…A black wind rises
The sudden sensation of weightlessness came to him in a rush of nausea and vertigo. It reminded him of sticky summers spent at the carnivals, spinning at such a speed that he felt he would be flung from the ride at any moment. Grabbing for a handhold, it took all of the considerable strength in his legs to merely stand upright, stepping forward towards the cockpit.
"Jackson, what happened," Leon yelled over the turbulence of the helicopter.
"No clue, sir," Jackson replied through bared teeth, pushing all of his weight against the rigid controls.
Their chopper had been flying perfectly, skirting smoothly along the edge of the woods, when they suddenly slammed into something that seemingly stopped them in midair. It spun out of control, the back rotor oozing smoke in a hazy ring that now surrounded them.
"Take us down!" ordered Leon, his stomach pitching completely to one side. "Now!"
"I'm trying to, sir!"
Waiting for the chopper to pitch in the right direction, Leon used the momentum to lean forward and fall into the seat beside the pilot. He heard the sound of a soldier vomiting behind him, the others holding on grimly, silent prayers on their lips. Struggling to right himself, Leon grasped the second set of controls, looking over the instrument panel. He had only logged about twenty hours in the air, but he realized someone needed to take charge, and so he pulled a headset over his ears.
"Cut the rear rotor," Leon directed, looking for the switch. Jackson immediately obeyed, and the whirlwind of smoke around them began to dissipate, the clear northern skies opening before them.
"We're starting to spin faster," said Jackson, bracing himself at the sudden acceleration of speed.
"Take us down, and don't worry about being gentle," instructed Leon, pointing at a clearing below them. "Just get us down a few more hundred feet, and cut the engine!"
The pilot nodded, slowing the motor as he pushed the throttle forwards, dropping the spinning chopper down towards the trees. As the chopper descended in its wild free fall, the tail slammed against a tall tree, rebounding off before spinning towards it again. Leon heard the loud crack of the wood splintering, giving way for the chopper to drop…but then he realized that it wasn't the tree that had snapped. It was the tail of the chopper.
Choking smoke began to pour in from the rear of the helicopter's cabin, the men gagging as they pulled on their issued gas masks. The pilot looked desperately at Leon, his eyes startlingly unsure as the smog swallowed them both. Fire began to pour from the back, the flames licking at their gear. Through the madness of it all, Leon could barely hear the pilot's voice over the headset.
"What now sir, what do I do now," he coughed. Neither man in the cockpit had had the chance to put on an oxygen mask.
Realizing that more orders would do nothing, Leon quickly reached behind his seat. His desperately searching fingers wrapped around the shotgun, and he brought it forward while jacking the safety. Its first round spider-webbed the fiberglass, and the second completely shattered it, sending the panel spiraling to the ground below. The opening sucked the smoke from the rear, but the fires were beginning to reach the men strapped into their seats.
"Bail in ten!" Leon screamed over the noise as he took the chopper's controls into his shaking hands. His eyes began to water, but whether it was from the piercing smoke or the prospect of death, he would never know. Dropping their altitude again sharply, Leon could tell they were only a few dozen feet off the ground. He could hear the door slide open behind him, the men diving out of the whirling chopper as quickly as they could.
"Cut the motor," he yelled to the pilot, who was busy working at his straps; apparently he planned to bail with the other men. Leon grabbed Jackson by the collar, throwing him back into his seat roughly. "Cut the motor," he repeated, his icy blue eyes blazing. The pilot fought Leon's grip off at first, but when he saw those eyes, he nodded meekly, returning to the console to kill the last working motor on the vehicle.
As the blades began to slow their rotation, the silence of it all struck Leon in a rather abstract way. Here they were, barely twenty feet above the ground, on fire, without power, and without protection of any kind, yet he looked forward to a crash more than the rest of this mission. Images of an innocent twelve year old flashed against his wet eyes, a girl chewing happily on gum while cloaked in Claire's pink vest.
"Alright, bail Jackson," ordered Leon, locking the control sticks into place with the shotgun's stock. The chopper's wild spin cycle had mostly stopped, but its momentum was tossing equipment every which way. Jackson was already leaping from the side when Leon rose from his seat and saw the low set of rocks rushing at them from below.
