AUTHOR'S NOTES: A lot going on in this chapter-it's the longest one I've posted so far. Enjoy.

More notes at the end.

Squadron Dispersal A

Joint Base Beacon, Wisconsin, United States of Canada

13 May 2001

Technical Sergeant Darren Yorse watched as the rest of the ground crew lifted the DACT pod into position on Ember Celica's starboard outboard wing station. The orange-painted pod, which resembled a Sidewinder without the fins, would feed telemetry back to Beacon's computer, which in turn cataloged the simulated missile shots. Once Yorse was satisfied the pod was in place, he ducked under the F-15's fuselage. On a cart lay the camera pod that would go on the centerline. Once that was on, he could start fueling the aircraft for the day's operation. He ducked back out and went past the cockpit, unable to resist patting the six kill marks painted there behind the bright yellow nose.

One of the crew bread trucks pulled up to the revetment, and Yorse instantly recognized Emerald Sustrai; there weren't too many dark-skinned girls with green hair on base. "Morning, Lieutenant," he greeted her.

"Hey, Sarge." She handed him a clipboard and several forms. "Captain Ozpin's ordering your bird and Mercury's to carry live rounds today. There's been some GRIMM sighted over Minnesota, so—just in case they stray into the exercise zone."

Yorse looked over the sheets. "Captain Long already signed off on this?"

"Yeah. I ran into her on the way over."

Yorse saw that the forms were all signed the way they were supposed to, by Ozpin and Yang Xiao Long. It didn't make any sense to him, but there were quite a few times the United States Air Force did things that didn't make any sense to him or anyone else. "All right then…full load of twenty mike mike. Got it." He signed the forms. "Why do they have you doing this, Lieutenant?"

Emerald shrugged. "Major Fall told me to do it and gave me the forms. I just saluted and said 'yes, ma'am'." She grinned. "I just work here, Sarge."

"Hear that, ma'am." He handed the forms back, keeping one for his own records. They exchanged salutes, and Emerald climbed back into the truck, driving off in the direction of Mercury's F-16. Yorse sighed, shaking his head. This was going to add a few more minutes to preparation.

Mercury Black put on his G-suit as Cinder watched. "I want it on record," he said in a low voice, although they were alone in the equipment room, "that I think this is a terrible plan."

"If I wanted your opinion, Mercury, I'd rattle the toilet paper." Cinder handed him his survival vest.

"What's stopping Yang from stitching me right across the canopy?" he protested.

"Nothing. You'd just better hope she doesn't."

He threw on the survival vest and scowled. "You don't really give a shit if she kills me, do you, Cinder?"

She smiled. "Nope. A few weeks ago, I might have cared. But that was before you decided to be a psychotic dumbass and kill Ruth Lionheart. So now, I really don't care if Yang gives you a 20 millimeter suppository."

He smiled back. Neither smile held any humor. "So what's stopping me from going to Ozpin and blowing the whole lid off this scheme?"

"Nothing…other than being tried for first-degree murder. Assuming you get that far before you meet with an accident." Cinder motioned towards the front door. "Go for it, Mercury."

"Fuck you." He finished getting dressed. "One of these days, Cinder, you and I are going to have a nice little talk."

"Don't threaten me with a good time." She slapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck." Cinder blew him a kiss and walked to the door. It opened to admit Yang. "Oh, hello there, Yang."

"Whassup." To Yang's surprise, Cinder held up a hand for a high five. She was in too good a mood to refuse. Cinder shut the door behind her, and Yang saw to her dismay that Mercury was in the room as well. They had avoided each other since the dance. He'd apologized for it, but Yang tended to bear grudges. She ignored him as she opened her locker and began pulling out equipment.

"Hey." Mercury sounded tired. Yang grunted in reply. "Okay, look," Mercury began, "I know you don't like me, and that's fine. I probably deserve it. But I was thinking…you want to do something cool? For the cameras?"

"Like what?" Yang started putting on the G-suit over her flight suit.

"Guns only. Let's do some Red Baron shit. Guns only from the six." Mercury added the last for his own survival: guns only was part of the plan, but if Yang decided to do a head-on gun pass, he probably would die.

Yang paused. That would look pretty cool. She didn't like missile shots anyway, unless she was fighting GRIMM; going in for guns was old school, what her ancestors would've done—though she wasn't sure if she had any ancestors who were fighter pilots. "Sure."

