Prelude • Act One - Remnants of Humanity
As the gray GMC 3500 pickup truck made its way along the now dead wheat fields and farms once in the state that was number one wheat and grain production in the Americas. Now it's overgrown with weeds and being reclaimed by the plains. Large wheat harvesters over seventy tons and tractors now sit dormant in collapsed sheds and barns. The road the truck is on has long since been ruined and worn away, but the chunks of asphalt still show this was once a two lane highway. The truck itself was towing a large triple axle flat deck trailer loaded with a Skid Steer and Cat D4 dozer.
Driving it was a middle aged Scottsman with long red hair that curls slightly at the ends, and an extremely rare set of dark yellow eyes he inherited from his Viking ancestors. The six foot man is heavily built like a bodybuilder almost, but not as impressive. He's dressed in a brown heavy leather vest, with a light green one piece jumpsuit for a mechanic or chopper pilot. Trex eyes the road ahead carefully, as if he's expecting to see something at any moment to appear out of the tall grass and in front of him. It's tense but he isn't a stranger to it. It's what he's been doing for the last three years after he quit flying as a pilot. This job isn't a normal run though, he's going rather far out to meet up with the only friendly place he knows of that's in the area of Deer Lodge, Montana.
The Canaan.
His job is to drop off this extra equipment for them since their copper mining efforts are slowed and with no shops to fix stuff, they can't exactly get another. Especially since Canaan isn't just a town, place or area. It's the only Landship in this miserable world that he knows of. A moving bastion of hope and some form of martial law in a world of almost pure chaos. He knows he's getting close, as he turns off the highway and begins to drive on the massive tread marks left by this huge machine. In the distance on the rather flat horizon is the outline of a large building of some sort off to the left a bit, a cloud of dust coming from it rises up. Trex grabs his microphone on his big narrowband radio he salvaged from an old EMD diesel locomotive.
"Darkstar, this is Viking One-Four-Four, I'm approximately thirty minutes outside your perimeter. Clearance to enter your ranges and gain escort status, code is five-tutu-seven-O-one. Yours truly, Viking One-Four-Four, Over." He calls out on the radio, a bit of static after he hangs up. He checks his radios squelch and makes sure his volume is up as he drives along the pseudo dirt road.
"Darkstar to Viking. Authentication code is greenlit. Your escort party is already on the way, and should be twenty minutes ETA. Be advised, archers spotted in the vicinity on occasion. It's not too bad though. You will also be reassigned to another load once you drop off the new equipment. Uh, dunno if you were told that in the file..." Trex curses and beats the steering wheel with his palm.
"Uh, no I wasn't, I'll need to fill up my aux fuel cell in the bed 'cause my 'max' chewed more going up the pass than expected. I drained two of my tanks before I had to use my aux'. So next time give me a go-damn heads up if you're thinking of making me do a second trip on the way order!" Trex's thick Scottish accent says over the mic with a hint of venom but he keeps his cool and collected tone. The dispatcher is silent for a brief moment, before coming back.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Will do. You're in luck because we have Red Cell private guard company on perimeter duty, so consider yourself in good hands, soft shell. Also the boys in the armor shops wanted you to know that pickup truck of yours they wanna up-armor. You're the only driver crazy enough to come out here this far without steel wheels so they thought you should know."
Trex sighs and nods. Finally someone noticed his truck, although lifted, customized with brush guards on both ends, and chipped to have more power, isn't exactly arrow or spear proof. Trex switches on his flashing amber light on the headache rack behind the cab before turning his traction control off. These tread marks aren't smooth and level so he's not having an easy time driving on them with such a long and heavy trailer load. A few minutes later while doing about thirty or less miles an hour, he spots some dust trails off in the distance approaching him on the same road. Suddenly the pickup hits one of the dirt rises along the way and violently gets jerked up, before he stops immediately.
"Fock-Agggh! Ow..." Trex shouts with pain as he opens his door and steps out to check his left front tire. What he sees is even more pain to him than the heavy load now sinking a bit into the soft earth. The tire has come off the rim partially and now his front end has dug into the ground. Thankfully his overbuilt lift kit had larger axles for a 5500 and they didn't break. "Call me a fag! What the fockin-hell am I supposed to do now?! Shite-lemme grab my tools. Let's fockin' hope this PMC aren't the same lazy numpties like last time and actually lend a bloody hand."
Trex limps back to the bed, and opens up his bed toolbox, grabbing two large flat plastic boards, a jack, tire iron, and a folding trench shovel. After dropping his stuff and setting up the boards and jack to stop the front end from sinking, he attempts to use the tire iron to try and put the tire back on the rim. It doesn't seem to wanna go back on, he just chases it around the wheel before stopping.
"God damnit… and no spare either 'cause my new rear lift suspension used the space. The trailer's spare isn't large enough, 24" wheel and only 5 lugs, these custom wheels are 6… shite." He decides to just sit his ass down inside the climate controlled cab and wait. The now obvious group of four vehicle outlines is growing, but he can't see what each vehicle is yet even though they'll probably be alongside him at the speed they're approaching in under two or less minutes.
Appearing along in front of him and surrounding him are two Mercedes-Benz G-wagons, an Oshkosh armored 6x6 troop carrier, and a beat-to-shit Humvee in the lead. The three German-made vehicles loop around him and the Oshkosh's tailgate comes down and a few armed troops deploy, aiming out into the fields. All have logos he's rarely seen on the doors, saying 'Parasol Security Co.'
Trex opens his door slowly, but stays sitting inside. He has worked with bank trucks, private VIP services, and several Russian-run companies but he hasn't seen these guys out very much. Normally that means a bad reputation or not enough bids. The courier lights an Aspen wood smoking pipe he's whittled himself. Casually, he looks up at the Humvee as the doors open and people begin to appear. Soldiers in full black combat gear stepped out of the Humvee. Not a single part of their bodies weren't covered from head to toe—as was standard procedure for soldiers operating in the periphery.
The soldier who stepped out of the Humvee passenger seat shook his head as he approached the truck. He turned to the dismounted soldiers. "Y'all know the drill, set up a perimeter." Trex eyes the leader quietly, just puffing on his pipe as he leans in the seat watching them do their job. He was mildly impressed, glad that it was not those dumbass Kremlin Security & Bank guys who gave him shit last time.
The soldier stepped beside the cabin door, looking in at Trex. His helmet and gas mask gave away nothing of his expression, aside from an eerie faint green glow emanating from the mask's lenses. "Decide to take a quick detour, Viking?"
Trex shrugs, and shakes his head. He turns his body out but stays sitting against the truck. "Fockin' told me I had just the D4 to haul, go to hitch and see it's also a Skidsteer as well… So I was like fock it, and got my aux fuel cell topped off before I left the railyard and signed off. I didn't think too much of it until I reached Mullen Pass which took me uh..."
Trex thinks momentarily, "Maybe an extra thirty minutes if you didn't count the potholes and downed trees. Glad I chipped the motor and now got almost éight hundred under the hood, 'cause this extra weight really became an issue once I was on my second fuel cell. I'll be filing for a 6-78 driver reimbursement once I get back to the bloody freight depot."