The first blade screeched harshly against the rocks, snapping off and sailing through the air towards the men below. Three men were cut by the first deadly shard, two completely in half. The third man lost his right leg above his knee, the sudden loss of so much blood killing him almost instantly. A trained medic might have been able to save him, had the medic not lay on the ground in two pieces beside him. Another blade followed the first, whistling harmlessly above the men as it lodged into a thick tree. The last blades of the rotor spun unevenly as the chopper bounced away from the contact, tossing Leon into the rear of the chopper. Rolling on his side, he crawled towards the opening before diving towards the earth below.
He fell awkwardly on a pile of dry leaves, thankful it wasn't a mountain of rocks. Moments later, he heard the loud crash of the chopper as it collided with the ground, the fires spreading to nearby trees.
"Doc, get a count on the injured," Leon yelled over his shoulder, sprinting towards the burning helicopter. Every bit of their ordinance was in there…
"He's dead, Leon," one of the men yelled back to him. But Leon had no time to spare grieving. Leaping through the broken door into the heavy smoke, he blindly grabbed anything within his reach before hurling it out into the woods behind him. He heard the footsteps of his men, gathering up the weapons and clearing away.
"Get out of there, Kennedy!" his men hollered over the noise of the fire. The smoke was chokingly thick, tasting of fuel and burnt rubber. Frustrated, Leon realized he had no choice but to bail. Lunging from the door, he rolled down a low hill as the copter behind him exploded in a deafening roar, raining hot debris upon him.
--
The first set of explosions rocked the facility, the generators flickering to dying lights, dust falling from the ceiling. Despite this sudden development, however, none of the dozen worker drones seemed to notice the dangerous situation. Which was precisely as she wanted it.
"Keep moving the research files," she commanded, feeling a slight giddiness about her. She could just as easily given her orders mentally, but saying them entitled a greater sense of control. It was also oddly reassuring to hear the sound of her own voice as well. She looked up at Linda, her most prized doll, and straightened her shirt's collar. Using Linda as a cover had worked magnificently; no one in customs paid much attention to a doctor and her ward while they traveled the world. Sherry suspected that she had enough control and knowledge of Linda by now to fool even her own family. Now there was a challenge. But then there would be so much time spent on explanations, her family thinking she died in that fire back in the States.
"Unnecessary messes," Linda said suddenly, and Sherry realized she had been broadcasting her own thoughts again. So far, none of the others had proven so sensitive to her emotions and musings, but her connection to Linda dated back several years, which could explain the advanced rapport. Part of the girl wished her parents were still alive, so she could plant some seeds into them. How amusing that would be, including them in her experiments for a change...
Another explosion rang through the halls, and Sherry looked up with an annoyed expression. These men were beginning to bother her. At least half of their number were dead by now, taken out by her 'Security Force', a handful of fresh zombies hungry for flesh. Apparently these men wanted to either salvage the mission, or were foolishly seeking revenge. Either way, it was only proper etiquette she go up to meet them.
She walked to the holding area, footprints steaming behind her, and looked into a small slit on the mammoth steel box. A smile formed on her lips.
"Time to come out and play, boy," she cooed, spitting a fresh slew of her leech seeds through the slot.
--
"Injury count, Harper," inquired Leon as he limped towards the other men, brushing ash and cinders from his bomber jacket.
"Not good, boss," replied the smooth talking Ranger from Boston. He was young, but experienced as much as any of the other men given to Leon for the mission. "Three dead and four incapacitated."
"How badly incapacitated?"
"One with a broken leg, two with leg fractures, one with second and third degree burns across his back. More with some slight burns and sprains, but nothing they can't grit and bear, sir."
"Best we could hope for, I guess," sighed their tired leader. "Gather up the equipment we have on hand and get me an inventory of everything," he ordered. "Westing…Chang…you two have the most medical training; get to work on the injured."
The two men tiredly nodded, sifting through bloody leaves to find the buried medic equipment bags.
"Does anyone have a working radio," Leon asked, leaning back against a tree trunk.