"Cool. See you up there." Mercury didn't bother shaking hands; he knew Yang would refuse. Instead, he picked up his helmet bag and headed out the door.

Yang smiled at his back. "I'm going to enjoy this, you piece of shit," she whispered.

Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)

Eberle Line Track 2, Near Valentine, Nebraska, United States of Canada

13 May 2001

Airman 1st Class Heather Cummings watched her radar screen, and fought down a yawn. She remembered the old saying that military service was long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Today was most certainly the former. She wished she'd switched schedules with someone, since the 1V1 round of Vytal Flag sounded really good today. Oh well—someone back at Regency's home base of Tinker AFB would record it.

Then she picked up a blip at the northern half of her sector. Her radio crackled. "Regency 26, this is Rock 22, C-130 out of Hector, flying air test, over."

Cummings remembered Rock 22. It was a C-130 flying from Ellsworth to Winnipeg that had engine trouble and had put down at Hector a few days previously. Apparently the engine trouble had been enough to ground it, or so Hector had reported. "Rock 22, Regency 26, go ahead."

"Roger, Regency. Report GRIMM fifteen miles west of Detroit Lakes…raid count about six, seven Beowolves."

Cummings leaned closer to her screen, and flicked a switch to increase the gain on the radar spinning above the E-3's fuselage. "Rock 22, Regency, I have no contacts that sector. Angels and heading?"

"Ah, wait one, Regency." There was a brief moment of silence. "Angels about two or three, heading three one zero."

Cummings sat back in her seat. Even at that altitude, the E-3's powerful radar was capable of picking up GRIMM. The formation would be heading southeast, which would put them on course for Beacon, but Beowolves were subsonic; it would be an hour before they would get to the Mississippi. "Rock 22, Regency, still no contacts."

"Well, Regency, if you want to come over here and look, you're welcome to. We're turning back for Hector until clear skies."

She smiled in spite of herself. An unarmed C-130 was easy meat for GRIMM; she couldn't blame the crew of Rock 22. "Understand, Rock 22. Will pass it on. Regency monitoring, out." She watched for a moment as the blip of Rock 22 turned around and headed back to Hector, then signaled for the attention of the senior controller, a captain. "Sir, Rock 22 just passed on a spot report of six or seven Beowolves heading southeast near Detroit Lakes." She tapped her screen as the captain bent over her shoulder. "He's headed back to Hector."

"Wasn't Rock 22 the C-130 that made an emergency landing with a bad engine the other day?" The crew of Regency 26 had been up that day.

"Yes, sir. They were air testing the new engine."

The captain wondered where Hector had gotten C-130 engine parts, but it was one of the covert bases, so there was no telling what they had stashed there. "That's the first GRIMM sighting we've had in over a week," he mused. Then he nodded to her. "Contact Beacon and let them know."

"Sir, they're not on scope. Rock 22 reported them at two or three thousand feet AGL, but I've got nothing."

The captain shrugged. "Maybe the Herky crew saw birds or something. Anyway, we can't let it go. Contact Beacon and let them know. They haven't been running a CAP since La Crosse, but they might want to, even with the big 1V1 fight today."

"Yes, sir." Cummings thumbed a switch to open a channel to Beacon. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the blip that was Rock 22 disappear as it approached Hector. She thought she saw something else, but it faded in and out of contact. Then she heard a call from Army ground radar on the Eberle Line and picked up three new slow contacts heading south from Minnesota.

Ten Miles North of the Eberle Line

Near Lake Park, Iowa, United States of Canada

13 May 2001

Sienna Khan sat in a jumpseat behind the two pilots and adjusted her headset. The inside of the SH-3H Sea King helicopter was loud, and she had to turn up the volume to hear. She glanced out the open door of the helicopter. Another Sea King was only a hundred feet away, a third behind them, and the ground below was closer than that. As she watched, the helicopters began to climb. She took a deep breath. Now they had to trust in Arthur Watts.

"Unidentified aircraft, Lake Park. Identify yourselves." The voice on the radio was strong and authoritative.

Sienna heard Adam Taurus answer. Since his Moonslice would be picked up by the AWACS, he had joined the ground attack. "Lake Park, this is Black Sabre. Our signal is Rainbow, repeat, Rainbow."

