Chapter Five
After an extensive session with Wreckspot the next day, Flamestrike reported to Commander Prowl's office for her final meeting before the infiltration run tomorrow. Mid-afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows of the tactician's workplace as she entered; dust motes danced in the holographic stream that was coming from the small projector on Prowl's desk. The Minibot who was to be her backup, Windcharger, sat in the first of two chairs in front of the black and white. He turned as the pneumatic doors announced her arrival and cracked a thin smile.
"Flamestrike," the cruiser pronounced, looking up from the grid overlay, "please, sit."
With her bladed tail swinging idly behind her, Flamestrike took up the second seat, her newest appendage easily curling around her ankles, the wings slipping over the chair's back. Without wasting time, she slid forward, peering intently at the overlay. Then as now, a topographical map was displayed, a green grid outlining the sectors and small red dots pointing out the various sensors and/or artillery arrays. Without preamble, Prowl launched into his most detailed plan of attack the femme had heard in her week of meetings. At her side, Windcharger nodded almost absently, twiddling the digits of his right hand beyond the keen gaze of the tactician.
Though she had heard the layout so many times before, Flamestrike once again went it over in her cortex, visualizing the landscape, scenting the pine-soaked air and feeling the needles burrowing into the fine lines in her armor.
"Do calm your tail, Agent."
There was a slight, almost imperceptible snap inside Flamestrike's cortex as she came to; glancing behind her, she saw that her tail was making spasmodic, almost sentient, motions from side to side, displaying her emotions where her facial planes failed to do so. With more force than she thought necessary, Flamestrike willed the appendage to quiet, and it did: falling limp and docile at her feet.
"Well, let's hope she has as many lives as a cat, too," Windcharger commented drolly, sliding the brown and flame-colored femme an amused, but cordial, look. Prowl, however, was of a different opinion.
"The Dinobots, Blaster's cassettes and Solarflare have the liberty of giving themselves over to the instincts of their beastforms, but you do not," he chastised. "If I'd been aware …" Here the cruiser cut himself off, much to the interest of Windcharger; Flamestrike, on the other hand, was mildly embarrassed, reaching behind her to pull the tail up and, lifting her right thigh, sat on the bladed tip to keep it in place. "These instincts have served you well so far," he continued, sitting down and dismissing the hologram, "but you are in control. Use them to your advantage, but do not be ruled by them."
Like a human sparkling, Flamestrike heard herself reply, "Aye, sir," chagrined. Fortunately, for even her small ego, the meeting marched along at a much more professional, and to the point, rate.
As day waxed into dusk, Prowl finally shut things down and dismissed Windcharger; Flamestrike, however, he bade remain. Curious and a little confused, she waved to the Minibot and sat back down. Across from her, she could clearly see the wear and tear on the tactician's grey-plated face. He sat with his hands folded before him on the desk, titanium spine ramrod straight against the back of his steel grey chair – that color a welcome respite from the orange that permeated the facility. Black and white door wings were angled low over his shoulders, much as hers were right now.
"Sir?" she prompted, when all he seemed to do was stare at the now-dead hologram.
The black and white pursed his lips, optics flashing and he gave a slight shake of his head. "This mission," he began, "though small, is no less important. I know you'll do your best to see it to completion."
"Of course," she replied hastily, only to see his optics and mouth give a slight, knowing quirk.
"Good. You leave tomorrow at dawn. Skyfire will be waiting for you and Windcharger on the strip. Good luck." And he rose, extending a slim, powerful hand. Getting to her feet, Flamestrike took it, returning the strong shake with one of her own. Then, with a flick of her tail, she left.
And if she'd had green optics in the back of her head, she would have seen the tactician sit down heavily and pull up the grid, pondering, thinking, and computing.
There was no elevator on the administration level where Prowl resided, so the infiltration femme took the stairs to the gym to take advantage of the one there. On her way past the gym, she heard the beginning strands of a human song drifting out of the open doors intermixed with that of something thudding into a padded object.