"I've been trying to call the other team for the past few minutes, sir," answered the radioman, a freckled youth with the reddest hair Leon had ever seen. Leon was especially glad to see him still alive; the officer reminding him of one of his closest childhood friends.
"And headquarters, Sean?"
"Also no go, sir," he answered, trying his best to hide the worry in his young eyes.
"I'm sure they're ok, sir," added Harper. "Their chopper was pretty far west…didn't even see us go down, I bet. They're probably reaching the target point now."
"I don't think so," Leon said, shaking his head.
"Why do you say that, sir," asked Harper, a bit annoyed by his superior's doubting attitude.
"Look over there," Leon pointed, and the men's eyes followed obediently. Far off to the west, a thick column of black smoke rose quietly from the trees. Both choppers had crashed.
--
The young man wiped the blood away from the thin cut on his face, staring angrily at the larger man before him.
"No bad, hombre, but I dealt with worse in my old barrio," Carlos said coolly, rubbing the fluid between his fingers. The man across from him grinned.
"First blood, Olivera," he growled, twirling a shining blade on his finger, its deadly tip red with Carlos' blood.
"It's last blood that matters in these things," replied the younger man, clutching the handle of his large knife tightly.
"I doubt you can draw any blood with your skill against mine," said Krauser, his hard eyes watching Carlos carefully.
Carlos shrugged, realizing he had no choice but to fight. The once small fires had sparked the dry timber of the woods, surrounding the two in a shrinking ring of burning underbrush. Krauser had walked away from the crash unscratched, almost as if he was expecting it. But it was only when Carlos woke from the trauma to his head that he overhead his squad's Captain revealing the success of his sabotage.
"De putamadre," cursed Carlos, lunging at Krauser with the only weapon he'd had on hand, his least favorite weapon. The knife was useful, but Carlos preferred ranged combat. Krauser actually smiled when Carlos attacked him with his knife, parrying the attack easily and cutting the smaller man's cheek as he passed.
"If I told you once, I told you idiots a thousand times…know the knife better than you know yourself. Master it. It will either save or cost you your life someday," Krauser said brusquely, admiring his knife's blood tipped edge.
"Save that 'Art of War' educating shit for someone who cares," replied Carlos, circling his former teacher, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
"Then school is in session," Krauser said, assuming a low attack stance. His knife flashed outwards, aimed at Carlos' chest, before snapping back and across for a low slash attack. The feint had thrown off the younger man's defenses, the warm blood dripping down his stomach indicating his opponent's success.
Carlos stumbled forward to counterattack, his clumsy thrust sidestepped effortlessly by Krauser before neatly slicing open his former pupil's wrist. Jumping back, Carlos held the gushing wound in his free hand, blood flowing over tightly clenched fingers. Krauser laughed gustily, shaking his head.
"You're an embarrassment to the core, Olivera," accused Krauser, his cold eyes unforgiving. "Tell me, was it affirmative action that got you in? Or did you ride Leon's coattails to get in?"
"Chinga un perro, Krauser," swore Carlos, sweat pouring down his forehead. The hellish heat from the fire was getting to him, the fatigue and wear from the crash coupling with the blood loss to blur his vision ever so slightly. On the other hand, Krauser was at peak condition, and his skill with a knife was legendary while Olivera's was adequate at best.
"Insults? Is that what I taught you," Krauser laughed gruffly. "Real men speak with their actions…like this," he said as he pounced forward. Carlos barely deflected the thrusting blade, his counter a beat too slow; Krauser ducked under it with ease. His fist then found its way into the younger man's stomach, the blow doubling Carlos over. Grasping his long hair in his battle hardened hand, Krauser pulled him back savagely, exposing his throat. "I always told you to get rid of this faggot haircut of yours," he said, holding his knife at Carlos' Adam's apple.
