Here we go with the first official chapter. Again, please provide me with reviews as they will push me to continue updating my stories. Thank you… and enjoy.
Name – McCullen, James XXIV
National Insurance Number – Classified by NATO to prevent identity theft
Primary Specialty – Weapons Design & Development
Birthplace – Callander, Scotland, United Kingdom
The undisputed master of the Military Armament Research Syndicate (MARS), the world's most advanced company in the field of weapons development in the world. Its sole owner and controlling officer, James McCullen is a brilliant weapons designer in his own right, many of the products made by MARS have been his creations. His work with NATO has provided MARS with legitimacy in every corner of the world, and McCullen has no hesitation about selling to any nation that can afford his products. He believes in law and order, and does not sell to terrorists, allowing NATO to overlook the sales to some of his more distasteful clients.
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM – NATO COMMAND, The Not-Too-Distant-Future
"War used to the be the exception. A violent, unnatural period that interrupted the peace and quiet of the world. No longer. Now it has a life of its own, a living, breathing organism. Constant and unavoidable. Tragic as they are to fight, wars must be won. But to fight a war, you need the right weapons. Weapons of the future, gentlemen. That is what is needed to prevent future wars from being as bloody and as chaotic as the wars that have come before. Next-generation brilliant weapons, advanced personal weapons and armor for infantry, and weapons that defy imagination. Those items and more are what the Military Armament Research Syndicate is here to provide."
James McCullen XXIV stood at the podium, with an array of video screens behind him, and an assembly of NATO generals sitting before him. Dressed in an expensive and immaculate Armani suit, McCullen knew that his audience of more than twenty generals from almost as many nations was captivated by his presentation. One only had to count the number who were leaning forward, resting their elbows on their legs instead of leaning backwards.
McCullen was a man in his early forties, with a slender build and slicked-back brown hair. But due to a rigorous exercise program he was as fit as any soldier, and his hours of arms training each week made him capable of utilizing any military weapon and any of his own creations that were in his armament. Some of the latter hadn't even been yet made available to the rest of the world.
"MARS Corporation has spent the last two hundred years on the cutting edge of weapons research and sales. And for more than two hundred years before that, my ancestors were the greatest creators and distributors of weapons in the world. Gentlemen, I wish to present to you our latest breakthrough, designed by my researchers who were able to do so with a little bit of NATO financial aid…"
He paused for a moment to allow for the expected chuckles.
"I present to you nanite warheads!"
McCullen swept an arm backwards to one of the screens, which depicted a small warhead with a clear polymer casing holding a green gel.
"Each nanite is a self-contained robot smaller than a human skin cell," McCullen explained, "and therefore each one can perform its appointed task independently of others. Doctors have experimented on using nanites to isolate and kill malignant cells in those suffering from otherwise inoperable cancers, but at MARS we have modified them to eat anything they're commanded to. Such as metal. Please observe as this M-1 Abrams tank is hit by a nanite warhead."
The screen showed a tank rolling along in a desert area, and a man with a rocket launcher on his shoulder firing at the tank. As the warhead hit the tank's armor, the clear polymer shattered and unleashed its contents. Immediately, a green mist seemed to envelop that area of the tank, and within seconds the metal was gone, and the mist began to spread over the rest of the tank. Less than thirty seconds later the entire tank had disintegrated and the lone driver inside fell to the ground, unharmed.
"Each of these warheads contains seven million nanites and has the ability to eat anything from a single tank to an entire city."
The screen changed to a CGI rendition of a nanite hitting a skyscraper, and the green mist of nanites beginning to flood and destroy the entire city.
Unseen in the back of the audience, a two-star general of the US Army leaned forward.
"Once the initial target has been destroyed the nanites will continue to eat the closest source of metal they can detect," continued McCullen, "and thus can spread throughout a city if need be. Once unleashed, the nanites will not stop… ever. The launcher automatically activates an individual kill switch unique to each warhead that will deactivate all of the nanites that were contained within that specific warhead, thus preventing any unwanted destruction. Weaponization of the nanites takes place on-site, not during transport, thus posing no danger of accidental release until such time as the warhead is ready to be used.