"Black Sabre, Lake Park. Authentication."

Sienna found herself holding her breath. Black Sabre and Rainbow were two codes Watts had extracted from the computers at Hector—codes for Army Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrols that entered the Dead Zones on occasion. If they got the authentication wrong, the next message would likely be a Patriot surface to air missile. The raid to recover Roman Torchwick was based on the hope that Watts' hacked codes would work, and that the SAM crews on the Eberle Line were complacent—after all, the only enemy that ever came south from the Minnesota Dead Zone were GRIMM. "Authenticate Alpha Lima Sierra," Adam radioed.

There was a few seconds of silence, and Sienna closed her eyes. If they were going to die, so be it; there were worse ways to go than as a martyr to the cause, though she would personally like to die killing some Schnees, not rescuing a damned air pirate she didn't like anyway. "Black Sabre, Lake Park. Authentication acknowledged. Identify."

"Lake Park, Black Sabre is three helicopters, destination Sioux City." This was another chance: Adam had considered that the Sea Kings were older helicopters, usually used by the Navy; actually identifying themselves might raise some eyebrows.

The gamble paid off. "Roger, Black Sabre. Cleared through."

Sienna let her breath out, and she heard the six White Fang operatives in the cabin do the same. A few minutes later, they passed over the Eberle Line. It was little more than a ten-foot wide elevated berm, with a two-lane road behind it, but in the distance they could spot bunkers built where farming communities still dotted the landscape. An observation tower passed by, and the two men inside waved at the helicopters. One of the strike team waved back: all of them were wearing fatigues captured at Hector. Each helicopter was painted a dark gunship gray, with subdued US markings. Army helicopters were almost always UH-60 Blackhawks or UH-1N Hueys, but Sienna hoped that the soldiers would simply assume that someone up the chain of command knew why a supposed Army group was flying Navy helicopters. Eventually, someone would ask the right questions, but by that time the White Fang would've either succeeded or died.

The Eberle Line fell away behind them, and the landscape became the rolling farmlands of northern Iowa, rather than the wild, overgrown prairies of southern Minnesota. The three helicopters began curving to the southwest. As a small, brown river slid past beneath them, Sienna splayed her hands towards the strike team. Each one grabbed a white mask from their backpacks and put it on.

The helicopter crews spotted a copse of trees and landednext to it. "Go, go!" Sienna ordered, and both strike teams piled off the Sea Kings almost as soon as the wheels touched the ground. She disconnected her headset and followed them out. Both helicopters then rose back into the air and resumed their flight roughly to the southwest, but much slower this time. The third, which had not landed, followed them.

Sienna crouched in the wheat, counted off her people to make sure they were all present, then waved them forward. They moved through the wheat at a quick run, until they reached a two-lane highway. Sienna stopped next to a highway sign showing this to be US Highway 18.

Adam did the same. He was wearing fatigues like the rest of them, but his sword was strapped to his back, although he carried a carbine. Sienna carried a scoped rifle on her back. "Let's hope Watts' information was good," she told him.

"Indeed." They had agreed to wait no longer than half an hour for the convoy. After that, they would retreat back to Minnesota; the Eberle Line's defenses and radar faced north, and the AWACS would have other things on its mind by then.

"All right. Remember the plan, Adam," Sienna told him. She saw a slight rise and another group of trees. "That will be my position. You hold on the opposite side of the road—there you are." The last was addressed to Ilia Amitola, who emerged puffing from the wheatfield. "Sorry," she said. "I damn near stepped on a snake back there."

"A rattlesnake?" Adam asked.

"No idea. I didn't stop to ask."

"Right," Sienna continued. "Ilia, hold here. Once the convoy is stopped, get Roman as quick as you can. He's probably going to be in the middle. Signal if you see him."

"Yes, High Leader." Ilia motioned her six-man group back into the wheat and disappeared.

Sienna quickly ran across the road, up the small hill, and threw herself down behind the rise. She unstrapped the rifle and her pack, balanced the rifle on her pack as an ersatz bipod, and sighted in the scope. She then put a cover over the scope so the sunlight would not reflect on it, and waited as Adam's team took up position in front of her.

"So who do you think Michael Vick is going to this year?" Sergeant Ryan Hofer asked the driver of the HMMWV.