"Y tu mama tambien," spat Carlos, leaning back and pushing off with his legs. Coupled with Krauser's grip, the sudden, desperate move threw the larger man off balance, the edge of his lethal knife sailing harmlessly above Carlos' falling form. Planting his good hand onto the ground, Carlos swung his leg over as he somersaulted backwards, kicking Krauser squarely in the head with the steel toe of his boot. The larger man fell back, stunned by the speed and ferocity of the blow. Carlos' momentum carried him to his feet, and he spun to thrust a backhanded attack at Krauser. The blind stab, however, stopped in midair when it met with Krauser's countering elbow. Droppingbewteen senseless fingers, Carlos went to catch the weapon with his other injured hand when he felt Krauser's knife bite viciously into his stomach, the razor edge twisting roughly. Carlos gasped, as much in pain as in surprise, blood rushing up his throat, spilling from his lips.
"Checkmate, Olivera," Krauser whispered into the dying man's ear as he lay his former comrade gently on the soft earth. Something that might have been pity in another man flashed in those cruel eyes; perhaps regret from killing a man he had fought alongside for so long, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he too would suffer the grisly fate of death someday. Whatever thoughts ran through his mind, Krauser turned to the more pressing matters at hand.
Looking for an opening in the blaze about him, Krauser began to make his way from the crash site. The surrounding heat suddenly thickened, and he felt the impact of something heavy clobber him from behind. Falling to the ground, he glimpsed Carlos standing behind him, bleeding profusely, a piece of flaming wreckage in his blackened hands. Krauser instinctively rolled to his side to avoid the follow up attack, and he felt the agonizing burn of his flesh melting under the lick of the fire. Jumping to his feet, the larger man's eye was masked red with blood, the side of his face a mass of burnt tissue. A single, bloody tear rolled down the ridges of his charred face, but he showed no other sign of pain. Carlos grinned weakly, barely supported by wobbly legs.
"Now you got a face to match your personality, cabron," muttered a half conscious Carlos, his last words silenced by Krauser's falling knife as it pierced through his chest again and again.
--
"I'm sure they're ok sir," Harper assured Leon. "Captain Krauser is the best around, and he's got Lieutenant Olivera watching his back."
"I don't doubt their skill, but that looks to be a bad crash," Leon said, lowering the binoculars. They stood on an open hill, miles from the other team's crash site, stuck between their destination and their comrades.
"We only have enough equipment for the three of us to take on a large scale bio-threat, sir," chimed in the other team member, a middle aged man who had spent most of his youth as an Israeli commando. "We're already spread thin as it is."
"I know, Bernard," Leon replied, his eyes distant. "I'm just worried is all," he added, turning back to their path. "Maybe I shouldn't have left so many men behind…"
"It was the only thing you could do, sir," offered Bernard. "Sean is a greatcommunications man, but not as good in a firefight. Since we've seen no signs of an outbreak, it's best he stay with the wounded and continue flagging help."
"I just hope help comes before nightfall," Leon said, the sun already beginning its descent. If an outbreak did in fact occur, those injured men wouldn't stand a chance in the dark woods.
"I'm wondering if help will even come," muttered Harper. The other men stopped in their tracks to look at him.
"What's that supposed to mean," demanded Leon.
Harper shrugged. "Two choppers, two simultaneous crashes due to unknown causes? I don't think I'm being paranoid here by being just a wee bit suspi—"
"Graham needs us to do this job," Leon said, cutting him off. "Or it's his ass served up to the President."
"From what I hear, it's the President who's at Graham's mercy," Bernard added under his breath.
"How is that possible," Leon asked. But as the young leader began to think of it, things did seem to have a strange way of playing out in that man's favor. Graham was the one at the top of the O.R.E., and yet he wasn't so much as mentioned in the scandal allegations of Congress. He was a close personal friend of the President's as well, working with the past few administrations…what would he have to gain from working both sides when he had the ear of the most powerful man in the world?
"The O.R.E. was established due to the Executive Powers Act, thanks to legislation giving them excessive, unbalanced powers for wartime," answered Bernard. "Graham would have all decision making power and control, his influence spreading to every aspect of government. But as a divisional Secretary, he wasn't visibly associated with the organization. He got the organization created as much by politicking as his relationship with President Sears' administration."
"So?"
