Opening Rounds
Summary: The investigative team prepares to leave Montana for Genovia, while training continues for the Genovian National Police Crisis Response Team.
Killian Residence
Helena, Montana
30 April 1993, 1:47 PM
Ashley Killian zipped shut the rolling suitcase she was checking onto the aircraft tomorrow morning and set it near the bedroom door. She stepped out into the hallway, and down the steps towards the kitchen.
She walked over to the telephone and dialed the number to the Helena College University of Montana behavioral health center. After four rings Gladys, the secretary, answered the phone.
"Good afternoon, Gladys, it's Ashley Killian. Is my husband available?" Ashley asked. She heard the negative response and then that he was with a patient.
She took a breath and then said, "Can you let him know I'll pick up the kids today? Okay Gladys, thank you."
She hung up the phone before looking at the clock, deciding to have a glass of wine. After she poured the glass and replaced the cork she stepped out to the back porch, sitting in a rocking chair, centering her thoughts about the case in Genovia and just how much mayhem the assorted stolen pathogens would be capable of causing.
The phone ringing from inside the kitchen jarred her attention. She rushed inside and picked up the phone one ring before the answering machine engaged.
"Hi honey," Ashley said, pausing as Jerry spoke.
"I talked to Gladys and left her a message about picking up the kids." Ashley shifted the phone in her left hand and took a sip of the glass of Amontillado, 1988 vintage in her right hand as Jerry spoke.
"I got put on assignment, Jerry, and I leave tomorrow morning…bright and early." Ashley leaned back against the counter as Jerry asked for details.
"I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, so I can't say much. But I can say I'm going to Genovia." Ashley took another sip of her wine. She listened to Jerry's response on the other side of the line.
"Look, Jerry, I just want to spend as much time with you and the kids as possible before I fly to Europe," Ashley replied, crossing her legs.
"Yeah, just having a glass of wine to unwind. I have some time before I'm due to get the kids…" Ashley took another sip from her glass as she listened to Jerry's response.
"Oh? I think I like this new plan of yours better. Come get me for dinner after you get the kids?" Ashley replied, smiling. Any thoughts of Genovia temporarily vanished.
Message 2-3-2-5
Authentication X-Ray Alpha
ACME Field Office
Genovia
01 May 1993, 8:07 AM
Agent Tiffany Marie Rian walked into the conference room, three folders containing copies of a briefing from HQ in Geneva under one arm.
She smiled as she saw Booker T Crisp stride into the room with John Hendrix and Peter Dowling in tow.
She set copies of the briefing at each of the three chairs at the table before sitting down herself with her copy and a fifth copy.
"Good morning, gentlemen, sorry I'm a wee bit late. The printer decided to behave badly," Tiffany said as the men took their seats.
"And a few Gaelic curses probably followed?" Crisp smirked at her.
The Irish woman shot him a mock glare. "Think you can hand this to Sergei?"
"I've got it," Dowling replied, taking the sealed envelope and setting it to one side.
"Right, about forty eight hours ago several biological samples were stolen from a laboratory in Geneva. You'll see the list here." Tiffany began.
" Botulinum toxin…didn't Saddam load that crap in Scuds?" Crisp asked.
"You're right, love," Tiffany replied as she looked through her notes.
"So what's the latest?" Hendrix asked.
"We have some semi-reliable sources and one reliable source saying that at least one of these samples is en route to Genovia," Tiffany said.
"Right. I assume Cobra is mucking about in this?" Dowling asked as he looked through the briefing.
"Too right," Tiffany replied and noticed Dowling's expression darken as he turned a page.
"Uh-oh," Crisp remarked, following the briefing's pages.
"The Bavaglias are believed to be involved," Tiffany replied, noticing Dowling's eyes narrow.
'Note to self, ask Booker what is the deal with Dowling and this pair of smugglers…' Tiffany thought to herself as she continued.
"Right, so what's ACME's involvement?" Pete asked.
"Investigating this lead. Toward that end I put a request for a Forensic Epidemiologist. The Helena Field Office is sending her and an agent." Tiffany flipped another page.
"Agents Mitchell Cabot and Ashley Killian?" Hendrix asked.
"Yes. I'll be meeting them at the airport the day after tomorrow, and I'll set up a meeting with you after they get settled in," Tiffany replied, crossing her legs as she spoke.
"When are they slated to arrive?" Dowling asked.