"So wild, standing there, with her hands in her hair …"
"Holy Primus – this is not workout material!"
"I can't help but remember, just where she touched me …"
"Steve Winwood soothes me."
"Yeah, right. I can just picture ol' Buckethead falling down and writhing in agony because you just hit him with a thousand pounds of fluff."
"It's a workout, Sunshine." There was a distinct, thoughtful and amusing pause. "I play Chicago when I put my talons through a Seeker."
Flamestrike leaned up against the gym's wide doors, watching the interplay between slight grey femme and hulking golden mech. Sunstreaker was propped up against the far wall, coaching Solarflare through a series of boxing motions; the bag looked as if it'd been through a compactor: hunks of padding were escaping from several long rents in the durrable outer covering. It was a miracle the thing was still taking the beatings it was … probably because Solarflare was sporting a pair of huge red gloves.
Sunstreaker snorted. "You have no taste."
"You have no appreciation for a fine barritone."
"Baby, I am the fine baritone – now pick it up." And to prove his point, the golden Lamborghini walked over to the digital player set in the wall and promptly switched the selection to song that featured heavy bass pounding. Flamestrike suppressed a smile as Flare's crest flattened, but she picked up the pace, albeit a little too enthusiastically. The bag went into a wild swing and hit the Lambo in his polished tush. With Sunstreaker's profane exclaimations ringing in her audios, Flamestrike left the level to the comfort of her room, to prepare herself for the next day – and found herself playing some Golden Age classical music to settle, calm and center her cortex and spark.
In the pre-dawn hours, a sleek red Pontiac and a brown and flame-colored gryphon left the confines of the fortress that was Autobot City. Small, silent cameras followed their progress as they crossed the bridge, a fine spray from the churning generators covering them from front bumper to rear, from serrated beak to bladed tailtip. Their goal was the huge white Valkyrie who sat idling on the tarmac, turbines whining gently in the cool early summer air.
Despite the relatively lax environment that she had been living in for the past month and a half, the moment her chronometer sounded the hour, Flamestrike once more slipped into the persona war had so carefully crafted for her. Taking her weapons from the rack above her comm unit, she gave them a quick, but thorough check before sliding the pistol into subspace and the tailblade into its recess at the base of her titanium spine. All that she saw before her was her objective: infiltrate the Terrorcon base and set her charges.
On her way to the foyer, she stopped by the armory to pick up two small, lightweight proton bombs which she magna-clamped to her thighs. Two tiny, remote-detonating bombs were slipped into compartments in both wrists. These were her last-ditch suicide bombs; if she was captured and tortured, she could to use them to take not only herself, but anyone within a hundred-yard radius. In all her military career, Flamestrike had heard of infiltration and espionage agents only using them five times. However, if the situation presented itself, she could, with some accuracy, throw them at her captors and hope to Primus that she was fast enough before they detonated. This was a scenario that the femme was painfully acquainted with: once, while trudging through the ruins of a Kaon battle arena, she had come across a small band of Decepticon grunts. Pinned by a lucky spear-throw to the right arm, she ejected both bombs and, with her free hand, threw them at her attackers. Wrenching free, she had transformed and activated them, using the confusion and the bombs' ticking to her advantage for escape.
Windcharger was waiting for her when she came down the steps. Nodding to the two guards who were stationed in the main lobby, Flamestrike transformed and bounded out the doors. Skyfire rumbled a genial greeting and lowered his ramp as she and the Minibot drew near. Someone must have told the huge mech that, while on mission, Flamestrike was not much for conversation, for there was no attempt on the scientist's part to engage her; rather, he and Windcharger traded small-talk on the way to the state of Connecticut. Making the most of the journey, Flamestrike studied a topographical map of the landing site: Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, CT. From this busy airport, she and Windcharger were to take to the woods … and from there, the Terrorcon hideaway, nestled somewhere in a small park in Simsbury – Stratton Brook.