"So…Graham has used this power base to boost his own influence without risk or consequence. Consequences that fell squarely on the President's shoulders with a scandal some believe to have been leaked by Graham himself," replied Bernard. "Even if the President wanted to pin it on Graham, he couldn't. And if he was able to, he'd look like a rat. A lose-lose situation for President Sears, but a win-win scenario for Graham."
"Why haven't we heard anything about this," asked a skeptical Kaplan.
"Because as Leon can tell you, all the top brass of the O.R.E. was thrown to the wolves in the wake of the scandal. Officers who helped destroy evidence of his position, not knowing what they were doing, or why they were doing it. That's the kind of men Graham recruited for his core."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Leon growled roughly, grabbing the older man by his collar to shove him against a tree.
"Don't I," Bernard asked. "Those men died in protective custody, when they had been promised immunity for their testimony against him! Good men, Kennedy…great soldiers you fought with!"
"So why are you here then," Leon asked, reluctantly releasing his grip. "Why would you help a snake like that?"
"I have my own reasons, just like you two," replied Bernard, a wistful memory showing on his face. "We all suspected we were working for a scumbag, after all," he added, shaking the thought away. "Or am I wrong?"
The men's silence was the only answer he needed.
"Let's get moving," Leon finally said, and the men nodded solemnly, following his lead.
--
"He wouldn't lead a team of men like that," she said with certainty in her voice. "I don't care what you say; he just wouldn't."
"You know as well as I that Leon doesn't always do what he wants; he's more likely to do what he thinks he should," replied Ada.
"But then that sniper would've recognized him, when he took shots at us in London," countered Claire.
"I have a feeling that sniper only had eyes for you, hon. Besides, I didn't say that this team here was necessarily being led by Leon. For all we know, this could be another group."
That seemed to put the young woman's mind at ease. "Fair enough. But then that means there is more than just the President's team after Sherry's life…"
"Well, yeah. I guess you really don't win either way, do you?"
"I still don't see why he wouldn't have told me…"
"Leon was probably trying to protect you," shrugged Ada. "It's what he does…besides worry too much."
"Maybe…we have to make sure these guys don't get to Sherry now, though."
"What's this 'we' talk?"
"You're going to let them murder an innocent girl just for some virus inside of her?"
"Innocent, huh? Is that what you think?"
"Should I think otherwise?"
"Your little friend…she's killed dozens of people. Infected god knows how many more. If her infection were to get out of control, the whole world could be at risk."
Claire regarded Ada suspiciously. "Since when do you care about the welfare of the world? Shouldn't you be more concerned with the bottom dollar on this deal?"
"Just think, if the world were overrun by that virus, where would I shop?"
"Can't you be serious for just one se—" Claire began, when the ground beneath them suddenly shook, knocking the two women off balance. "Jesus, was that an earthquake?"
"More like C4," replied Ada, hurrying down the tunnel. "Looks like they've breached the first security level. Come on!"
--
"Graham must be stopped," the woman seated at the head of the table said. The men sitting around the table nodded in agreement, waiting for her next words. "Whatever his ambition, it's become too risky to remain unchecked."
"Of course you are right, ma'am, but as of yet, we cannot account for his near limitless cash flow…"
"He'll have to account for it when the Presidential Candidacy Committee begins digging through his finances," replied the woman, but something in her words betrayed her confidence.
"With all due respect, Madam Chairperson, we have some of the best financial minds on the planet researching this matter, and they cannot account for even half his resource inflow…"
"Severing his resources would only work temporarily, anyways," suggested a mousy looking man. "The board is in agreement that it was only part of a larger strategy to halt his ascension to the Presidency."
"What do the polls currently say, Maxwell," asked the woman.
"The polls show a general lack of interest on the part of the voting majority, ma'am," replied the thin shouldered advisor, pushing up his glasses. "But that's nothing new. However, with a low voter turnout, it wouldn't be a surprise if Graham was able to make up the few points he's trailing by."
"So he truly is a dark horse in this race."
"Exactly, but he's somehow received campaign funding from just about every conservative group in the country. I'm confounded as to just how a political candidate can do something like this; I've never in all my life seen something like this…"
"I suspect he has one hell of a campaign manager."