He takes a long pull on the pipe. Clearly a bit pissed and tired, he continues, "I am not these assholes' bitch, 'Goose. Had to cut across since I used my aux fuel cell in my first cell. I had about…maybe one hundred sixty miles range but that new road is an extra fifty so… Had no choice." He sighs half-hearted before taking a pull on his pipe.
'Mongoose' simply nodded his head. "Well, that sounds about right. Not my field a' expertise though, so you're gonna have to take that up to the guys in charge, I'm afraid."
The soldier gestured to the damaged wheel. "What do ya need to get this fixed?"
"Someone to hold the damn tire from moving so I can get the damn bead onto the rim. I got my internal compressor system hooked up so no need for you boys to pull out your kiddie tricycle pump." Trex leans forward off the seat and closes the door before making his way back to the busted tire.
"Aight then." Mongoose turned to the soldier standing guard near the vehicles. "Oxide, get over here an' help the man sort this shit out. I gotta report the hold up to Darkstar."
"Sure thing, TL." 'Oxide' nodded as he headed over to assist. After some serious arm and legging, the tire gets set on the rim and Trex gets into the cab, and turns on the air compressor which is inserted into the bed. The tire slowly begins to inflate once he engages the switch and soon enough he's back on all four tires. Trex opens his window and shouts to Mongoose.
"Aye, get that 6x6 on my ass, in case the trailer sank, I'll need a boost! But first, lemme see if I can't rip this focker out with my tuned diesel!" He says before putting the GMC in gear, but holding the brakes down for a boosted launch. He revs the absolute unit, turbochargers scream and smoke rolls out from underneath his straight piped exhaust like a steam train.
Mongoose nodded, turning to the driver of the 6x6. "You heard 'im! Bring that thing around!" With a noisy rumble, the twelve ton vehicle was wheeled around to settle behind the trailer.
Trex puts the truck in low gear and after holding the pedal down and getting his rmp up to six thousand, he lets go on the brake and unleashes the almost nine hundred horsepower diesel. All four tires spin as the truck violently jerks the heavy trailer forward, not letting up as it fights the muddy earth that's sucking the trailer down.
"Come on, you fat oaf!" Trex leans over and blasts his big set of M5 train horns under the hood to signal the 6x6 to try to keep his ass moving and stop him from digging the pickup into another hole.
Taking its cue, the 6x6 doesn't let up. After a moment of struggle, throwing up soil in their efforts, the trailer lurches forward. Trex blasts the horns again to let him know that's enough, and lets the coal-rolling pickup make the final few miles to the mobile base. He absolutely is gonna need to find a place for that spare at some point after he chews out the Great Missoula & Northern Pacifica logistics dispatch.
They arrive onto the actual gravel road under the left track of the Landship, its nine treads dwarfing any vehicles in the vicinity. Heavy mining equipment is driving around as well, mostly dump trucks and loaders but nearby in the mine pits he can see the dozers pushing out gravel and red copper ore around. He rolls up next to an elevator shaft up into the landship and small mobile office building, before coming to a stop. He grabs his radio and calls Darkstar.
"Viking One-Four-Four to Darkstar, you son of a bitch. I'm gonna fockin' strap you to the drawbar of a damn train and have your petty arse get crushed between the knuckles. You're welcome," He says in a monotone voice before hanging up, grabbing a metal clipboard and opening it up, to pull out his order forms to deliver inside the Canaan. Grabbing a hi-viz jacket and slipping it on, he leaves the truck idle, getting out and going over to the elevator. Using a wall card scanner, he scans an I.D. card which then calls the lift. He turns to Mongoose, over with his squad, who are all climbing out of the G-wagons and Oshkosh.
"Aye! Thanks for the hand, Mitch! You guys got good grit and road ethics unlike 'em fockin' Kremlin pasty boys!" He shouts, grabbing his tobacco from his vest and filling his pipe again. "Call me up if you need a tow! Just remember to fockin' list the damn load, eh?"
Mongoose gave off a two-fingered salute, a couple of his squad nodding at the driver. "We'll keep that in mind!"
Trex nods, and a very rare genuine smile creeps onto his face as the doors open. He steps inside and as he does, two other random workers also step inside. They aren't wearing tactical or high-viz so they aren't working outside, nor are they other drivers since he's the only one out here. They're dressed lightly and probably work in HR or something stupid. Like he'd care about a desk job. His office has wheels and leather heated seats, why trade that out for a computer and little cubicle? He shrugs the thoughts off as he smokes on his pipe to the annoying gaze of the others.
The ride up isn't too long and soon the doors open to the main level of the Landship. Him being on the left rear track means he has to walk the whole way to another elevator in the center of the ship to then go up to the dispatcher center where he'll turn in his forms. At least he can swing by the cafeteria and grab a bite. Besides, Dispatch needs to learn a little patience for its couriers. He splits off from the others and heads through the well-lit steel corridor, past one of the medical labs, and infirmary.
Trex enters the large Cafe area and after kicking two vending machines, he gets his packaged lunch and an energy drink, and puts out the smoke pipe. Looking around he spots a familiar face and bright orange flight suit and briskly walks over.
"AYE! Is that the greasy shite who fockin' dropped a nob on my truck last week?!" He shouts across the sitting area. The other guy looks up, and flips him off with a giant grin. His face shows that he's absolutely exhausted though, dark circles under the eyes, lean face, and messy hair.
"You just wait until I drop a muthafucking fuel cell on those shiny wheels man, so how's the drive?!" He says in an Italian accent. Trex gives him a quick hug, and sits down.
"Oh you know Greg. Same bullshite with way orders not being correct and these bloody idiots dumping more weight on the fifth wheel than I was told, eh? It's bloody brilliant when you got a damn triple axle on the pass. I'm so glad I got my motor chipped. That extra three hundred horses really bites!" The blonde haired man next to him nods, and eats his sandwich. Trex also notices the little container of white pills next to his glass but it has no tags or labels. Just a handwritten word on the top saying 'Go-meds. 180mg.'
"You know-" Greg swallows, "You could just transfer to engineer on a train if that helps. I might be a bit sly, but lemme tell you. This deal I can get you is a hundred percent a deal you cannot resist. I'll get the Don on this as well my friend, trust me. You can't have a flat if your wheels are steel." Greg makes a good point and Trex thinks about it. "Come on, a Carzio member doesn't lie! You know that! I mean at least you're not me who just got off a forty-nine hour shift and downed six of these." He points to the pills.
Trex raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You gotta be shittin' me—they're now making you guys fly those hours? It was one thing flying the C130 to do that but in a fucking Bell Ranger helo?! I can't believe the medical wing issues those meth tablets still! Took me two years in an Asylum to get off the fly! Jesus 'Ary and Joseph!" Both men fall silent as a nurse walks by.
"Yeah, they have us doing cargo lifts, topography survey flights, and mostly medical evacs. I really wish these damn pollocks at the top would make the guys in those 6x6s do the evacs! Guess the top surgeon here wants Oripathy to a minimum? I could get the Don out here to have a "little chat" if need be. How would I know, I just touch down and immediately get another damn job, fuel up and go. I gotta piss out the door, you know?"
Trex nods and begins to eat like a trucker, finishing his meal before speaking. Greg just looks over in shock. "You ok man..?"