"They touch down at 8:15 AM on the 3rd of May." Tiffany flipped pages to an itinerary.
"They get here on Monday?" Hendrix asked. Tiffany nodded.
"Any other questions?" Tiffany asked.
"Likely targets for this biological agent?" Hendrix asked.
"Our analysts seem to think it's targeting the early tourist season, intending to disrupt Genovia's economy so Cobra can make its demands. However they are only somewhat certain," Tiffany replied.
"Define somewhat?" Crisp asked.
"Maybe 70% to 75% certainty."
"So one of their investigative aims is confirming these assessments," Hendrix said with a nod.
"And they'll need protection. Discreet protecting, but protecting nonetheless," Tiffany replied.
"Dowling, you're the designated hitter for that detail. Crisp you're back up. I'll be running between that and the Crisis Response Team consulting mission." Hendrix clicked a pen and made some notes in a pocket notebook.
"Right." Dowling nodded his head, making his own notes in a leather protected field notebook.
"I gave you our schedule, but I'm gonna adjust it to account for Dowling's absence," Hendrix replied.
"Thank you. I've received it and I'll pencil in my remarks. Thank you for your time, gentlemen." Tiffany replied.
The scraping of chairs resounded across the linoleum as the four people stood up. As they left the room, Tiffany lightly tapped Crisp on his left arm.
"Booker, can I have a word in private, love?" Tiffany asked.
Crisp nodded and followed Tiffany out of the conference room, towards the break area. She scanned outside the break area, noticing Dowling and Hendrix turning in their visitor passes to the front desk.
"What's the story about the Bavaglias?" Tiffany asked.
"I only have a few details, but 13 years ago Pete was seriously involved with an American journalist, Rona Bryant. She had been trying to get a story on the Bavaglias, but they kidnapped and murdered her…" Crisp replied.
Tiffany blinked as realization hit. She could feel the hate roiling off Dowling in waves the moment she mentioned the Bavaglias.
"…she was found at the bottom of a lake, bound, gagged and wrapped in a lot of chain." Crisp said.
Tiffany's eyes narrowed. 'Note to self, look up the murder of Rona Bryant.'
"Put it this way, if Dowling gets a hold of them, don't expect them to see the inside of a jail cell," Crisp replied.
Tiffany shivered. She knew the backgrounds of the three men from Semper Fidelis Solutions. 'I canna blame the man for being angry over that…but I hope to God he clears his head before we lose a potential information source. The Bavaglias are worth more alivefrom an intelligence standpoint.'
"Thank you for that, love," Tiffany replied, before giving Crisp a squeeze to his right hand.
"I'll definitely see you tonight…" Crisp managed a small grin before he walked out of the break room.
Operation Report 1-3-0-1
Genovian Royal Family
Training Site 1, Genovia
01 May 1993, 11:48 A.M.
Prince Philippe Renaldi sat on a sofa beside Queen Regent Clarice Renaldi. Sitting in a wooden chair to one side of them sat Joe, the Royal Family's chauffeur and head of security. The Prince looked at Joe and asked, "What is this for again?"
"Well, Your Highness, should you or any of the Royal Family ever wind up as hostages it's important to know what the capabilities of a hostage rescue team are," Joe replied, taking a sip of water from a water bottle.
Prince Renaldi looked up at the catwalk to see the two Americans and one Englishman who had been training the Crisis Response Team for the past five months. From what Joe told him, their Russian teammate was laid up with a stomach bug.
True, he had supported the upgraded training for Genovia's security forces since the earliest reports of a shadowy organization called Cobra. That didn't mean he wasn't nervous. Live rounds were going to be flying here.
A click and some static before a voice came over the loudspeaker. The voice of John Hendrix, the American in charge of the four man team. "Please remember to ensure you have your hearing and eye protection on. There will be live rounds flying."
"When I asked for a demonstration, I had no idea this is what was intended," Philippe said to Joe.
"The British do this with their Special Air Service." Joe shrugged his shoulders.
"Didn't one demonstration result in Princess Diana wearing a shorter hairstyle because of something called a flashbang?" Clarice asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Now we get to see if the money we put into the training was well spent." Philippe nodded as he looked around the room. All around him were wooden stands holding up paper targets. Some of these targets depicted armed terrorists, others innocent civilians.
"I have control." Three more words sounded over the speaker.
"Standby. Standby…GO!" The command echoed.