"His promises of 'free healthcare' and 'cheap pharmaceuticals'…have you been able to find anything as to the veracity of these claims, Jameson?"
"With this resource budget he's boasting, it does seem truthful, ma'am," replied the man seated to her right. "But to produce pharmaceuticals on such a grand scale…"
"Yes…?"
"He'd have to have an operation far larger than us. But the only company ever to achieve such large scale operation was…Umbrella."
"Whose assets were liquidated by the government," interjected another man. "And by the prior administration," he added, hoping to quell the direction of the discussion.
"You're still denying the possibility of an Umbrella resurrection, Walter," asked Jameson. "Despite reports coming in from around the world of executive activity and black ops conducted by their soldier core?"
"While resurrection might be Umbrella's stock and trade, I see no way a single person, much less someone as visible as the President, successfully taking liquidated resources from such an organization and using them for his own political gain," replied a skeptical Walter. "Especially not a candidate who is going to have to fight his way to ratify anything in Congress…"
"The Executive Power Act is still in effect, remember, giving that branch veto power over everything in Congress, and free reign over judicial matters as well."
"And the bill is up for renewal this month," reminded Walter. "No way is Congress going to take that kind of abuse for another term."
Maxwell, hearing the discussion return to politics, offered his thoughts on the matter. "It's not as likely as you think, Walter. Political interests have lately swayed towards the conservative side, which Graham inexplicably dominates. Conservative interests, especially during wartime, will prevail. Senators, for all their thirst for power and influence, prefer to err on the side of caution. I wouldn't be surprised if Congress didn't renew the Executive Power Act for another four years, given the opportunity."
"Regardless, that is out of our hands," reminded the Chairwoman, resuming control of the meeting. "The matter of whether or not reviving Umbrella is part of Graham's plan is far more pressing. If he is able to bring such a huge competitor back, I can't imagine what kind of hit our profits will take, especially if this project has federal implications and backing. Life has been good these past years, but we have to consider the possibility that our bubble will burst, and soon. Haven't we a contingency plan for this? Or have we been too busy counting our money and patting ourselves on the back?"
The men seated the table bowed their heads, all finding somewhere to avert their eyes, when someone finally spoke.
"Madam Chairperson…there is something," a young man seated at the back said. "I've been holding off on it, but it sounds like the situation is most dire…"
"What is it, Gregory?"
"I've been talking to someone, someone who knows quite a bit and who could be useful to us."
"Who is he?"
"She. I've only spoken to her a handful of times, but she's hinted at knowing much more than she let on. I think she could be a valuable asset if we were to make a move."
"Who is she, Gregory?"
"I don't know her real name, but she goes by 'Ada'…"
Note: So I finally decided to unveil the man Leon will become. I'd kind of thought of him as a boyish character, always at the mercy of women, duty, etc., but it was a nice change of pace to write him as a take-charge kind of guy that others look up to. He's still a bit wet behind the ears, but I hope you can see the direction he's taking. The beginning of this chapter is kind of an homage to the first RE, with the crashing choppers, and I really enjoyed writing it (even if it's not completely realistic).
The knife battle was hard as hell to write, not because of the outcome, but just trying to keep the action flashy yet easy to follow. Reading it, it kind of feels like a cross between an anime and RE4, which is kind of what I was going for. I loved the image of Krauser shedding a bloody tear on his burnt face, not because of sadness, but a reflex pain. That image struck me as the definition of Krauser. I had originally planned that knife fight to be full of hellish imagery, but I decided the fatal encounter by such characters would speak for itself.
Another thing I was tempted to add was when Bernard reveals that Graham had those agents killed (and which was hinted at in an earlier chapter) towards the end. I had planned to make those the two agents that had recruited Leon (Blue and Red), but then I realized I never gave one of them a name! Embarrassing, I know. It was just a trivial detail, but one I kind of liked; sort of a cautionary tale for Leon to learn from, that duty doesn't always mean as much to you as those you serve. I must apologize for the political nature of the last part; reminds me of where this country is headed, and I don't like it one bit. By the way, if President Sears sounds familiar to you, it's from Metal Gear Solid.