"Oh yeah, I just hate these vending machine lunch packs. Like what even is this-" He picks up a weird green piece of roast or something.
Greg grimacing at that, shakes his head and states the obvious, "Don't eat that… I uh, I think the staff needs to stop sniffing the drugs Doctor Anton gives them." He gives a nervous laugh and Trex rolls his eyes.
"Pilot Gregory. Trucker Trex. How do you do?" A voice says from behind them. Greg looks over his shoulder and nearly shits himself. Trex sighs and slowly looks over his shoulder as if annoyed.
"Hah—this trucker doesn't get scared like this twinky pilot at least," Trex states in an exaggerated tone. "Greetings, Doctor Anton." Greg stands up and salutes the young man in a white lab coat as the man sits across from them at their table. He probably was there the whole time, just butting in when Greg took a jab at him.
"Drop the act, I'm not the central command here, you know. And I think it's the fumes from the grow lab that's making our meals…um, unfit for human consumption." He sort of shrugs suggestively. Trex scoffs and pops the cap off his drink and in a spiteful way chugs the rather unhealthy drink in a few seconds. The Doctor seems rather unamused and almost disappointed in his choice of drink.
"Ya know, my grandfather could chug a barrel of Ruben Scotch in five minutes. That bastard died a wee bit drunk, but he could put any Jerry down in a bar fight!" Greg just laughs and cackles before falling over.
The Doctor tries miserably to hide his smile. "You know, our Intel team in CFI has said that you're incredibly lucky, Mr. MacDougall. The demihuman raider groups, or road pirates as you call them, have been getting increasingly troublesome. Most raids that happen aren't for supplies either, it's often just hit and run. The groups aren't very strong, so it's very strange."
The Doctor brings his hands together, steepling them. "I have a request to make of you, Mr. MacDougall. I'd like for you to bring Commissar Clay Forrestal, the head of CFI, back to the Citadel. I understand his latest recruit, Ryan Ambrose, might have some new leads for him."
Trex rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. "Fock me, so I gotta bring back the dozer that's broken AND a tophat who's a focking spook!? I know the man, met him once and all but Jesus Christ his attitude ain't great. Granted, it was a long time ago when I met him—I was still flying as a Hind and Puma pilot and occasionally doing flights in the 727 and C130. I don't suppose he's changed, has he?" Greg is back on his feet and now stretching, listening in.
The Doctor made a face as he shifted in his seat. "I do know that he isn't the cocky young agent he used to be… I'm not sure when you met him but about eight years ago he was assigned a mission and had a terrible incident as a result. I don't recall the details and it'd be him you need to ask. He's more reserved now, much like you…minus the insanity you fire fighter pilots possess once at the stick." He speaks the last part softly. The loudspeakers then ring out in the lunchroom.
'All pilots report to the deck. Code yellow air lift assignment for the mine!'
The voice rings out and Greg sighs deeply. His face falls and he seems morally drained immediately. "That's the call. See you around, you crazy Gaelic!" He says patting his friend on the back. Trex smirks softly nodding.
"You too, Mafia boss! Tell the Don's son Gatti I said hi and… Don't end up on the mountainside like…her. I don't wanna see one of my best wingmen I trained die again." A somber mood briefly hangs over both senior pilots as the name is mentioned before Greg nods and heads to the chopper hanger.
Trex sighs and looks back at the Doctor resetting his face once more to his neutral look. The Doctor seems to hesitate to continue, and thinks for a moment. "Say, have you filled those forms out with Darkstar? Come now, let's continue this as we walk. Clay is probably waiting already." Trex nods and follows him out.
The pair make their way into the open lounge and past some offices before reaching the elevator to the control center levels. Trex seems a bit short on what to say so the Doctor brings up a new topic.
"You like Jazz?" He asks in a light tone. His hands come together in a fisted ball, as he hopes this works on the stoic Scotsman.
"Aye, never listen to much though. I did however enjoy the German industrial rock concerts online and what not growing up. Me mother hated me for it, but now I found myself leaning into the more subtle country music, like George Strait. Quite surprising eh?" Trex leans onto the wall and stretches out. He would smoke but Anton might have a fit if he found out.
"Oh, not at all. I happen to like various genres myself." The Doctor nodded in understanding. "Nothing quite beats classical music though. It does wonders for setting the mood during work."
Trex nods as the elevator opens. Opening up is what looks like an incredibly large radio station, with multiple people working on different monitors and large broadband terminals. In the front greeting them is a receptionist desk with a brown-haired woman who had cat ears on her head. She greets them warmly, her green eyes shining with enthusiasm.
"Hi, I'm Juneau! You must be the courier driver Trex, and Dr. Anton, fancy seeing you here!" Trex is a bit taken aback by her appearance here. The Doctor returns her warm smile and waves at her.
"W-wha-. Who's the new cat? I thought no demihumans were allowed through class 3 security clearances?" He says a little apprehensive.
"Oh she isn't just a 'cat'. This is our newest Feline radio operator, Juneau," The Doctor says, shooting a quick glare at the taller man. "Juneau, this is our top courier driver who once flew airplanes and helicopters."
"Oh you mean those big metal birds that go Wooooosh. And the small whirlybirds that go chchchchchch?!" The cat-eared woman says, bubbly and smiles. Her tail swished excitedly as she leaned over the table, causing her rather large breasts to bounce slightly. She's quite young too, maybe twenty at most, Trex notes.
"Aye.." Trex says, unsure. "She's uh.. a wee bit young, lad?"
Doctor leans into his ear and whispers.
"Yes, that's why she's the receptionist." His voice smug and he winks at Trex.
'Oi..oi.. no wonder that outfit makes her breasts as large as a barrel of Scotch- my goodness that man is more perverted than me.' He thinks to himself as Juneau begins to ask him lots of questions and slowly gets closer and closer to his face. Trex puts his hand up in front of her face and pushes her back down.
"Alright lassie, I'm only here to turn in my forms. You wanna ask me questions? I'll gladly talk at the Cafe on next break, alright?" He says, hoping she'll take the bait.
Juneau perked up at that, enthusiastically extending her hands towards Trex. "Oh yes yes yes! Please hand them over! I'm so happy, I heard so much about your achievements! Dr. Anton says you flew a whirlybird one time through a forest fire, and another time you used a metal bird to save a bunch of demihumans from some baddies!"
Trex grimaces slightly, remembering the flights. He tries to change the topic. "Oh those may be slight exaggerations… Heh, uh… here you go." What has the Doctor been saying about him—at this point he's scared to ask further. The Doctor glances smugly at him. He shoots back a look of 'Oh, it's on lad'.
The paperwork gets processed and the two continue on to the comms booth with a man with dark green eyes, who's about five foot or so, but with a lean build, although it is deceiving. CFI agents are almost always ex-Black Eagle Company operators with even more specialized training. Dressed in a dark blue tuxedo with well-kept and gelled hair, he is looking at one of the monitors that's currently unoccupied. Trex eyes him confused but then recognizes the man. Clay Forrestal, the head of the Commissary for Intelligence, a spy agency and internal network affairs.
The Doctor walks up to him and greets him. "Good day Commissar Forrestal, this is your ride's driver, Trex MacDougall. He said you met a while ago?" He crosses his arms while tilting his head to the right. The man in the fine tuxedo turns around and looks up at the two.