"I want to thank each officer in this room for your generous funding on behalf of NATO which has allowed MARS to develop these weapons to better safeguard the western world, and to allow you to destroy the weapons and vehicles of your enemies without the worry of harming civilians. Your first order of four warheads will be shipped from the MARS research laboratory in Kyrgyzstan, and will be transported by a elite NATO team tomorrow morning. Thank you."
Generals from across Western Europe rose and applauded, and McCullen waved at them in appreciation. He didn't notice one US general in the back slip away from his seat. After a few moments of applause, McCullen stepped away from the podium and into the back. He began making his way down to the hall to his waiting limo.
"Mr. McCullen," called a voice.
James McCullen turned around to see a US Army general walking towards him. The man wasn't very tall, but he had broad shoulders, a square, serious face and rows of impressive medals on his chest. He was followed by a tall, svelte, beautiful blond woman in her Army dress uniform. Strangely, hers was not an American uniform. At a quick guess, McCullen thought it was Swedish.
"That's right," he answered the general, "and you are?"
"General Clayton Abernathy," answered the man, giving McCullen a firm handshake, his eyes never leaving the Scot's.
"Ah yes, I've heard of you. The Tomahawk, if I recall. They say you're as frightening in a briefing room as you are on the battlefield. Well what I can do for you, General?"
"I'm concerned about these warheads of yours," said Abernathy, his voice firm and without even a flicker of hesitation. "You said they're being shipped from your facility by a NATO team. Now more than twenty sets of ears know where those warheads will be and when."
"General," said McCullen with a slight chuckle, "every set of ears in that room has top-level security clearance."
"And you and I both know how much that's worth. If you've heard of me, then you know that I've made a career of showing up where I need to be, whether I've been ordered there or not. Frankly, I'm concerned this weapon is a very tempting target for more than one hostile power, including terrorist groups as well as enemy nations," explained General Abernathy. "Don't you think that a small unit like that is going to be overwhelmed by a serious force? Now I command an elite international entity of the best soldiers in the world, and I can guarantee that those warheads will never be in safer hands. And you're going to need us."
"I appreciate your concern, General," said McCullen, beginning to walk away, "but part of my contract is delivery, and I take it very seriously. I have every confidence in the group transporting the warheads, as I've worked with them before and they've been preparing for this mission for the last five weeks. I don't think they can get much safer. This is no time to play catch-up and get a piece of the glory, General.
"By the way," he added, stopping in his tracks and turning to look at the American general, "what did you say your unit was called?"
Abernathy's grin was sly and knowing. "I didn't. Thank you for your time, Mr. McCullen. Just remember, my people can handle any situation. And they're always ready."
McCullen nodded once and strode away, all the while feeling General Abernathy's eyes and sly grin at his back. Once McCullen was out of earshot, Abernathy spoke over his shoulder to the blond woman.
"Make the call, Cov," he ordered, "have Team Alpha get prepped."
Nodding, the young woman pulled a cell phone from her uniform and hit the speed dial.
KYRGYZSTAN – MARS RESEARCH FACILITY
"All right, everyone, listen up!" called Captain Conrad Hauser, "NATO wants the best of the best, so that's why we're here. The nanite warheads are being prepped for transport. We're to bring them out of the mountains, and we will rendezvous with Group Two at forty klicks past the mountains, who will escort us to the Air Force base, at which time the warheads will be taken out of our hands.
"Apache's. I want one a half-mile in front of the convoy at all times, the second is to remain a half-mile behind. I want Panthers front and back, with the Rhino in the middle carrying the package. Keep a tight formation. Any questions? Good. Detail attention! Fall out, boys."
Hauser looked over his men. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, a poster boy for good old Midwestern values, he knew. His M-16 was slung over his shoulder, and he began double-checking his web-gear to make sure he wasn't missing anything.
"Good speech, man," said his second-in-command, Lt. Wallace Weems. Weems was also a Midwesterner, from Ohio. A tall African-American with what others generally considered a goofy grin, Weems saw life with a bit of a devil-may-care attitude, but Hauser had fought alongside him for more than five years.