"Santa Fe. Unless Atlanta trades up for him." The driver eased off the gas a little. "Jesus, I wish these cops would pick a speed. They keep speeding up and slowing down."

"Where are we?" asked Roman Torchwick from the back seat. Next to him was a Security Forces trooper, who kept a wary eye on him. They had stopped in Prairie du Chien for the night, and Torchwick cooled his heels in county lockup, watched by both local police and one of the men in the HMMWV. He dozed since they got up this morning, as there wasn't much to see in northern Iowa.

"What do you care?" asked the driver.

Hofer decided to be neighborly. "About an hour or so out of Sioux City, man."

"Going the long way around, are we?"

Hofer didn't answer him. They were taking the long way around to a certain extent: Beacon to Prairie du Chien, then to Clear Lake, then across to Sioux City, where they would pick up Interstate 29 through Omaha to St. Joseph, then across the Missouri to Leavenworth. Des Moines would be too difficult to get a convoy through; as it was, they'd had to notify local law enforcement for the whole way to get escorts. At the moment, it was two Iowa Highway Patrol cars ahead and behind the three HMMWVs.

He glanced down at the map. They were between two towns, Sanborn and Hartley. He then checked his watch. "At least we're making good time. We're ten minutes ahead of schedule."

Sienna rested her head on her pack, but then she raised it. Her ears, sharper than a human's, detected cars. So far there had been none, but as it was a lazy Sunday morning, it didn't surprise her. She pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked. It was a convoy of two police cars, the silver of the Iowa Highway Patrol, and three camouflaged HMMWVs. "That's them," she whispered in amazement. "Well, I'll be damned." She set aside the binoculars and pulled out a whistle, and blew three short blasts. Then she popped off the cover on her scope and settled the sight on the first police car.

"I just hope the Chiefs pick someone decent this year," Hofer said, but then he saw a glint off and to the left. "Hey, did you see that?"

Sienna slowly blew out her breath and pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked, the stock going back into her shoulder. She was already chambering a new round.

The bullet traveled the distance between her position and the first police car in less than a second. It went through the windshield and caught the driver in the left eye. As he died, his hands spasmodically jerked the steering wheel to the left. The car skidded and then flipped over onto one side, blocking the road. The convoy hit the brakes, but then the second police car exploded. One of Adam's team decided not to show much in the way of finesse, and a lot more in overkill: he fired a Javelin into it. The flaming wreckage coasted into the back of the last HMMWV.

"What the fuck!" Hofer shouted, reaching down to grab his M4. "What the hell just happened?"

Torchwick stared out the window. Something flickered in the wheatfield; something familiar.

Sienna fired into the windshield of the first HMMWV: the windows were not armored, but bullet-resistant, and it slowed down her bullet enough that the driver's helmet, rather than his skull, took the worst of it. She mouthed a curse, then smiled as she saw a smoke grenade roll out of the wheatfield to the left. It went off beneath the middle HMMWV, releasing a cloud of red smoke.

"He's in the middle one!" Adam shouted. Another Javelin was fired into the third HMMWV, which was backing up, knocking back the burning wreck of the police car, but now it too was blown apart, further blocking the road to the rear. Sienna shot the driver of the first one again; this time her bullet hit him in the face, knocking him out. The SF man riding shotgun tried to grab the wheel and drive out of the ambush, but two of the White Fang rolled grenades beneath the HMMWV. The explosions didn't destroy the hardy vehicle, but they crippled it and set it afire.

"Oh shit! Oh fuck!" Hofer screamed. He raised the M4, but if he opened the door or tried to get out through the roof, he was a dead man. Already there were men and women coming out of the wheatfield, wearing masks, and surrounding the HMMWV. "Oh, Holy God! White Fang!"

"Oh dear," Torchwick said, smiling. "It seems this is a rescue."

"You shut the fuck up! Bobby, put a gun to the fucker's head!" The SF trooper next to Torchwick pulled out a pistol and put it to Torchwick's temple.

"We're fucked, dude," the driver groaned.

"The hell we are! Floor it!" A bullet hole appeared in the windscreen, and a bullet thudded into the driver's shoulder. He yelled in pain and blood flowed out from between his fingers as he gripped it.