"Bonjour, I suppose we have. I recognized that smell of diesel fuel and body odor from the moment you walked off that elevator. But enough with the discrepancies, I owe you sir. The honor is mine," The handsome and dapper jet black haired man says, his voice thick with a French accent.
Trex seems confused. "Aye? I don't recall the last time I saved a handsome stud like you sir?" He says exaggerating at the end.
Clay laughs heartily, responding with a hint of sincerity in his voice. "Ah, it has been a while. Almost eight years now. You were the pilot who extracted me from that horrible prison inside that old Soviet nuclear factory in Coeur D'alene. I owe you because you were the only pilot with the balls to fly into that canyon. I can't believe you fit yourself in that space in the first place, mon ami."
Trex's eyes open wider. His most famous and recognized mission. It was a Category Three Originium storm worse than a hurricane, and his cargo boss had a sprained arm. The large Eurocopter Caracal was like a plastic bag in the strong wind when he was sent out to find and rescue a lost agent in a remote area of the old lakeside vacation city of Coeur D'alene. The crystal partials nearly shredded the left turbine, his glass cockpit was cracked like ice and had a few chunks of crystal Originium sticking through, and the blades were shredded. His clearance between the hotel buildings was maybe half a foot once he touched down.
"Well I'll be fucked by my own bloody dog. So you were the lost agent?! Holy shit!" This was surprising since he never was told who it was or why but this makes sense now. The agent was nearly dead and infected when they lifted off into the raging storm. He never saw the young man, but his cargo boss after cutting the flesh from around the small jagged Originium crystals out and saving him from lethal infection. They just kept repeating 'Don't go to sleep' to the injured agent as he convulsed in agony on the floor. It was one of the worst experiences he had but at least now he knows it wasn't all for nothing.
"Pour toi, je servirai. For you I shall serve, do let us become acquainted on our drive. After all, you don't get to normally meet the most insane man to ever save an agent's cocky ass!" Clay declared, a mock grandiose flair in his hand gesture.
Trex smiles softly and shakes the man's hand firmly. "I like this one! Can we keep 'im?" He asks the Doctor jokingly. Everyone begins to laugh before the Doctor sees them off with a good bit of news.
"Ahem, before you go just know that you won't be needing to take the D4 that was slated to be sent back. It will stay with us and be brought back via rail next week when we drop by Deer Lodge at their railway yard for supplies. Just take the trailer and watch out for any opportunistic pirate groups on the way back." Doctor Anton says, showing them the way to the elevator.
Trex nods, and Clay checks his Rolex watch before stepping inside. As the doors close, Juneau smiles and waves, giving one last piece of advice to the departing trucker. "Don't forget to take the actual road please!" Trex shakes his head in submission.
The two make their way to the pickup truck, the trailer now unloaded. As Trex sits down he notices someone actually topped off his fuel tanks for him and turned off the engine, which he'd left idling. He was mentally thankful for once that the construction crews did their job, turned the key, and the tuned diesel roared to life. Clay sits back in the passenger seat, and pulls out a small notepad that has some notes on it, which he reads quickly.
As he puts the truck in gear, Trex asks Clay a question that had been lurking in his mind for the past few minutes. "...So, when did the administration change policies on the demihumans in high security clearance areas?"
Clay looks up from his notes, a surprised expression on his face. He seems confused why Trex would ask about this. "I shall ask you—did you, sir, get the handout from last June?"
"...No, I haven't gotten shit from the Citadel ever since I became a courier driver. Bloody crooked bastards, aye! I'd ask you to change the next update to include us truck drivers but I believe that's a bit far considering we just formally met."
Clay sniggers at this. "Oh-ho, duly noted. We can't afford to keep our most important assets in the dark—this isn't old communist Russia, after all. I'm sorry to hear you haven't heard but anyone graduating the academy with a fifty point score or higher can take more advanced classes for level three security clearance positions. Although I myself am not fond of such an exemption…"
The agent's lips thin in barely concealed frustration. "I have enough rats to deal with already, I really don't need to stretch more of my agents, and assassins to 'manage' such insolvency. Just like you, we also are being worked down to the bone."
Trex nods, his expression showing his understanding. "Oi, I get that. You're probably familiar with the 'Cougar' incident? T'was four years ago."
Clay squints in thought for a second, nodding in agreement. "Ah yes, what exactly happened? All I know is someone went insane and stole a helicopter from hanger AB-7 before going off on a rampage."
"Aye, it was a recruit of mine, he wasn't vetted properly but I didn't know. He was a…eh, what's the name for a spy waiting for the moment. Sleepy something."
"Sleeper agent?" Clay answered knowingly.
"Aye! He was with my class for about four months, enough to learn the basics about flying the few French Cougar choppers we had on hand at time before most were scrapped due to airframe fatigue issues." He says recalling the memory of being an instructor, which he honestly really enjoyed, if not obsessed over.
Trex puts the truck into drive and begins to roll out the compound and away from the landship on the actual gravel road. "Anyways, he was a good lad, keen and motivated. Motivated for what, I didn't know at the time… So fast forward to the day, I was actually off duty at the time. Hangin' around Danmark's bar and brothel getting drunk as one does."
This throws off Clay, and he looks over at Trex with shock and a bit of disgust. "We don't have any brothels… I do hope this isn't what I think it is."
"Hahaha! Yes lad! Underground Brothels are a thing mate! Obviously no one will tell you to your face but if you ask for a lassie, you'll get a room out back."
Clay's face drops, disgusted at the thought of such degeneracy. 'Kill me now.'
"I was on my third mug when I got the call asking if I'd authorized one of the juniors to the armed Cougars we had for air to ground support, not heavy rockets or anti tank, just guns to cut down every man, woman, and beast who tried to fuck with the groundies. I say 'no, who's asking', and I get the response. Get. Down. Here. Right. Fuckin'. Now." Trex pulls out his pipe once more and lights it with one hand, before offering a smoke to the agent.
"I normally don't smoke unless it's Cuban, but I'll make an exception." Clay takes the cigarette pack from Trex.
"Aye. You'll need it for the next part. At that point I knew somethin' was a brewing, so I flagged a taxi down cause I couldn't unlock my truck I was so drunk. Once I get there I'm told Javier had stolen a chopper and is now heading downtown about ten minutes away." Trex's grip on the wheel tightens as the image plays out in his mind vividly. "So I, fast as a goat with a blindfold, climbed into the second and only other armed bird we had, this slick fucking AU-1 Cobra. I knew I needed a co, thank fuck Hannah was there to join meh-"
Clay interrupts, completely baffled. "Wait wait, you're so drunk you can't unlock your car door yet you climbed into a fucking helicopter? You really have lost your mind."
Trex looks over at Clay, almost offended. "What? I've done it before. I've got ancestors who apparently were vikings, or so they say. I believe it though! Anyways, I get into the chopper and start the first engine, since we got two on the Cobra. Second one doesn't wanna catch a light, so in my brief moment I pulled out the small flask I had in my pants at the time and turning around, I chucked as much of that shit onto the intake hoping the fumes would help catch a light."