"You give good speeches, and you're a damn fine shot man," continued Weems, "but just remember you still ain't the Duke."
Hauser glanced at his old friend out of the corner of his eye. If Weems wanted to tease him about a nickname Hauser had picked up during Basic, then so be it. He could give as well as he got.
"Hey, at least I know how to open my parachute, Ripcord," he replied with a grin. Weems had the decency to grin in return. It had been really embarrassing during their Airborne school when during training Weems hadn't been able to find the release for his parachute. The nickname Ripcord had stuck with him ever since.
"Captain Hauser?" said one of the scientists, and the two men went over, another scientist handing a briefcase to Weems. "Mr. McCullen requires your signature for your receipt of the warheads."
"Sure thing," replied Hauser, signing.
"These things aren't gonna explode on us, right?" joked Weems.
The scientist looked serious. "They're not weaponized yet, and the kill switches are inside, but all the same… well, I'd avoid potholes, if I were you."
The grin on Weems' face vanished as Hauser handed the paperwork back to the scientist, who turned and gave them a passing "Good luck" over his shoulder.
Weems turned around and saw one of the troops passing by.
"Hey Bill, be a friend and load this up in the Rhino for me," he said with a grin, quickly handing the briefcase over. He saw Conrad watching out of the corner of his eye, smirking and shaking his head. Weems then turned back to the rest of the troops. "All right ladies, mount up!"
The mountain region of Kyrgyzstan was very pretty, Weems decided as he drove the lead Panther along the winding road. He kept checking ahead of him for the Apache overhead, and reviewing his rear mirror for the rest of the convoy. He grinned slightly, remembering the teasing back and forth between him and Conrad as they'd set out about the code phrases.
If I ran things, Weems had said.
Rip, Conrad had interrupted, if you ran the Army we'd stay up all night, fill our canteens with tequila and call each other "Bro."
Yeah, but we'd be badasses, Weems had insisted.
"Hey, Conrad, you know I've been thinking," he said finally.
"You know I've warned you against that," commented Hauser blandly, not looking up from the map he was reviewing.
"Where are we gonna transfer to when this tour is up?" continued Weems as though his friend hadn't said anything. "I'll tell you what we're gonna do."
"Don't say the Air Force," said Conrad tiredly.
"The Air Force," replied Weems emphatically.
Hauser alternated between nodding his head in reluctant expectation and then shaking it as his friend.
"What did I say? I thought we were done with that discussion," said Conrad, shaking his head.
"No, you were done with it, not me. You know that I got plans," continued Weems, not noticing that Conrad was mouthing the words as he spoke, "I've been flying since I was thirteen years old."
"I'm not sure your dad's cropduster in Ohio counts as hours logged," interrupted Conrad.
Wallace continued as if he hadn't heard his friend. "I'm talking jets, man, jets. I've wanted to fly forever, and every time we're on leave I qualify for flight status on every bird in our forces."
"Really? I didn't know that. Not like you haven't told me a dozen times," commented Conrad mildly. "Look, you want to get into the air? I'll buy you a trampoline when we get back stateside."
"Look man, we've done nearly ten years in the Army," reasoned Weems, "I just think it's time to see if the grass really is greener."
"You know Rip, this continues to be the dumbest idea you've ever come up with, and believe me, that's saying something."
"I want you to come to the Air Force with me," said Weems.
"I don't want to join the Air Force, Wall," replied Hauser.
"Why not?"
"Because I like being where I am!" answered Conrad, barely keeping his temper under control. "I like being on the ground and staying in the fight! Not flying over it!"
He glared at Weems for a few moments, almost daring his friend to say something, but wisely, Weems decided to keep quiet. Hauser turned back and turned his attention to the map again.
After a few moments, Weems broke the silence.
"I've already submitted my papers for transfer," he said simply.
Hauser raised his head, then looked out the window. Both men were silent for a long while.
Dusk was settling on them, and the sun was sinking down into the mountains. Captain Hauser was watching the road, as they had entered a lightly wooded area.
"All right, boys, keep alert now," he ordered, "go to nightvision as needed."
