Chapter 4. "In the Ring"

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December 31, 2009, 12:38 AM

Southern Colorado

Daria's ears hurt.

They'd popped maybe ten times in the last half hour as the flight mowed it's way through the snowy dark. A natural result of altitude changes—the transport helicopter's hold wasn't pressurized.

And barely heated. She thought, mirthlessly, brushing off another urge to rub the spots where her eyeglass arms hung onto her skull, like lead. She should have worn her Ushanka. Non-regulation or not, she probably could have gotten away with wearing the motheaten old fur cap.

Probably fit in with some of the present company, though, she mused, making another study of her map—

"…I can't believe they kept this…!" droned a voice across the crew cabin, again, politely quiet enough to be heard over the engines.

Daria peaked up, over the edge of her map. A bald, corpulent looking Psycho was their "Sludge-Viper" mission specialist—command had pulled him out of reserve. There weren't that many of his comrades left, let along still active in the organization.

The man looked pallid green, even in the red night-lighting as he flexed an arm into his uniform—the limb moving with the characteristic numb deadness of a prosthetic. It matched to the side of his head glinting with metal in place of bare flesh. It made her skin crawl just to look at the man.

The figure sitting next to the grumbling Viper, however, just made her feel the night's chill more.

His getup, though comparably sparse next to the flash and spangle of most minions' outfits, practically gleamed under the cabin light; most of the few shadowy spots being the odd peppery streaks that ran through the feral-looking fur trim of his jacket.

He still wore a padded hood, but this one had pulled up the concealing mask—exposing a face that looked like it had been turned on a lathe.

There were ten more like him, on her chopper alone, and the same number on the flight's wingman.

Snow Serpents. Cobra's home-grown arctic special warfare troops formed the backbone of the team.

Heh. Spindoctor thought, stifling a smirk. 'Homegrown'—she knew for a fact that most of the crop had been recruited from outside the organization. They might have been the 'best of the best,' but they'd cut their teeth fighting Cobra...

As the Sludge-Viper continued another grouse, one of them, still masked, and two seats further forward, leaned out in the aide—rudely in front of the blank faceplated platoon sniper, another codenamed agent who's name Spindoctor didn't know—and called out a half-intelligble phrase or two, with a mirthful tone and a lolling nod aft.

She only caught a word or two. But it made her ears prickle.

It must have showed. The man across the aisle had started to reply, but his eye had flickered, catching her face in his periphery. The life instantly drained out of his face.

Cautiously, the officer turned to face Daria, leaning forward to speak. "Vy...govorite po-russki?"

"Nemnogo," she lied. "I think my accent's a disgrace, though, captain. Just frightening."

She didn't actually look to be sure, but she heard the low chatter from the other Serpents dwindle out to nothing.

Spindoctor bit down on a lean smile.

The Snow Serpent captain—"Dragonsky," according to her mission file, which she was sure was his real name—nodded, very slowly. The man was much older than she was, and Daria was feeling every year of it now, under the appraising gleam of those gimlet eyes.

Damnit. She'd gotten herself good and preoccupied with her own preparations, but she was starting to realize she'd severely neglected acclimating herself some of the human elements of her command. Old mistake to make…stupid, kid movie.

She was kicking herself for it, now. She hoped—damn well sure—it wasn't the oversight that'd come back to bite her.

Spindoctor pulled on a casual face, and turned back to her map, tracing a finger along a county road line she'd already committed to memory.

"You seem guarded, Captain…anything on your mind?" She asked, pleasantly, not looking up. "Something red flagging the plans?

"Yeeah, I dunno, what if like someone tries something mar—UMPH!"—the Joisey-flavored snark from the fractious Sludge-Viper cut off abruptly.

Dragonsky slyly pulled his rifle stock back across his lap, and gave a snare-tight shrug.

"Well," he said, with a hum of an accent, "you bring it up, ma'am,"—well now she felt as old as him—"so I'll speak it. I—ah, all of us get uneasy with a lot of brass in the field. It gets sticky."

She felt a glare coming on. "'You expecting a problem, captain?"

The man's face got grimmer. "Orders are that you command the mission, ma'am, but I command the troops…" Another half-shrug. "…or so. But there have been troubles, I've seen, with non-combat officers deciding to charge into fights. People get very zealously killed. Ma'am."

Spindoctor rationed out a small pause, not breaking eye contact. "Well then, I don't foresee any problems, captain…after all, this is not a combat mission. This is search and recovery. And I don't want to bring 'office politics' into this either, if I don't have to…"

She broke into a rare grin—a little short of jack o'lantern wide, and friendly as a knife edge. It made her cheeks hurt. "I mean, we're all on the same side, now, aren't we, captain?"

The man didn't even blink. And he sure as Hell didn't look angry. A whisper of a smirk grew across the old soldier's face.

"Now? No…" he raised a pointer finger. "…always the same side. The only side I ever—"

The alert chime cut him off—the prearranged brevity signal from the cockpit. About time.

"…and there he is." Dragonsky finished, chuckling. He yanked down his face mask one-handed, and rose. "Men, LZ in one minute—prepare to deploy!"

A low bustle erupted in the cabin again, all else pushed aside. Someone killed the CD player.