The door to the room flew open and in came a cylinder which went off with a bright flash and loud bang. Philippe's ears rang as he saw double and saw two…no…four commandos clad in black from head to toe, carrying MP5 submachineguns. The weapons hammered in short bursts, brass casings flying about.
But this wasn't just hosing the room with gunfire. No, these men moved with a purpose, with precision, firing a handful of rounds while on the move, assessing targets.
"Move towards the sound of my voice!" A fifth commando standing in the hallway ordered. Joe stood up, escorting Clarice while Philippe staggered after him.
As his vision returned to normal and the ringing in his ears ceased, Philippe took a look behind him. Every one of the targets representing an armed terrorist had a cluster of bullet holes in the vicinity of the bridge of the nose, representing instantly fatal shots. Every one of the targets representing an unarmed civilian showed no damage. Every franc spent on the team's training was well worth it.
Once his head cleared he was determined to write Mr. Frank Hummel, the CEO of Semper Fidelis Solutions a well-penned thank you letter.
Genovian Arms Hotel
Coastal Highway Genovia
30 April 1993, 4:04 PM
Peter Dowling set a small black backpack containing his clothes onto the sand of the beach. Clad in a pair of blue swimming trunks he ran into the surf, diving beneath waves as he went. With powerful pulls of his arms and fluttering kicks of his legs, he pushed past the surf zone.
He felt the cool soothing flow of the Mediterranean Sea around his body as he kicked and pulled out into the water. Past the surf zone, waves no longer buffeted him about. After a while he went to tread water, kicking as he looked back at the beach.
'Fucking Hell, the bloody Bavaglias are involved and I've got to escort some bloody ACME agents about. ' Pete thought to himself as he stopped, treading water and looking towards the Genovian coastline.
Those bastards killed Rona. His first true love. 'Thirteen years ago I contemplated leaving the whole military thing behind, even moving to America to build a life with her…only for it to be snuffed out.'
Pete took a deep breath and kicked his legs several times to get back to a relatively horizontal posture before he started pulling with his arms again. 'I still did wind up going to America, but working for a Private Military Company.'
As he swam towards a buoy marking the swimming area, he continued to ruminate on the news that the Bavaglias were involved. As he did so he felt a certain cold fire, forging a steely resolve. They were going to pay with their lives for taking Rona's. 'They've had it coming for thirteen years…what's that old saying: 'revenge is a meal best served cold'.'
If they were to come to Genovia, they were going to die. And he was going to kill them.
Killian Residence
Helena, Montana
30 April 1993, 3:46 P.M.
Ashley Killian hit the mute button on the television remote as she heard the sound of Jerry's car, a 1979 Chevrolet Blazer, crush the gravel of their driveway. She finished the last gulp of her wine glass before setting it down on the coffee table.
The door opened as Keith Killian ran into the house shouting, "Mommy!"
Ashley crouched down and hugged the little boy. "Oh, come here, Mommy missed you so much…"
She released her youngest son and then went to give her older son, Tyler, a willowy bear hug.
"Ack! Moooom!" Tyler protested at that.
Jerry walked in behind the kids, closing the door behind him and locking it. Ashley walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him before leaning in to kiss him. Jerry leaned forward, kissing her back, his arms around her waist.
Ashley barely heard the kids scampering off to their bedrooms, with Tyler yelping, "Ick! Mushy stuff!"
They parted from the kiss, and Jerry took off his black plastic framed eyeglasses, wiping the lenses with the sleeve of his white and grey pinstriped shirt.
"You're in travel mode, dear…" Jerry observed.
"What do you mean?" Ashley replied.
"You dial up the affectionate side to an eleven when you're gonna travel. Not that I'm complaining, of course." Jerry smirked as he headed into the living room.
"Nice save, Dear," Ashley replied as Jerry spied the wine glass on the coffee table.
Ashley followed his line of sight and sighed. "Okay, okay, I had a second glass after you called me earlier."
"While watching your favorite soap operas," Jerry indicated the television set, on mute and playing out a tense bit of General Hospital. Ashley nodded.
"Okay, I know you can't talk about whatever it is. But the glass or glasses of wine before five P.M. tell me you've got something on your mind. This is you right before the Gulf War all over again." Jerry gestured to a framed photo of Ashley wearing desert camouflage fatigues hugging the kids near the Reserve Center.
"It's just a high-profile case and those kinds of jitters." Ashley replied.
"I see…" Jerry replied.
"You're going into patient evaluation mode," Ashley said.