"Men in the vehicle!" Hofer turned and saw a red-haired man wreathed in the smoke. "Step out immediately! If you do so, you will not be killed!"

"Sarge, we gotta do it!" Bobby exclaimed. He kept the pistol against Torchwick's head nonetheless.

"They're White Fang! They'll fucking kill us anyway!" Hofer pulled a dressing out the glove compartment and started bandaging the driver's shoulder. He flinched when another bullet hit the top of the windscreen; where it ended up, he didn't know.

"I know these people," Torchwick said calmly. "They won't kill you." He pointed at the second bullet hole. "They have a sniper out there. I imagine those are warning shots. The next one will kill one of you." He smiled at Bobby. "Come on, man. They don't pay you enough to die." They all heard a thump from the door next to Bobby. "I would imagine that's a satchel charge. They'll blow the door off, and then you, Bobby, will be dragged out and probably flayed alive." He stared at him. "They'll listen to me."

"All right. All right." Bobby went to open the door.

"Bobby, do not fucking open that door!" Hofer warned.

"I'm doing it, man!" Bobby opened the door slightly, tossed out his pistol, and raised his hands. "We're coming out!" He opened the door fully, and hands reached in and pulled him out. Hofer let out a horrific string of curse words, then did the same. He tossed out the M4 and came out with his hands behind his head.

Ilia saw the sergeant step out of the vehicle and dropped her camouflage; she had been creeping up to the side with a small ball of plastic explosive to try and disable the locks. "Stand still! Keep your hands behind your head!" One of the White Fang drew a wicked looking curved blade, but Ilia snapped at him. "Leave him be!"

"He's a human!" the Faunus answered.

"I said leave him be!" she shouted. The White Fang pulled back. She kicked the M4 aside, then reached forward and pulled his pistol out of his holster. "Strip him of his body armor and helmet," Ilia ordered, and two burly White Fang threw Hofer against the HMMWV. He submitted to the none too gentle stripping, and watched as Torchwick was let out of the back seat. He shrugged at the sergeant. "I'm sorry our trip has come to an end, Sergeant Hofer," Torchwick said. "It was fun while it lasted."

"Fuck you," Hofer growled, which earned him a punch in the face.

Once his helmet and body armor were gone, along with a knife he had in his boot and the keys to Torchwick's cuffs, Ilia ordered him to lay on the pavement, face down, hands out to either side. The cuffs landed next to him, and the scene was illuminated by a flare.

Torchwick walked around the HMMWV, massaging his wrists. "Well, hello there, Adam."

Adam Taurus had Bobby, the wounded driver, and the four men from the first HMMWV on the side of the road. Of the first HMMWV's crew, one was unconscious, and the other three were burned; they had opened their doors rather than burn to death. He smiled at Torchwick. "Long time no see."

"Well done operation. I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Adam grinned. "But your girlfriend just wouldn't stop talking about you."

"Neo? Where is she?"

"Around." He called out to Ilia. "All of them out?"

"Yes, Adam."

"Good." Sienna jogged up to them, rifle and backpack back on. They could hear the helicopters approaching. "What should we do with the prisoners, High Leader?"

"They did treat me decently," Torchwick said. Though he'd been known to kill prisoners himself, he'd only done so to get ransom paid faster, and never killed wounded people. He didn't particularly like killing.

Sienna ignored him. "They don't have anything we need. Strip them of usuable gear and weapons and kill them. We don't have time for anything elaborate."

"Wait!" Bobby screamed. His helmet had been pulled off by a White Fang, who was now wearing it as a trophy. "You said—" Adam drew his sword and cut his throat in a single stroke. The man clutched at the wound as blood sprayed out, hitting Torchwick in the face, then he fell over, twitched twice, and died.

Ilia drew her knife from her belt. Hofer closed his eyes as he felt the cold steel against his temple, then couldn't help but cry out as he felt the blade slice through his forehead. Blood poured down his face, and he jumped as a pistol went off. To his surprise, however, the bullet hit the pavement next to him.