Flamestrike studied the recent reconn reports with keen interest, knowing that their knowledge would lead her small team to victory … or failure. Only two Terrorcons were known to frequent this area, perhaps taking advantage of the abundant resources to fuel their needs. The reason this sub-faction had so many scattered dens was obvious: Autobot presence was overwhelming. One concentrated den was of no use if an Autobot contingent laid it to the ground; thus, they had these scattered holes all over the continent – and others across Earth. Better to have one small seat of occupation blown up than the major stronghold. Chances were that the Terrorcons in question – Hun-grrr and Sinnertwin, the former the Terrorcon commander and a black-silver dual-headed draconic fiend; the latter a bronzy-orange and blue, also sporting two heads – were not in residence, so a skirmish was unlikely. However, chance played a large role in warfare, so it was prudent to not assume the owners were away on vacation.
Quietly, Skyfire interrupted the femme's deep thoughts with the announcement that he was engaged with the Bradley tower and they were landing. As per the plan, the Valkyrie was cloaked as a 747-Boeing; communication had passed between the humans operating the airport and Autobot City, notifying them of the Autobot presence. A hanger nearest the highway had been reserved for the huge mech and a faux construction site blocked off for easy departure.
Once the rattling of Skyfire's landing had subsided, the huge mech once again lowered his ramp. Together, the two smaller Autobots exited in their altmodes, ignoring the fervent looks airport security tossed them. Leaving Skyfire in their competent care, Flamestrike and Windcharger skirted several idling Delta planes and dashed off behind the construction equipment. A huge chain-link fence separated the tarmac from Windsor Locks highway traffic; a landing American Airlines passenger jet screamed overhead, seeming to touch the top of the fence with outstretched landing gear. The pure force behind the turbines pushed at their bodies, forcing Flamestrike to dig in with all four sets of talons, much to her amazement. Windcharger grumbled about leaving tracks in the dirt along the concrete tarmac, but puttered along until they reached a hole in the fence.
Peering about, Flamestrike was disconcerted. A headwind had delayed them long enough for traffic to accumulate on the roadways. There was no way a bright red sports car and a metal legendary creature could covertly cross.
"Any ideas?" she whispered to Windcharger, sitting on her haunches. The Pontiac flicked his windshield wipers in a moment's thought before replying.
"How much can you carry?"
Ear twitching, Flamestrike cocked her head in the Minibot's direction. "We'd be one big target."
"Depends," the small red and grey mech returned. "I saw the replay of your training runs. I'm not that bad, myself. I'm not stuck this way, you know."
Time was ticking. Making split-second decisions were a part of Flamestrike's job; she'd've been scrap vons ago if it were different. The femme weighed their options but came up short when she realized that Windcharger's suggestion was the only way to go. Backtracking and sluicing through unfamiliar territory was a last resort, and they had not the time. If this were Cybertron, I wouldn't have to worry about scaring the population, she thought. There would be no calls to alert the Decepticons that we were coming. Swallowing her reservations, Flamestrike conceded the Pontiac's point of view and engaged her anti-grav generators.
It began as a low whine, then slowly, the tremors of the generators were vibrating her whole body. Thrill momentarily replaced the bad sensations of being watched as Flamestrike felt her body rise off the ground. Brilliant sunshine glistened off of her brown and flame-colored structure as she angled herself over Windcharger's waiting form; flaring her pinions, she set all four sets of talons and claws into the Minibot's roof. Her generators gave vent to a shrill, almost Autobot-inaudible whine of protest as they were pushed beyond their usual limits. Gritting her beak, Flamestrike threw more of her reserve into the generators, sensing the increase in power.
"Know your limits – but continue to test them."
Prowl's passing comment, made after a run on the course, echoed in the vastness of her cortex. The old adage of never knowing until you try – one that was bandied by humans and Cybertronians alike – was never more appropriate than right now.
"Let's go," Windcharger hissed beneath her, ready to get on with the assignment. Flamestrike thought about throwing down an innocuous comment about the Minibot's weight, but now was not the time. With one final thrust, she and Windcharger soared in a graceful arc over six lanes of highway. Their passage was not unnoticed, but few cars had the luxury of stopping to see what UFO was skirting the skies. Those who did pause on the busy roadway were honked into submission and continued on their way, yapping on their cellular phones about what they just witnessed.