"Roger, Pioneer One switching to nightvision now," replied one of the Apache pilots.
"Pioneer Two going NV," acknowledged the other.
The convoy's speed had dropped considerably now that they were now off what passed for the highway.
Why is it someone always wants us to go through the scenic route? wondered Hauser.
"Hey 'Rad," said Weems suddenly, "weren't we supposed to meet up with that advance recon team at forty klicks?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Because we just passed forty-two," replied Weems. The two men looked at each other, and Weems cursed.
"Eyes out! Eyes out! Look alert, everyone," ordered Hauser, "we've passed our scheduled meeting. Apache's, you see anything from up there?"
"Negative, sir," replied the pilot in front of the convoy, "nothing on radar and no one on the ground. There's no one up here but us."
"Confirmed, sir," said the other pilot.
"Apaches, converge with the convoy, I want you both directly overhead," ordered Hauser.
"Copy sir, wait a minute… what the hell is that?"
There was a high-pitched buzz and whine, then the cry of "Holy shi-" over the radio. An explosion rattled the Panther and a fireball erupted in the sky almost over their heads.
"Look out!" yelled Hauser.
The fiery wreckage of the Apache crashed in a heap only a few yards ahead of their vehicle, exploding and sending shrapnel in every direction. The two men began looking around and spotted the culprit in seconds. A dark shape, like the central part of an aircraft but without wings twisted into view, hovering in place like a shadowy dragonfly.
"That's a Typhoon, 'Rad!" yelled Weems, "Next-gen shit!"
"Apache, light it up!" ordered Hauser.
"Bring that asshole on the ground!" added Weems.
Tracer fire lit up the night sky, hammering into the strange craft. But it seemed to have no noticeable effect, forcing the gunner to release a pair of missiles. They closed in on the shadowy craft, but it unleashed a burst from its own machine guns, blowing the missiles out of the air. Then twin blasts of concussive energy shot out from it, blowing apart the other Apache. It crashed into the road behind the convoy.
"They've blocked us in, man!" yelled Weems.
"Fan out! All units fan out!" yelled Hauser into his radio.
One of the Panthers began to make a break for it through the woods, but the Typhoon slid and twisted through the air, blasting at the vehicle and turning it and the men inside into a fireball.
"I want SAMs on that thing!" yelled Houser, "Light him up!"
The Panthers opened up with their own .50 caliber guns and the Rhino fired a pair of rockets at the craft. The black craft ignored the gunfire, and let out a stream of tracer fire at the two rockets, blasting both out of the air before they could make contact. Two blasts of energy hit the ground next to the Rhino, and the shockwave sent the multi-ton vehicle spinning into the air, crashing upside down nearly a dozen yards away.
The rest of the panthers continued to let loose with their .50 caliber guns to no effect, as the Typhoon circled around, firing a few more blasts. One of which streaked towards Hauser and Weems' vehicle.
"INCOMING!" yelled Conrad.
The blast hit the ground just under the rear wheel of the Panther, sending it into the air and flipping it over. It came crashing down into the ground upside down.
Conrad shook his head as the world stopped spinning, then turned to Wall.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," replied Weems with a grimace, "but my leg is pinned. What the hell is going on?"
The craft then gracefully descended to the ground, and a door on the side opened.
"This can't be good, Duke!" yelled Weems.
Several figures emerged from the craft. They walked stiffly, as if wearing full body armor, and they carried rifles that Hauser couldn't recognize. Helmets that looked like skulls completely enclosed their heads.
The remaining soldiers… less than a dozen… were waiting for the skull-troops, and opened fire on the figures as they approached. Sparks flew as bullets made contact, but they didn't seem to slow down newcomers, much less stop them. The enemies returned fire, their bullets ripping through the NATO soldiers.
The constant fire prevented the NATO soldiers from noticing the beautiful, raven-haired woman in a black leather skinsuit and dark glasses step out of the aircraft. She surveyed the carnage without a reaction, then focused on the overturned Rhino. With two of the troopers at her side, she made her way over without hesitation.