Daria herself didn't have much to do at this point—comparatively, at least—but she got down to business. She got the map refolded and tucked back in her coat, rechecked her own sparse gear, stopped herself from unbuckling her seatbelt—no way she'd keep her footing. The pitch of the transport was already climbing steeply for landing...

Her ears popped again.

"Cobra Commander isn't paying you seventeen cents a minute to gad about!" Dragonsky was barking, at his troops. "Move!"

Daria's head was swimming a little—damn odd angles, no damned windows, in the DAR—she caught herself. Maniac helicopter or not, it was no excuse to let the stress ride back in.

She tried to distract herself. Checking the bulge at her right hip—

BUMP. The chopper stumbled to a halt, leveling out forwards. There was the oddest, sinking sensation for a moment. Maybe it was the snow.

One of the Snow Serpents must have been taken by surprise, too—someone bleated out a startled "Blya!"

"English only!" snapped another voice, apparently automatically.

Daria tried to ignore the laughter that followed the surprised pause—the landing was no small relief, but it brought little time to relax.

"Doors open—get the rig out. Move!"

Now Daria unbelted, and stood, pressing herself back against the bulkhead while the other Cobras set up the big snow mobile strapped into the center aisle.

She tugged down the front of her duffel coat, self-consciously, though it proved unnecessary—it easily covered the butt of the pistol jutting from her belt. She'd ended up having to mount the big revolver holster backwards to practically draw it—which was a legitimate technique, but one she feared would look like an affectation. Or Bill-freakin'-Hickok…

A chill air whipped across her cheek, icing her nostrils. Someone had cracked the doors, including the huge clamshells that opened to the rear cargo ramp. That was her cue...

She edged over to the "Polar Blast"—groan—and plopped down in a rear seat, next to the (thankfully unloaded) missile launcher. All else aside, she was thankful that she warranted a ride. She'd never have kept up on snowshoes.

Over her shoulder, the Sniper-Viper slid down his lane of the aisle, past the still-gasping Sludge-Viper towards the rear door. She started to wonder why he still had his rifle slung over his shoulder…before she realized it wasn't. The big Steyr knockoff was locked in an armature over the fellow's scapula. He ducked the barrel down under the door threshold, hunching for headroom, then let it go. The weapon bobbed, steadily, dampened against the man's footfalls, and very slyly mirroring the bearings of the man's head.

Daria just pulled her coat hood up, over her hair, and cinched it down tight. Bedlam.

Once the screening troops had moved up, her driver started the Polar Blast's engine, revving up with a whine.

The snowmobile skidded down the rear ramp, front skis meeting the snow with a jolt. Daria winced, instinctively, tucking her head low. The muffled wash from the transport's rotors buffeted the edge of her hood, kicking up ice specks against he glasses. She tugged the hood down a little tighter.

The 'Blast curled into a hard right turn around t the chopper's port side, close enough to reach out and touch the raised hatching of the garish "Python" livery. The other men were silently disgorging from the forward side door—half, anyway, that Spindoctor could see. The other would be filing out on the other side. Less chance of getting the entire chalk gutted if there was an amb…

She quickly diverted her attention farther forward, squinting. She could make out the other helicopter some yards ahead—the dull moonglow through the low clouds almost obligated any need for night vision.

The snakes ahead had moved out in admirable sync with her own group—damned fine discipline. Almost eerie.

—suddenly, an unseen figure loomed up from the ground at her right, twinned at once by a figure far ahead, as one of the first chopper's Blasts' passed by.

Silently, the figure mounted astride Daria's vehicle, snow dusting off the wolfskin cloak on his pack, and taken his designated seat, SAW leveled forward. Her alarm scarcely diminished. "Almost" nothin'.

The first radio gabber started up shortly—the voice was courteous enough to keep it to a throaty whisper. Good man—it wouldn't do to make Jerry's hydrophone operators' jobs any easier—

Spindoctor checked herself from the inner tirade. Steady girl…not that she needed to worry about missing important information from the net—DZ such-and-such hared at heading so-and-so, estimated…everything perfectly on schedule, according to the plan. Etcetera…

There was a flush of downwash as the helicopters lifted off, yawing low overhead. Daria didn't watch them go.

Everything by the numbers…the thought gave only a grim-tinged comfort…now it's all just waiting.

Just waiting…

Behind her, the whisper of roots dwindled into the distance, and soon died away completely.

On the ground, the engines of the four snowmobiles droned easily, as they kept pace with "Operation Loving Olga"'s platoon, slogging through the mountain snow.

There was just enough breeze to be noticed, but it added little to the gnawing cold, and nothing at all to dispel the clouds overhead.

Spindoctor checked her watch. Sunup in…six hours, about.

Mostly waiting, till then. Just waiting...

Unnoticed and unseen, her command trudged ahead, disappearing into the darkness.

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Author's notes: For the record, by now, I've fully recognized that naming this story "Expectavi" was kinda jinxing it.

The unnamed Sludge-Viper is yet another crossover cameo. (I couldn't resist. :) )

And, as always, comments and reviews are welcome. Criticism too, as long as it's at least more politely worded than "You suck, and you should kill yourself with a highway flare!" (It should be "please kill yourself with a highway flare," thankyouverymuch.)