Their flight lasted but a few seconds, and all too soon, Flamestrike had to fan her pinions, angling the generators' muzzles to the ground to slow their descent. The distant roar of the airport followed them through the woods for a few miles before fading into the quiet tranquility of undisturbed nature.
It was another two hours' journey – made mostly, by Flamestrike, in gryphonmode; Windcharger had to give up the ease of wheels for his own two feet after a foot into the forest – before they reached the state park. And it was here, at the park's border, that they were to part company. If it were left up to personal choice, Flamestrike would have preferred to have company, however, she was the only one qualified to attempt such an infiltration.
With the map of the park firmly at the fore of her cortex, the sleek gryphonic femme bade farewell to her companion. Windcharger gave her a slight nod and reverted to his Pontiac form, appearing to idle near the trees.
It was well enough for the safety of the two soldiers that Stratton Brook was closed to the public to secure a water main break; too many humans had died in the pursuit of an Autobot mission over the past fifteen years. One less death, one less negative point in the public eye was the key to Autobot victory.
Or so Prowl had wryly commented.
Even from a hundred yards away, Flamestrike could scent the small lake that was purported to house the Terrorcon mini-base. No less aware was Prowl's slight admonishment about keeping her instincts in check; Flamestrike instead relied on her time-honed skills, using these new instincts as a backup – not a confirmation. Firstly, she scanned the immediate area: recreational benches mingled with low, weather-worn sawhorses and a large pile of gravel to one side of her; stacks of piping were sitting innocuously to the other. Cautiously, haunches low to the ground, Flamestrike began her crawl into enemy territory. Paw over paw she moved, all scanners on full. As she crept to the left, part of her began to wonder why the enemy would stake a claim on such a human-filled area. Almost immediately on that query's tail came the answer: hostages. If there was one thing the Decepticons could hold over the Autobots, it was the promise of human blood being spilled.
Having seen the slaughter of her people – runners, intellectuals and non-combatants – Flamestrike felt a low growl start in the bowels of her chest and ripple up her sleek brown-plated throat at the senseless slaughter of more innocents, of people, like her own group, who could not claim weapons to defend themselves.
Through this miasma of potential hazards and ambush hideouts, the gryphon femme stalked. Sensors on high, she padded up to the first obstacle, every servo on edge, ready to transform. Slipping her head over the leading pipe's rounded end, her optics found nothing. From this angle, she could clearly see behind the sawhorses and the gravel pile: also secure. Satisfied, but no less alert, the gryphon femme padded on.
Loose bits of gravel dug into the sensitive cracks in her foretalons and rear paws; most she ignored, but there was a time or two that forced her to stop, sit on her haunches, and curl like a cat to worry a particularly irksome piece free. Then, stalwart, she'd rise and continue, scanning, looking, pinions and tail twitching in an unconscious mimic of her old spoiler.
The small lake spread before her, covered with fowl feathers, bits of water-logged bread and the occasional lump of grass clippings. This was the most difficult part of her job – the base was underwater, and being avian-feline, she was at a disadvantage. Approaching the waterline at an angle, Flamestrike transformed, falling back on her hindlegs as her body parts flew around her in an almost-soundless motion. Pistol drawn from subspace, she glanced around, making doubly sure of her lone status in the park. The proton bombs on her hips clattered, shifting. Stepping to the lake's edge, Flamestrike peered into the blue-brown water, optical sensors whirling, compensating for the difficult visibility. She couldn't quite pierce the depths, but it was enough to assure her that no Terrorcon lurked inches below. Before she entered, the femme manually closed off all open ports, including the line to her ventilators. This was the most dangerous thing for her to do: if she got overheated, she had no way to cool her system off, being underwater.
Pistol at the ready, she slipped into the lukewarm waters, the last thing anyone aboveground seeing was the tri-pronged, flame-colored tail – and then it, too, submerged.