"Come on, we gotta get in this fight!" said Conrad, dragging Weems out of the Panther. He pulled his injured friend from the vehicle and hauled Wall onto his shoulders, hurrying away from the battle.
"They're after the warheads, bro!" cried Wall, "We gotta get to them first!"
"I gotta get you outta here first!" insisted Hauser, heading for a clump of trees and shrubs away from the fighting.
The explosion of another one of the vehicles drew Hauser's attention enough to see the raven-haired woman stepping out of the Rhino with the briefcase containing the warheads in hand. He scowled as he realized the woman had seen him, as well. She then turned and began walking in the other direction.
"Hey Duke? If I die…"
"You're not gonna die Wall," Conrad insisted, "not on my watch!"
"I just want you to know… you never could run worth a damn," commented Weems.
"Jesus, Rip."
"I'm just sayin' it would be nice if you could maybe move a little faster."
Conrad dropped his friend to the ground, and not as gently as he might have otherwise done so.
"Stay here, I'm getting that package!"
He ran back into the fight as fast he could, dodging blasts of energy and the occasional, sporadic gunfire. A few choice curses about the Air Force escaped his lips. He had just spun around a tree, when he came face-to-face with one of the enemy troops, the barrel of the enemy's weapon less than three inches from Hauser's eyes.
"Goodbye," snarled the trooper.
But before he could fire, the woman grabbed the barrel of the rifle and pushed it down.
"Hello Conrad," she said in a soft purr, with a very familiar accent.
"Ana?" he gasped in surprise. Then his jaw dropped open as the woman touched her glasses and they instantly became transparent, revealing a face he hadn't seen in years.
"Been a long time," she said mildly. Then without warning she lashed out with a kick across Conrad's face that knocked him to his knees.
As he shook his head to clear the ringing in his ear, she commented, "Now you have to admit, you really had that one coming. Kill him."
Conrad looked at the skull-faced trooper, who aimed his rifle at Conrad's head. Then he heard the whine of an engine, and couldn't help but look up, expecting another craft full of enemies. But this was a different craft, longer and wider, with a pair of broad wings and a horizontal tail.
Suddenly, Conrad could make out a dark shape in the night sky, and looked like it was hurtling right for him. The glint of light in the shape looked almost like a… a sword.
The shaped barreled headlong into the trooper, sending them both crashing into the ground. But an eyeblink later, the dark shape sprang and twisted, and now Conrad could see what it was.
It was a man, tall and powerfully muscled, wearing a black armored bodysuit, mask and a visor, all in black. A red symbol on the man's upper arm was the only color that Conrad could see. A sword was in the man's hand, its razor-edge gleaming in the moonlight.
The man suddenly exploded into motion as three of the skull-faces surrounded him. Conrad could only watch, amazed, as the warriors who had shrugged off bullets had their throats and arms and legs slashed open with that sword. There was not the slightest bit of wasted movement; no flair or showing off. Each movement was intended to strike at a vulnerable target. The man finished off all three in a heartbeat, and then glanced down at Conrad. A bush rustled just before another skull-face leapt out, rifle at the ready, but the dark man drew a pistol and fired it through the warrior's eye in one smooth motion. Then the man hurried off towards the other skull-faces.
He hadn't been on the ground for more than six seconds.
Conrad sat there, astounded. He'd never… ever seen a human being move that fast.
The unmistakable sounds of a zip-line drew his attention from the dark man, to watch as a beautiful red-headed woman and another man came down a rope dropped from the aircraft. The woman had what looked to be a crossbow pistol with laser targeting, and was firing a series of arrows that pierced the facemasks of the skull-faced troops. The man was smaller than she was, his suit was flashing with lights and a small headpiece held a holographic viewscreen over one eye, and his rifle spat one fiery bullet at a time. His bullets, however, seemed to pierce the chest armor of the skull troops without a problem.
Conrad finally came back to his senses, scanning the area for Ana, and he saw her halfway down a hill, running with the briefcase in hand.
"Ana!" he yelled as he got to his feet and chased after her. He ran past the dark man with a sword who slew another pair of skull troops with ease.