"Stay very still." He heard Ilia's voice, low and quiet, and felt her hands wiping blood off his face. "It's a head wound. It will bleed, but you won't die. Don't move. Right now I'm using your blood to draw a White Fang symbol. Stay still; you're supposed to be dead. Don't talk. If you understand me, move your left index finger." He moved it just a little. "Good. We're leaving. Wait at least ten minutes after you hear the helicopters take off. Don't use the radio for thirty minutes; your transmissions will be intercepted and they'll come back and kill you." She wiped off more blood. "Tell Beacon an attack is coming soon, within the next few days." He felt her kneel down next to him and take his high school ring off. "I'm looting your body so they don't suspect. Goodbye, Sergeant. I'm sorry I couldn't save all of you."

Then she was gone.

Torchwick followed Adam into the wheatfield, feeling sick to his stomach. All eight men from the HMMWVs were dead; he supposed it was a mercy that they were simply shot in the back of the head. One of the Iowa troopers had survived the crash of the first car; he was killed as well. Torchwick had seen Ilia using the blood of Sergeant Hofer to smear a crude White Fang symbol on the side of the HMMWV; others had done the same thing. Still, he supposed, it was better than being on the way to Leavenworth, or being tortured somewhere.

The two helicopters landed and Torchwick was pulled into the first, behind Sienna. They were on the ground for only seconds before they took off again. He slipped on a headset. "How did you find me?" he asked her.

"Doctor Watts," she shouted back. "The Army notified local law enforcement where the convoy would be going. He was able to piece together your route by hacking into the Iowa Highway Patrol."

"The timing—"

"He added up what he thought would be average driving times, stopping for lunch, dinner, that sort of thing." Sienna grinned, which was somewhat frightening. "He guessed!"

"Good guess," Torchwick said. "Hope he's got some more magic up his sleeve, because we're going to be shot down in about five minutes when we hit the Eberle Line."

Sienna was worried about that as well. "That's where your girlfriend comes in!"

Regency 26 (E-3A AWACS)

Eberle Line Track 2, Near Valentine, Nebraska, United States of Canada

13 May 2001

Cummings watched her radar return. "Hey," she nudged the controller sitting next to her. "Are you seeing this?"

"Those three contacts that keep wandering around western Iowa?"

"Yeah. They're supposed to be Army helicopters, but they're acting kind of weird."

The other controller nodded. "We should let the senior controller know—wait, what the hell is that?"

Cummings looked at her scope. It was the same flickering, as if the AWACS' radar was having trouble locking on, but then the contact firmed up. "Unidentified aircraft at Chamberlain Waypoint, this is Regency 26, identify—" Suddenly she was thrown out of her seat to the floor of the fuselage as the AWACS heeled over on its left wing, then she had to grab for the side of the console as it dived. "Hold on to something!" the senior controller yelled.

"Yeah, no shit!" Cummings screamed. "What the hell is going on?" Given the practical impossibility of bailing out of an E-3, there was a good chance she was about to die, but all she could feel was annoyance.

The other controller had managed to keep his seat. "We're spiked!"

"Who the hell is shooting at us?"

Twelve miles away, Neo sighed. She could see the AWACS twisting and diving away from where she locked onto it. She'd come down from Hector at low level, trusting on the ground return and the F-22's stealth to keep the AWACS from getting a good lock. At the right time—when, with any luck, Sienna Khan's strike force would have rescued Roman—she popped up, locked her radar onto the E-3, and opened the Raptor's weapon doors, which was more than enough to establish her on radar. She didn't press the trigger, though she wanted to: the AWACS was easy meat for any of her weapons. Still, she held fire, remembering Adam Taurus' advice. A raid to free Roman Torchwick would lead to the US military looking for them, but it would be relatively low priority. Shooting down an AWACS would cause the military to suspend Vytal Flag and comb every inch of the Dead Zones. Sienna had taken a chance on Roman; Neo would return the favor.

She idly kept her radar fixed on the AWACS, then she fired a Sidewinder—well out of range and out of parameters, but enough that the E-3 crew would see the missile plume. Then she closed up the missile doors, turned, pushed the throttle up, and headed due northwest.

AUTHOR'S NOTES II: I did some research on this (which, among other things, ensures I'll never be elected to Congress) and talked to a friend who is former USAF Security Forces. Apparently, the pre-Second Gulf War HMMWVs were only bullet-resistant rather than bulletproof, so Sienna's sniper shots would not have been insta-kills. Still, there's probably some suspension of disbelief here, and I hope my readers will forgive anything I got wrong.

And yes, the Atlanta Falcons really did trade up in 2001 to get Michael Vick.