"Hey, I am a therapist, Honey. It's what I do…" Jerry said, as they walked to the sofa and sat down, putting an arm around his wife's waist.
Ashley leaned against Jerry, a wan look on her face. 'Because of some stupid sheet of paper, I can't begin to tell my own husband about what's bothering me besides some vague details. I also don't wanna bug Mitch with this, he's got his family night…'
"Again, I know you can't tell me what's going on and I won't press you for it. But I know you're worried about something big and I'm at a loss of how to help." Jerry sighed.
"You're doing a great job with just being there for me." Ashley smiled and wrapped her arm around Jerry.
"So we're going to dinner. Any idea where?" Jerry asked.
"Maybe somewhere casual, so I don't have to change?" Ashley replied.
Jerry turned his head, apropos of his wife's Montana State University sweater, and faded blue jeans and wool socks on her feet. He smiled.
"I know just the place. Besides, both the kids are on target for BookIt." Jerry snapped the fingers on his free hand.
"Stand by for the kids to be incorrigibly excited in the next few minutes." Ashley disentangled herself from Jerry's arms and walked up the stairs.
"Boys! We're going to Pizza Hut and we leave in twenty minutes." Ashley announced from the landing before quickly stepping aside as the boys ran out of their bedrooms and past her.
As she walked back into the living room, Jerry looked at his watch. "Honey, it's barely four o'clock, do we really want to rush over there?"
"Better to beat the rush and get a table, so we don't have to wait." Ashley headed over to the front door, collected her sneakers, and sat on the steps to slide her feet into them.
"Leading us to be super early for something. Remember Thanksgiving Dinner at my parents' house last year…we arrived so early that Mom hadn't even taken the turkey out of the oven yet." Jerry grabbed his blazer off of the coat rack and slipped it back on, before removing his necktie, folding it up, and sticking it in a pocket.
"Jerry, I love you, but let's face it, punctuality isn't exactly your strong suit," Ashley replied, grabbing for her car keys from the peg board near the front door.
Jerry jingled the keys to the Blazer. "I can take us."
"Jerry…" Ashley began. He looked at her, eyes moving towards the wine glass on the coffee table.
'He's right. I did have two glasses of wine over the last few hours…' Ashley thought, conceding the point before walking over and giving Jerry a light peck on the lips before she opened the front door to step out onto the porch and towards the Blazer.
Skua's Pub
Genovia
30 April 1993, 5:17 PM
Peter Dowling stepped out of the surf, breathing in and out with a few heavy breaths as he sat on the sand, looking out over the ocean. Usually, these long ocean swims, beach runs, trail runs, or similar events helped him clear his head. Usually was the operative word.
'It's not every day one has a chance to avenge the murder of one's beloved. I intend to take it should the opportunity present itself.' Dowling glowered as he pulled the towel from his backpack, drying himself off, and then throwing on a pair of weathered gray cargo pants and a Southampton F.C. jersey. Then he donned a pair of brown leather boat shoes before slinging his backpack over his shoulders and walking down the beach towards Skua's.
Skua's sported a simple Mediterranean aesthetic, with a patioed terrace overlooking the sea. Graceful Doric column work supported an awning covering part of the patio for patrons wanting a bit more shade.
Pete spoke to the hostess who gave him a high top near the edge of the patio. He took the stool allowing him the ability to scan both patrons and the seashore with a simple turn of his neck.
Presently a waiter showed up and asked him for his order. Pete turned to face the man. "Just a Heineken for now, mate."
"Make that two." A deep voice sounded.
"Hullo, Book," Pete said as he saw Booker T. Crisp walking towards him.
"Figured you'd be around here, Limey," Booker replied as he took the seat across from Pete.
"Needed a swim and a pint to clear my head." Pete shrugged.
"Did it help?" Booker asked.
"Well, still waiting on the pint before the jury goes out, mate," Pete replied.
"Pete, listen to me. Everyone could see you go internal when Tiffany mentioned the Bavaglias. Heck, that's why she pulled me aside…" Booker began.
"Mate, hearing that name makes me angry as I'd like nothing better than to send that pair of vipers to Hell." Pete's eyes narrowed, voice deepening into a growl-like tone.
"I can't blame you, man, seriously. I don't know how I'd feel if someone killed someone I love. I do know killing them won't bring Rona back." Booker raised both hands as he leaned back.
"It'll balance things out." Pete's mouth set in a hard line. 'Thirteen years. Thirteen years since I got that news that she had been found drowned at the bottom of a bloody lake in America.'