As he chased her, Conrad saw a line of skull troops ahead of him, far too many for him to get past. Then a line of tracer fire mowed through the first trooper, then the second, and then the rest of them. Conrad spared a glance at the sky and saw a powerfully-built black man holding a damned mini-gun that was spitting out thousands of rounds. Once the line of troops were down, Conrad continued after Ana. Answers could come later.
She was quick, Conrad would give her that, but he was faster… a lot faster. He soon caught up with her and tackled her from behind. Ana swung the briefcase at his head, but Conrad dodged backwards, then wrapped his arms around her, struggling to get a hold of the briefcase. Ana threw her head back, catching him just below the nose, but he was able to get a grip on the case and wrenched it from her hands, sending it rolling down the hill.
Ana drove her heel into his upper chest, knocking Conrad back and driving the breath from his lungs. She scrambled back to her feet and made a direct line for the case. But a line of machinegun fire forced her to halt, the massive black man with the mini gun standing on a small platform on the side of his aircraft.
"Don't make me shoot a woman," he called to her loudly.
Ana glanced around, then turned and in ran in a different direction, trying to get to the case from a different angle. The aircraft rose higher into the air to turn to the rest of the battle. Finally catching his breath, Conrad chased after her. Just before she made it to the case, Conrad was able to get just a little bit ahead of her, then he drew his pistol and aimed at her head as she stopped in her tracks.
"Don't make me shoot you," he warned.
She looked at him with those cold, dark eyes. He wondered what had happened to make them so cold… they weren't the eyes he remembered.
"Can you do it, Conrad?" she asked, that accent of hers making him shiver, just like it always had, though it was thicker than he remembered. "Do you think you can shoot me?"
She took another step forward and he took one back.
"You're not going to get the warheads, Ana," he insisted.
She shook her head slowly. "There's only one way to stop me, Conrad. You know that. You know I never stop once I have a goal. Are you ready to kill me? I'm right here. I'm going to get that case from you, if I have to take it from your dead fingers."
Conrad cocked the hammer back, and he noticed that his hand was shaking. At a distance of three feet, it wouldn't make a difference, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd had to consciously steady his hand.
She smiled at him. "I win," she said simply.
His eyes narrowed, but before Conrad could say or do anything, he felt a hard blow to the back of his head and he dropped to his hands and knees. One of the skull-faced warriors circled around to stand next to Ana, and Conrad saw Ana's hand reach down for the case… but a six inch long arrow imbedded itself into the ground between her hand and the case.
"Freeze!" he heard a woman yell.
But Ana was already running, her strange aircraft hovering just a foot or so over the ground. Conrad staggered to his feet, rifle in one hand and case in the other, watching as Ana's craft flew off, with her and the rest of the surviving skull troops.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Conrad grabbed the briefcase, spinning around to aim his rifle at the others. The massive black man, the small man, and the red-haired woman were all behind him, weapons up and ready.
"Stand down! Stand the hell down!" he yelled at them.
"Put your weapon down soldier," ordered the large man, "we're not the enemy."
"Your weapons pointed at me don't exactly make you friends now, does it?" retorted Conrad.
"Relax, Captain," said the woman, "we're on the same side, but we need you to hand over the case."
"Yeah well I normally don't trust a bunch of people aiming weapons at me," he shot back. "I don't know you, and I sure as hell don't know who they are. But until I find out, I'm not lowering anything or handing anything over."
"If it weren't for us you'd be back there with the rest of your boys," said the large man.
"Please consider your position, Captain," said the smaller man, "you're outnumbered and you have no cover if someone were to begin shooting."
Conrad had no reply for that, because the little guy was right. All three of them carried themselves like professional soldiers, even the woman, and they all had weapons pointed at his head. Even if he took a shot and got one of them, the other two would kill him before he could shift targets.
"But you didn't count on his backup," came a new voice, and Conrad turned around enough to see Wallace taking cover around a tree, his M-16 trained on the group.
The woman smiled. "And you didn't count on ours."
Weems wondered what she was talking about, until cold, sharp steel rested against his throat. Slowly glancing back over his shoulder, Weems saw a powerfully-built man that looked like a shadow come to life, holding a sword over his shoulder as it pressed against his neck.