The trucker slapped the wheel emphatically. "I go back and try it again and Lord bless me, she fired right up. I put on the headset as Hannah buttoned up the canopy and here's fuckin' Watchtower yelling in my ear that Javier's started shooting up the roadway. I literally threw down the checklist and pulled that bitch into the air, damn the book."
Trex's face snarls into one of slight rage and his knuckles begin to turn white as he grips the wheel. Clay is silent and observes the man fume. "I wouldn't let that greasy, murdering piece of shit get a'way with killing those civilians. I told Hannah when you see that fag, you don't hesitate or ask permission. Just shoot that son of a bitch out of the sky! We got within half a mile of his position, trying to intercept him before he got downtown."
The trucker continued, taking a calming breath. "Immediately he banked to the right and deployed every flare on hand. Unfortunately we didn't have any missiles, just air to ground rockets, which aren't what we'd use anyway. We had two sets of fixed gunpods on our sides and our turret underneath Hannah. A fifty caliber gatlin' turret, which can rip a hole in those ugly soviet troop carriers."
"I'm assuming you both shot him down handily?" Clay inquired, his eyes narrowing. His thoughts spun with theories of possible motives behind the attack.
Trex quietly shakes his head no, before continuing. "...Not without a helluva show. The boy was a lot more fishy even though he was never an ace like me, but he was unpredictable and his jerkiness made him much tougher to hit with fixed guns, and our turret can't shoot above ten degrees, it's made for ground targets not air. I knew we had to act fast so with Hannah on the weapons display, I went vertical to try and get above him. That way we could shoot him with the turret much, much easier."
Trex glanced up in thought. "I got to about… eh two thousand feet? Leveled off and just kept right on his head. He was clearly desperate, and struck a bridge with the left ski, somehow managing to stay up. He also was shooting at anything he can regardless of what it is, and at least we're heading to the railyard away from most people. Hannah finally lined up a clear burst and ripped the focker in half."
"He dropped like a rock into the yard and exploded on impact. Problem was he landed on the main line while the damn local commuter train arrived which ran over some of the tail and jumped the tracks. Train wasn't going too fast, yard limits are twenty-five miles an hour or slower but still put it on the ground. Although no one was killed once he did score. I learned later some of his rounds found their mark on the Academia grounds while we 'was still chasing him back to the railyard. Six students and a professor died." Trex sighs and his hands loosen.
"...I had heard about this incident, but nothing too specific," Clay muttered, frowning. "Was this the reason behind the most recent protocols regarding military security?"
Trex nods deeply saddened. "Aye… it was covered up as well. No pilot could talk about this with anyone, even friends or family. I can tell you everything because you're part of intelligence and 'cause I'm not sworn to secrecy anymore as a trucker. I wish I knew why or who or how… but I couldn't blame myself for the vetting process being scuffed or at least in the 'final report' the Citadel released. Who knows…"
"Were there any leads as to what his motives were? Any prior history of mental illness?" Clay rattled off, pulling out a pen and notebook from the inside of his suit.
Trex sighed as they went over a bump in the road. The engine purrs along as they cruise past more overgrown wheat fields. "As I said, at least with me the lad was motivated and keen. I never spent much off time observing them unfortunately because of the schedule conflicts we had. Could've come from one of the more disturbing groups as a Sleeper agent. Four months was all it took to learn the basics, but that's not weapon systems and all the other crap."
There was a short pause. "Although… I do recall the maintenance guys commenting on one of my peers staying after hours observing them.. I'd ask head mechanic Randal for his recollection. He was a low tier gearhead at the time on the floor. Told me about the weird behavior. I brushed it off as I did the same when I first learned. 'You don't know how to really fly unless you know the bird's guts was what my instructor told us. But that was strange…"
As Trex ponders this as he steers by a pothole, Clay writes this in his small notepad and turns over a new page. "I think I need to look into this, I would really hate it if this happened while I'm head of Citadel security and intelligence. This level of neglect is atrocious to hear. I shall absolutely bring this to the committee's attention once I get back and will investigate further myself. Even with the new policy, it may be abused again in a similar situation."
Trex nods, taking a long pull on his pipe. "Aye… After that Hannah died in a mysterious wreck from a combination of things," He lies, but Clay doesn't notice immediately, "I quit after that. She was… like a daughter to me. I won't get close to people like that again. I've risked myself and for what? Our slowly dying city, Missoula? A world that's wasted? And what, I never got any awards or even a thank you.. Not that it matters anyways… I'm glad I now work my own hours and can somewhat control my schedule. Plus, when death comes, it comes. Least I'll see her once again."
Trex inhales deeply, and looks at a picture of a large longhaired German Shepherd on his dash. "For now I have Paxton, he's a good boy. You'll get to meet him once we get to my motorcoach. He's probably hungry and wants to run around outside. I'd take him normally on trips but anything outside the wall and he stays home. You have a pet?"
Clay smiles softly, thinking of his own family back home. "No, not right now. My fiancé won't like dogs around the two children. Anyways, you know just because I'm the head of security doesn't mean I don't also do occasional field work, right? Today was a good example, and an excuse to get out of the office."
Trex chuckles and they keep driving back to the Rocky Mountain range and the city of Missoula, a city of hope amidst a hostile world.
It was getting dark once they reached one of six entrances into the Citadel. Clay uses his personal I.D. card to wave them past the line of traffic and they head directly up to the southwestern mountain side where a large military and industrialized looking complex juts out of the mountain side.
As if it rose out itself, the rather imposing bastion overlooks the city and surrounding areas. They enter a massive vault entrance and head deep underground into the triple level parking area. In the lowest and most secure level sits a large matte black International racing coach with a stacker trailer behind it. Trex stops behind the trailer and parks the truck. A loud 'Woof' is heard as the head of Paxton peaks out from inside the open trailer. The big dog is tied up but he's very patient and polite for an active dog.
"'Ight this is it! This is home sweet home! Ma baby! Got her back when I was still flying firefighter missions. Never left or bought another since. If you wanna stay for a drink, I think you'll enjoy the couch! Normally I drive this thing out to the river side once I'm off a job where it's nice and pretty. I just store her down-under where I know Paxton won't be stolen or he won't freak out."
Clay shakes his head. The offer is good but duty calls. "Je souhaite, my friend, but work before play I'm afraid. Although I'd like to meet your dog. He seems like a level fellow."
Clay pets the big dog on the head while Trex grabs his food and unhooks him. The two chat a bit more before Clay receives a call from a phone number labeled '8bit'. "Pardon me my friend, but I have to go now. My colleague is summoning my presence, but I would like to meet again. You were an excellent cab across the wastescape—oh, and I shall also update you once necessary. Goodbye and good luck."
Trex waves goodbye and Clay heads to the nearest elevator into the massive underground complex known as the Citadel's beating heart. Once he gets to the proper floor he walks into a checkpoint, passes through, and heads to the door labeled 'Commissary for intelligence', walking in.
The sight that meets his eyes is akin to NASA Control Center, massive screens display vital information about current military units and possible threats, and profiles of wanted individuals of demihuman groups blacklisted for terrorism. The main groups they keep an eye on are the leftover German Nationalist socialists and massive Soviet Communist bases mostly operated in the East Coast. Several smaller holdouts on the West Coast are run by the USSR's cyno-Chinese sub-state and are an issue on occasion.