"Pete, look, I'm talking to you as a friend. Forget any of the mission stuff right now. I'm talking to one of my best friends…or best mates if you prefer…man to man." Booker leaned forward as he spoke.
"What the Devil did you tell Tiffany, mate?" Pete replied.
"The truth. All of it. She wanted to know why the Hell it looked like you were so damned angry," Booker answered. Presently their server arrived with two Heinekens in glasses.
"I appreciate you being honest with me, mate." Pete replied.
"No problem," Booker said and sipped his own beer.
Pete glanced out over the ocean. A cluster of islands stood sentinel on the horizon. The closest was a mile from the beach.
"Looks like a good swim…but that current though? Pretty rough." Crisp remarked.
"A boat would be best." Dowling nodded and sipped his own beer.
Crisp finished his beer and left money under the glass. "See you around? Gotta meet Tiffany tonight."
"Have a good date," Dowling smirked and tucked back into his own beer.
Booker's grin widened. "Hey, don't forget to grab Sergei. The docs at the hospital said that it was just a case of food poisoning…"
"Congressman Weaver, and esteemed members of the Special Armed Services Committee, I come before you now to protest a grave injustice…" - Brigadier General Francis X. Hummel, USMC, 05 May 1991.
Hollywood Oceanfront Boardwalk
Fort Lauderdale, FL
30 April 1993, 7:49 P.M.
"Thanks for dinner, Frank." Clay began as he and Hummel strode along the 2.2 mile stretch of seaside promenade.
"You're welcome, Clay."
The two men stopped beside a palm tree looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. "I have an initial report that the counterterrorist team of the Genovian National Police had two very successful training exercises from our guys in the field."
Clay nodded. For some convoluted reason by treaty American and indeed NATO military forces were limited on Genovian soil.
'French and Italian troops seem to be an exception, due to Genovia's longstanding history with both nations.' Clay thought to himself.
"Civilian advisors are best. This seems to have Agency written all over it…" Clay replied.
"Their Special Activities Division guys are working with my team out there." Hummel nodded.
Clay raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like the Agency route is how my guys get in on the action."
"I've seconded Marines to them in previous decades." Hummel glowered. ' Four stars on that wall in Langley are my Marines…'
"Frank?" Clay asked.
"Four…" Hummel's eyes narrowed. "Four of eighty-four Force Reconnaissance Marines lost under my command were seconded to the Agency…I understand secrecy but the fact that their stars on the memorial wall don't even rate names is something I do not agree with."
Clay stepped back a pace from his old mentor. 'I understand the politicians jerking our boys around and God knows I agree with Frank but I personally am glad Delta Force never had to square off against his Marines…that would have been a lose-lose situation for both sides.'
"I do agree with that, but be willing to play hardball with the Agency so they don't jerk you around," Hummel flatly replied.
Genovian Arms Hotel
Coastal Highway Genovia
30 April 1993, 8:08 P.M.
"Some real food, finally." Sergei Kostikov beamed as he and Peter Dowling walked into the lobby of the Genovian Arms Hotel.
"Glad it was just a case of food poisoning and not stomach flu, mate?" Dowling replied.
"Fuck…" Kostikov replied with a toothy grin.
"Your English is improving," Pete quipped as they both took seats at the lobby bar.
" Chto? " The spindly Russian replied.
"You've realized the word 'fuck' is a rather versatile one," Pete replied and ordered two pints of Guinness.
"No vodka?" Kostikov asked.
"Mate, we drank what felt like the entire ration for the 40th Army in Afghanistan last time." Pete raised an eyebrow.
"You speak better Russian when you're drunk," Kostikov deadpanned.
"Bollocks, Sergei." Pete raised his glass.
"Bollocks, Pete!" Kostikov quipped as the two men clicked glasses. "
"Ready to go for the training event next Sunday?" Pete asked.
"Did you get my shopping list?" Sergei asked.
"To answer that rather Socratic question, yes. I think I've hit every electronics and hardware store in Genovia for your contraptions." Pete took a pull of his Guinness.
"Excellent," Sergei toothily grinned. "So what else did I miss?"
"Apparently, ACME is sending some investigators here to give Tiffany a hand regarding some rather nasty things of the biological variety," Pete replied.
Sergei nodded silently, the cogs in his head turning. Pete returned the nod as the two men carried on with their drinking.
TBC