"All right, hold on," said the small man, who let his weapon drop and pushed it around to his back. "Someone wants to have a word with you."
He then reached into a pack, pulled out a new device and stuck it down into the ground
Conrad realized that Wall had moved to stand next to him, the shadow man still holding his sword to Wall's neck.
Suddenly the device in the ground flashed and a life-size holographic image emerged. The man it portrayed was in urban combat fatigues with a black shirt and black beret on his head. Two stars decorated his shoulderboards.
"State your name and rank, gentlemen," said the hologram, eying both of them very carefully.
"You first," shot back Conrad.
The man smirked as he looked them over, but it disappeared quickly. "My team just saved your life," he pointed out, "this is the part where you get to say 'thank you'."
"Those aren't exactly the words that come to mind right now," Conrad said irritably. "We weren't told to expect any additional support on this mission, so you might want to tell your team to stand down."
Weems would have loved to add his own comment, a turkey shoot came to mind, but the sword against his throat hadn't relaxed in the slightest.
"Who are you?" asked Conrad.
"My name is General Clayton Abernathy," answered the man, "but you probably have heard of me as…"
"General Hawk," finished Conrad, amazement creeping into his voice. "You commanded CENTCOM, then NATO Forward Command."
The man nodded. "That was my previous job. I'm in a whole new outfit now. Now I run an elite unit that happens to have saved your life."
The smaller man stepped forward with what looked like a PDA in his hand.
"What are you doing? Step back," Conrad warned him.
"Relax," said the man, "I'm turning off the tracking beacon in the briefcase. It's for our security as well as yours."
At this point, Conrad recognized the man had an accent that he couldn't quite place. But since the man was moving slowly, and the device he was carrying was pointed at the briefcase, Conrad decided to see what happened. A few moments later, after the man fiddled with the controls in his hand, he stepped backwards and turned to the larger man and the woman.
"It's deactivated, we'll be able to take it back to the Pit," he reported.
"Now what?" asked Conrad.
"Now you put down that weapons case and let us deliver those warheads," replied Hawk.
"No way. My signature, my package, my mission, sir. I carry them, I deliver them," insisted Conrad.
"Well seeing as how you don't have any transport out of that area and my people have you surrounded I don't think you have much of a choice, Duke," said Hawk, emphasizing Conrad's old nickname.
"Hey man, don't go acting like you know who we are," protested Weems, "you don't know us at all!"
He abruptly stopped talking as the sword pressed a tiny bit harder against his throat.
Hawk stretched out a hand to someone next to him, and a folder appeared in his hand. "You'd be surprised. Let's see, Wallace Weems, Master Marksman, Airborne qualified, joined ROTC at age seventeen, jet qualified and you apparently have trouble finding the catch for your parachute, Ripcord."
Weems had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed.
"Now if you two are ready to stop arguing, I'll let you make your delivery, Captain Hauser, but you seem to be short of transpo at the moment," Hawk told them. "As such, you're to accompany my people and they'll deliver you to me. Then we can figure out who these guys were that came after you, and who that woman was. Team Alpha, damn fine job. Get these two on the Howler and return home."
The hologram winked out, and as if that was a signal, all of the four mystery soldiers lowered their weapons. Weems breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the cold steel of the sword leave his neck.
Conrad watched as the small man seemed to speak on a headset radio, and the craft with the broad wings began to circle and descend towards them. The woman stepped forward, holstering her crossbow in a pistol holster.
"Your leg's been hurt," she said, looking at Weems, "do you need any help walking into the transport? Once we're airborne we'll be able to patch that up for you."
Weems could only stare awestruck at the beautiful woman in front of him. Her slim build, creamy skin, long legs, and a rack like you only saw in swimsuit magazines had him nearly hypnotized. Conrad tried to nudge him, but when Weems clearly wasn't getting the hint, Conrad spoke for him.
"He'll be fine, take care of him when we get into the air," he told her. "Now please tell me, where are we going?"
She smiled, and Conrad realized she was really achingly beautiful. "I can't tell you that yet, because that's classified. But we're going home."