Clay goes to a desk labeled Commissar, setting his notes out and begins a database search on the Cougar incident. After several attempts, he finds an old file log on the pilot including the mugshot of the man in question. He was a Russian kid of around twenty with hard blue eyes, a military buzz cut, disciplined posture, and dressed in a salvaged Luftwaffe uniform that's been modified to Citadel Air Force standards and markings.
His apartment was raided after the crash by the CFI and they found out he was a KGB sleeper agent, but was formally trained by the SS pilot group before he was airdropped in the region of Denver ruins as a refugee. Clay looks up and calls for one of the agents walking by. A German man in his thirties walks over from a desk nearby.
"Hallo Kommissar. Agent Klaus reporting!" The man with a thick German voice says, giving a crisp salute.
"Klaus, who was your old Schutzstaffel air wing you had based in New York?" The Commissar asks.
"We had the Kampfgeschwader Four Hundred, herr. Kaiser Hermann also asked the KGB to bring in extra field agents for deployment out west since we had none at the time."
The agent's brows scrunched thoughtfully as he recalled his memory. "I'm unsure as to what they were planning, but I do know the Eighth Chief Directorate of the KGB, Herr Bedvedev, was trying to continue the spread of Socialism west and meet with the CCP in the Las Vegas region. Something about an important military base they had secured and CFI cutting a deal to give it up for Seattle."
Clay nods before pointing to the computer screen, "I want you to find out about which division this man here came from, and everything we know about the socialists in the far East Coast and Gulf of Mexico. He is of utmost concern and I cannot stress that enough."
"Jawohl, Kommissar Forrestal!" The man says before bowing his head slightly and leaving. Clay watches him for a moment, before writing this down in his notes. Murmuring something about finishing a nuclear weapon, he gets up and heads to the lower rows of desks on the operating level.
Sitting in the far corner away from the more clean and professional agents, a young man of seventeen in a sweater with a LED light up sign saying '8bit gaming' typed away like a madman on his keyboard. Unkempt dirty blonde hair hung over his face, and his rather lanky form made it apparent that physical exertion was not his forte. The desk holds a few glass trophies from a few rare gaming conventions and a streaming group adorned the top of his desk. But the rest of it is covered in wrappers, crumbs, and cans of soda and energy drinks of every kind the boy could sneak by. His vivid brown eyes are glued to the screen and he has a big neon green gaming headset around his neck.
Music blasted out of the speakers on his computer, some Hardcore or Trance of some kind as he works, taking massive files and transferring them at once, while also sending tens of messages to deployed agents out in the wastes.
Clay walks over to the young man, not bothering to hide his distaste for the man's messy work area. "Ahem, you called? I do hope what you need me for is urgent, it being enough to summon me over from the Canaan?"
The young man jumps in his seat, looking up at the Commissar himself. "Ah yeah! Hey Mr. Forrestal! Zofia gave me a bunch of data she uncovered from one of Sabre's recent scouting flights to the Colorado Denver ruins some months ago. Apparently from the observations, one of the more powerful factions we now codenamed the 'Kragan Corps' is definitely using the Originium storms to wear down settlements and small strongholds, then luring the monsters both Oripathy infected and Radioactive to basically do the dirty work before they ransack the poor souls. They even successfully took out the Alamosa settlement in Colorado!"
Ryan made an idle gesture with a hand towards his screen. "No narrow gauge rail traffic will go there now, which has crippled Denver. The old Rio Grande is one of their lifelines, man!" He says in an exasperated tone.
"And word is boss… the "Kragan Corps" is headed due north… towards Missoula." Ryan's face drops slightly, expecting his boss to reprimand him.
The young man looked spooked as he pulled up pictures, reports and videos of the destruction and death of over five hundred people in the large wake. "Hell, I can't hack enough from the old net to figure out what targets are next, and even Zofia looked nervous when she told me to call you back here."
Clay looks over at him in surprise with some anger. "What? Why didn't she contact me directly?! Damn—Ryan, I need you to contact the committee and tell them this is urgent. I'll be back with Zofia, and for fuck's sake, clean up your desk! I'll warn the Canaan myself," He says before leaving the command center at a brisk pace, his usual professionalism almost forgotten.
Ryan looks over at the other female agents eyeing him nearby, and back at his desk. He tosses everything unnecessary into the trash, grabs his headset and begins messaging all internal and external diplomats, high ranking military persons, and contractors that a potential lockdown is imminent. The first to message back is Black Eagle Actual, who was stationed at the Citadel on the upper levels.
Is this a drill? comes the first message.
Ryan types back. No, this is a C-6711. Code Blackstar, authentication code is Charlie-Tango-Two-Kilo. Holder is Commissar Forrestal. Recall all forces external to the Citadel effective immediately. 'Priestess' will give further instruction with Forrestal once she arrives.
Once this is sent Ryan puts himself through the base's internal loudspeakers that normally play soft music, and gives the official orders for pre lockdown.
"Authorized pre-lockdown procedures are greenlit, I repeat, pre-lockdown procedures are greenlit. Advise all wall defense teams to code red, man all checkpoints with level 7 precautions, and verify all movements of external forces with utmost importance! All flight crews, Chrome Dome missions are a go-go-go! I repeat, Chrome Dome is a go! All armor battalions, check, prep, and load ASAP! A message to the 2nd armor battalion, tanker of the M60A2 and A3, you're now on gridwatch, and border stations! For those of you in the 16th armor groups, have at least three of your T-72Bs idling at all times and make sure you join up with the 65 MAIFV group! All MAIFV groups, you will be on standby, you will need to proceed to the north end of the railyard and load all equipment onto the trains on loading tracks to head out to positions Alpine, Kentucky, and Yorktown. All infantry units are to be on standby. Await further instructions on my next announcement in ten minutes!"
Ryan cuts himself off the microphone, and looks up. All the other agents in the room are absolutely baffled at what's just taken place in the rookies desk. All the older veterans above his level are fuming and some are writing him up as this occurred for "false flagging, jeopardizing, and comprising state security." One of them made his way over, fury mounting in his eyes.
"What the fuck are you doing, boy!? I will make you regret giving such orders! You were NOT specifically told to give out such orders to the entire Citadel! You incompetent fool, I'll–"
A light slavic female voice interrupts him, "Do what? You will get the bullet if you try anything with him, Thompson."
Turning around, he looks at a young female agent with long brown hair and wine red eyes. The older man speaks in a murderous tone, "Agent Jesibelle, this upstart has gone beyond all our creedences with this stunt! Issuing a Code Blackstar without clearance? He'll be lucky to be mopping the damn floors as a janitor once I am finished here! I suggest you get back to your task at hand!"
The woman inhaled sharply at the rebuke before stepping between the two, her hand reaching for her partially hidden waist holster in warning. A sterling silver Udav chambered in 9x21 sits inside, now being exposed. She cocks her head and gives him a cool stare, her eyes like a vampire staring into his soul. Ryan doesn't move one bit, looking around. Unused to the escalating tension, the younger agents watched anxiously. But the control room had a looming sense of dread among the operating staff and Ryan was now the center of attention, both good and bad.
