the ground?"
"The Israeli 18th Brigade has moved beyond Bir al-Rummanah to engage the north flank and make a push for the Canal entrance at Port Said. The fighting is spreading as far south as Abu Zanimah, and the Egyptians haven't advanced any further east past An Nakhl," the copilot read off of a report fresh from their intel printer. "This is about six hours old; with Arwen and Galadriel down, we can't relay field intel reports as quickly."
"Two minutes and five... four... three... two... one... mark, two minutes until drop."
Sachar keyed the transmit switch on the comm system. "Balrog Flight, this is Morgoth. All aircraft, report your status."
"This is Balrog Three. Two minutes to drop. Holding for confirmation."
"Four here. Cargo is primed and load has been cleared for drop. Boarding is a little slow but on schedule."
"Balrog Two, holding in abort turn."
"Five, on Two's wing, also in abort turn."
"CAVOK on all aircraft. Stand by," the pilot of Balrog One reported. He keyed off his mike and turned behind him. "General?"
Sachar swallowed and looked over his shoulder briefly. The loadmaster and dropmaster had just returned from the cargo hold and had sealed the door behind them in order to begin the depressurization process.
I want nothing more than to order the pilots out and abort this mission, he thought. Of all the worst-case scenarios, this has to be the worst...
"Commence the drop," Sachar ordered, his throat dry.
"Acknowledged. Drop will commence." The pilot got back on the laser-comm. "Balrog flight, commence CHISEL IMPACT. I repeat, commence CHISEL IMPACT."
It took a full sixty seconds for the huge rear ramps of the C-5s to open, the windblast howling against the ramps as they were forced down by the powerful hydraulic systems. The cargo holds were unlit, as were the outsides of the aircraft, blacker than the night sky around them. Equally black drogue parachutes billowed behind each aircraft, quickly pulling a lumpy, disorganized shape behind it. The three C-5s in the drop pattern each disgorged two of the shapes; they quickly accelerated downwards before their main parachutes deployed at barely six thousand feet above the ground.
The metal shapes dug several feet into the sand as automated systems cut the lines on the parachutes, casting them willy-nilly across the wind. Landing just as they had departed Merida – just at the red twilights of dawn – six shadows, eerily human-shaped, stood up straight for the first time in the Sinai Peninsula. As if synchronized, six sets of sensors turned on, their cameras lit red with built-in IR illumination.
"Fehu one here," a secure radio tramission went out. "Commencing operation CHISEL POINT."
Karachi, Pakistan6:30 AM local time
"Put him down!" he screamed in Russian, not even thinking about using English.
"Hinter ab!" the SS trooper yelled back in German, hefting the bayonet of his rifle closer to the young man's neck. The blade drew some blood, cutting far too close into the flesh of his chin. "Hau ab, oder ich schlachte ihn jetzt gleich!"
"Drop the gun and let him go!" he tried in Czech. Switching to Russian, he started barking orders at his squad: "Boris, back your men away!"
Drop your gun; take it easy with him...
"Sniper! Sniper in that warehouse!"
The crack of a Soviet rifle sounded just as the soldiers fell back. It struck the SS trooper in the chest, and the reflexive jerk of his arms thrust the bayonet square through the front of the young man's throat.
"No!" he yelled out, tossing aside his rifle and rushing forward just as the German sniper fired. A flash of white was all he saw, coupled by the tinny ring of a telephone.
He didn't know if the phone or the nightmare had woken him up. He was used to the latter jarring him out of sleep; sometimes it was coupled with sobbing tears against Kiriko's chest, her hands on his back, gently embracing him. Others it was in sheer rage, shouting out commands, shouts of protest, a cry of pain on the thrust of the bayonet, or on the impact of the bullet...
"Steinberg," he half-grumbled into the phone, scratching the sore spot on his forehead.
"Meester Steinberg, this is Rafiq Akbar of Pakistan International Sea Cargo at port of Karachi," the Urdu-accented voice on the other line announced itself in broken English. "I have cargo shipment clear customs for you just now at docks. I hold for you per agreement."
"Good." Richard Sonoma kicked his legs out of bed as he yawned. "I'll be there in an hour with my truck."
"Very good, sir. We are dock 14-A1."
"Right. Be there soon."
He hung up the phone, trying not to rouse Kiriko, who was still blissfully asleep next to him. The other room of the hotel had a small desk with another phone where he could talk. The next call went to a heavy truck dealership that few people knew about. A briefcase already waited with ten thousand American dollars in used bills destined for the dealer.
He was at the docks in 45 minutes, struggling with the transmission on the clunky old Opel flatbed. The only reason he had bought it on the spot was because it was well-versed in mountainous routes. The dealer had inquired over tea – a welcome thing for Richard – quite honestly and openly if he planned to haul weapons for the CIA into Afghanistan. "I get many American who want bring guns to mudje," he had explained. Richard had laughed.
"Not for the guerillas," he said. "Just for myself."
The Opel truck roared up to the noisy, crowded cargo ship dock, its protesting gearbox drowned out by the constant movements of cranes, pipelines, and forklifts. People were everywhere, some clad in coveralls, others in the simple shalwar kamis – the traditional Pakistani lightweight clothes. Richard hopped out and tried his best to blend in with the crowd as he opened the creaking door to an office trailer.
"You must be Meester Steinberg," the only man in the office inquired as Richard shut the door. "We have cargo for you ready."
"Good, I have a truck outside. Where do I sign?"
Several hours later On the N25 MotorwayWest-Central Sind Province, Pakistan
300 miles north of Karachi
The old Opel didn't like being in fourth gear very much, and that suited Richard Sonoma just fine. The Pakistani Highway Constabulary concerned itself more with border affairs, and he was content to go at as fast a speed northbound as he could muster. There was no point in hurrying to accelerate; it was just an effort to get the third gear past redline before shifting up all of two gears.
"You sure this thing can make it?" Kiriko asked with a yawn. She had declined any coffee, tea, or juice, merely opting to fall right back asleep as they had begun their drive northward.
"I'm sure that we won't have any problems," Richard remarked, patting her denim-clad thigh gently. She had traded in her more fashionable sun dress in for hardier clothes, just as he had. "Besides, we've got our backup in case we need it."
"That's true," Kiriko said through another yawn. "I wish I wasn't so sleepy... it's hard to reformulate the wiring and hydraulic diagrams while fighting through jet lag."
"Don't worry about it, Kiri. I swear, you work yourself too hard."
Kiriko stretched her arms and rested her head on Richard's shoulder, wrapping an arm across his chest. "I don't mind, Richie. I really don't. Besides, if I stop now, what would everything be worth?"
Richard glanced at the analog clock on the dashboard of the old Opel. "We've still got at least a ten-hour drive ahead of us. Better get some sleep."
"What about you?"
Richard squeezed the hard vinyl steering wheel, the cracking, old material resilient against his strong grip. "There are enough sleepers in this world, Kiriko. I'd rather not join them unless I have zero other options."
To be continued...