'Come on Commissar, hurry up!' Ryan urged, while the older agent also seemed to notice the pregnant pause.
"Stop acting like bickering children, all of you! I will demote everyone here who has an excuse not to work, and you!" His eyes fell onto Jesibelle, who froze at his glare. "You will receive three days unpaid leave and you will retake all your firearms courses for even considering drawing your weapon on a senior agent! I should submit a notice of treason on your records! You are dismissed!" He demands before going back to his desk and typing something.
Ryan's computer immediately locks him out and a warning appears on his screen from the automatic AI supervizor. 'Warning, You have lost all database access due to breaching the Misinformation Act 113.'
The hacker curses at the screen before pulling out of his pocket a tattered poker card. On the back in rough pencil is a swiped set of numbers he copied off the 'Committee for Citadel safety' access book. Pulling up the admin access panel on the screen, he types this fourteen number code in, which resets all access. Ryan sniggers and goes back to playing his loud music, looking up at the very sexy female agent still standing nearby.
"Yeah they don't call me '8bit' for nothing. Nice thinking Jesi, I gotta ask–" But she already is walking away back to her desk. 'Fuck! Missed my twentieth chance! Will the freakin' goddess of love gimme me a break?'
Suddenly, the doors were thrown open and Clay returned with the sounds of people rushing around outside in the halls. Behind him was Zofia herself. Ryan inhaled deeply, stuffing the card in his pocket again, shaking his head and looking at his commander. The female agent slips out of the room as the two come inside.
Clay speaks swiftly and concisely. "I've contacted the landship, and all mining activities will cease immediately pending our decision. The railway has dispatched two trains to Deer Lodge in case we need to evacuate the miners. I've contacted the Canaan's captain and he says he can make it back in three days at flank speed. Ryan, I take it you have issued Code Blackstar?" He looks at the young man expectantly, and more than a bit frustrated.
"Y-yes sir! EW-officer Ambrose reporting Blackstar procedures engaged," Ryan says as he glances at Zofia. Everyone in the room is looking at her, as it was extremely rare that she came down to the more secure levels.
Clay rubs his forehead and takes a breath, looking at Zofia. Her beautiful deep brown dress with small sparkles shows she was dressed probably for an occasion that was interrupted. Many of the girls in the room seemed a touch envious of her beauty and attractive figure. Zofia glances at Clay and then Ryan briefly.
"I suppose all direct lines are secured and those who have joined the virtual and physical meeting are present?" She asks plainly. On the monitors overhead secured calls and radio traffic has been directed here and all diplomats and military commanders are present. "Good. We need to figure out and monitor our weather forecasts for the next three months, where this group is going, how many members they have, and formulate opinions to intercept via airborne or rail movements, if not aided by the landship."
She drew her gaze around the room, her grim expression conveying the gravity of the situation. "This is a very serious subject to raise Code Blackstar, and the first in our history as well. Are there any ideas or suggestions?" She looks at the monitors and her staff present. Ryan feels like he shouldn't be here at all and shrinks into his seat.
Black Eagle Actual, Colonel Rowsdower speaks up first from one of the monitors hosting the meeting, "I suspect we need to conduct a fly over to find the group at present. I have already requested one of the air force's P-8 Poseidons to head out and take airborne photos, jam all frequencies, and monitor any O-storm that they may use for raids."
There was a brief pause on the other side of the call. "I'd suggest we take affirmative action and stop them while they're weak and still vulnerable. It is not wise to wait while they build a force comparable to the 9th army of ours. We cannot afford to distract ourselves, and I believe Brigadier General Hughes would agree with me."
A second voice chimes in from the marine commander Hughes. "Yes, the airborne Marines can be dispatched almost immediately from Kalispell, but I'd recommend a stronger force than necessary to send a message. The 2nd armor battalion could arrive by rail behind them and mash these bastards into hell where they belong."
Zofia ponders this as some diplomats chime in and argue amongst themselves about peace treaties and all-out warfare. She raised her right hand and the room went silent, minus those on call.
"Alright, let the Priestess speak!" Clay's voice shuts down the online callers.
"I must agree that to intercept and deny them any opportunity to destroy our lands would benefit us in practice, but it would seem a bit rash to the public. I don't want mistrust and more riots to break out," Zofia spoke calmly, looking deep in thought. "Have we tried to contact them? Umar, have there been anyattempts at peaceful contact from them?"
Clay runs through his notes rapidly, as if trying to find something but he can't find it. Umar, a diplomat and current governor of Salt Lake City on call, thinks for a second. "No ma'am, no one will risk it after our allies at Alamosa were slain. Besides, the folks at Alamosa were well-known to be open and accepting, and look what happened to them. And mind you without them, now the routes to Durango, Pueblo, and Denver are cut off. The only other route now is the old northwestern SP line from California. We can't fly in anymore since Kalispell's airport says the eighteen 767s for shipping long routes are all out of service until we get more replacement parts. Not to mention a large enough facility to service them like Phoenix was."
Clay speaks up finding his notes from his drive earlier. "Madame, I would also like to bring up the subject of our latest policy change. A recent colleague and senior pilot brought up an incident that has rather unnerving implications. This occurrence threatened our state security and compliance with the demands of such folly. The "Cougar" incident as it was called occurred about 4 years ago."
A voice could be heard sighing over the comms as Clay continued. "I have reason to believe this isolated incident was planned and premeditated by foreign powers hostile to our borders. This never should've happened, and wouldn't have if we followed better security protocols. We have a population of about one hundred and forty thousand and moles from similar groups have already proven to be dangerous. This incident claimed the lives of six students and a professor of Rocky Range Academia and five citizens on Highway 93. I hand my time to you, madam speaker."
With that, Clay shuts his notes and looks at the screens for whomever seemed annoyed. Murmuring is heard in the room among the senior agents. Ryan is absolutely shocked at that—he's never heard of this event. Terrorism attacks from the inside?! Ryan is beginning to wonder how long he'll have to confess to agent Jesibelle, who he's had a soft crush on for a while now since both were in the same agent classes and graduated together. Doubt floods his mind but he wipes it away and pulls out his training for stressful situations, putting on a poker face.
Zofia pulls out a phone from her pocket and briefly steps out and makes a call outside the room while the others talk amongst themselves about the event. Doctor Anton picks up and she quickly asks him for advice while he's in the middle of a checkup on some mine workers. Clay notices her leave, but doesn't think too much of it. Instead, he goes over to discuss something with Ryan and it's not long before the door opens and Zofia walks back inside.
"Do we know who their leadership is? If so, is it possible for us to take them out?" She asks plainly. Barring Colonel Rowsdower, all military branches speak at once. Ryan resists the urge to laugh—he was sure no one would appreciate it at the current moment, especially after the confrontation he inadvertently caused.
Clay intervenes, his presence reminding everyone who is in charge. "Will you amateurs just shut up? Come now, one at a time!" Silence befalls the room once more. "Okay, Air Force. You first, then Army, Marines, Specialist operators, and then lastly myself, representing Black Ops. So, from the top."
No sooner did Clay finish speaking did he get a response. "Commandant Marston, Airforce. I suggest a precision airstrike using a GBU-24 or a 66 smart bomb. We'll use high altitude in combination with the P-8 Poseidon to guide it straight at the heads of the group, potentially all at night."
After it became apparent that his colleague was finished, Major General Solotov spoke up. "I can have the motor and armor divisions there within four days by rail along with the army and we can surround them with artillery, before striking hard and fast. Eliminating all forces to prevent a second regrouping in case the leadership is not enough."
Brigadier General Hughes speaks next, although he sounds a bit irritated with the army's proposal. "Well, assuming you all don't run out of fuel first.I believe an airborne drop at night with air coverage would be the most effective and efficient solution. Just take out the upper and lower ranks and spook the ground forces with some strafing, maybe toss in napalm from the sky as well. Pack up the proof in a body bag and come home to a victory celebration!"
Clay just puts his head down not reacting to anything so far. His mind is currently thinking of scenarios but he's also aware of the others' proposals. He also feels like more sleeper agents are going to become an issue, and thinks about purging as many suspicious actors from the city once the meeting is over. Clay knows someone will find out about this meeting and act fast.
"Colonel Rowsdower, you've been very quiet up until now. Do you have any suggestions?" Zofia inquired suddenly.
Colonel Rowsdower speaks up after a moment. "I believe this isn't something that can just be bombed, shelled, or arm-and-legged into oblivion. We need to be quiet, lethal, and above all else, efficient. I do know you, Commissar Forrestal, are thinking on such principles as well with the added value of disguise and or disinformation. But dragging it out to insert a potential rat isn't gonna cut it here."
Before anyone could interject, the man continued. "Let me be blunt. This requires my finest unit, and I'll coordinate in the field on this mission to ensure its success. I can load up on one of the An-12 transports already idling outside with my teams and be on the ground by tomorrow morning. If things go smoothly, I'd estimate a request for extraction by 0300 hours. Commissar Forrestal, I implore you to side with efficiency and discretion on this one."
Clay sighs but has to agree with this sentiment, although he's hesitant and doesn't elaborate further. Ryan can feel the pressure his leader is under and looked at Zofia for any signs of what comes next.
"I'm actually inclined to agree with Colonel Rowsdower," Zofia concurred. She glanced at Clay knowingly. "A cudgel isn't what's needed, but a scalpel."
Clay nods but stops, thinking a second. "I will agree but may I remind you, you may be the reaper, Colonel, but I am the ghost. My Specter ops will be on standby," The word 'Specter' seems to draw eyes from the senior agents and only one of the military commanders, "I shall participate not externally but internally here. I need to concentrate all my agents and kill teams from outside the walls into the city and will investigate and root out any potential terrorists, plants, sleepers, or moles."
He took a short breath. "I also encourage this committee to rescind its approval of the recent IO-114 demihuman level three clearance updates. This is the perfect time for another Cougar incident to occur and this time we do not have a five time chopper ace like last time to deal with such occurrences on short notice. That is all I, Commissar Clay Forrestal, head of 'Commissary for intelligence' has to offer, Madamé."
A immediate bunch of "Aye"s are heard as the committee's decision is swift and whole. Zofia then speaks.
"I shall drop the Code Blackstar to a Code Bluestone. Activities are to be highly monitored and security tightened, but we do not need to be on full combat alert." She looks at Clay, who gives Ryan a soft kick to his chair. Ryan begins typing on his desktop and then briefly announces the change in alarm. Everyone seems to sigh in relief in the room once the danger level goes down but Colonel Rowsdower reminds everyone it's not over until it is over. He hangs up along with everyone else on call going back to their duties.
Clay escorts Zofia out and gives her a brief chat, his voice quiet and soft. "So what do you make of such an occurrence, if I may?"
"I… I am not sure," Zofia answered with a slight frown. She rubbed her arm, visibly uncertain. "This has never happened before, but as the saying goes, nothing lasts forever."
"I suppose not. After all, the devil always gets any borrowed time back one way or another. I shall report back once I get my field agents in line and things working out. Madamé." He bows lightly before watching her go. Once he comes back into the intel room though he makes an announcement.
"My colleagues, agents under my Commissary! We will be going to war with an enemy who thinks he is a ghost, but we-We are the real ghosts! Who disappears into the shadows? Us! Who watches invisibly from the most obvious places? Us! Who knows them better than they know themselves? Us! That is why tonight you will get off before our largest internal operation! So, I shall give you two hours to finish all your current work before you head out!" He says in a booming voice before walking over to Ryan's desk.
Ryan looks up behind him at Clay, who wears a smirk. "You have done very well for someone wet behind the ears. You handled such a distressing situation better than some of my senior agents would've by taking the initiative and acting as such. I will be awarding you a promotion to vice constable rank, and field agent work. Congratulations, you are no longer a mere paperboy." He patted the kid's shoulder and walked back to his office in the upper levels.
Once the last report was sent in, Ryan left to go out to his apartment in one of the high rises in the city. Being an intelligence agent had its benefits and one was paid housing which was awesome in this day and age. The young guy waited at the bus stop near the entrance to one of the underground parking garage entrances.
As he waited, he noticed agent Jesibelle with a group of other women in similar dark blue attire walking out from the lobby to a large white Cadillac Escalade. He begins to daydream about the day he can finally ask her out but that gets rudely interrupted when a large matte black motorcoach drives by from the large underground parking area. It's now dark outside minus the large lights set about so who would be driving around in something like that?
He's heard a lot of rumors of CFI kill-teams being sent out in blacked out buses to make people of threat 'disappear'. Was this rumor confirmed now? He decides to pay no mind and his employee transportation arrives to take him downtown.
"Damn, what a fucking great first two weeks… I bet my mom would rather see me back gaming on Aruba streaming than issuing out a top secret doomsday alarm! Heh, White Hat hacking…damn I love this job so much! I guess I will swing by Danmark's bar once I get into town."
Ryan decides once the bus gets onto I90 east before heading downtown on Highway 93, all the way thinking about how to confront his crush, the looming dangers, and what training he might be in for as a field agent.
The bus makes its way past the suburbs and tall apartments, while slowly entering the downtown area. The high rises nearby display large light up billboards and advertising light up the night sky. A private VIP helicopter lands atop one of the rooftop landing pads as they drive along. The original downtown strip has some brick buildings that still stand here as well but it's mostly newer shops and other forms of convent shopping or restaurants. The mix of very classic western architecture with vague cyberpunk aesthetics is certainly a sight to behold.
The sidewalks are busy with people and occasionally the uncommon demihuman walking about. To him, they make the crowd more interesting to watch. He doesn't mind them unless someone is infected but those cases don't normally get through security at the train station. The bus makes a stop here and Ryan jumps up and gets off here. He waits at a crosswalk on the intersection where highway 93 and S Higgins Avenue meet. On the other side sits an old brick hotel now converted into the "Danmark's bar & pub". The infamous place for cheap beer and street hookers on request.
This place is well known for its nightlife and great food and drink for such a place. Ryan opens the two doors into what used to be the lobby, now a large seating area with a large center bar island, with all sorts of drinks and assorted glasses, mugs, and beer steins. Ryan sits on the left side of the bar where he waits for the bartender to finish up and come over. He does notice though that the same large matte black motorcoach drives by and pulls into the lot across the street. It parks suddenly and Ryan worries if his cheap option was actually badly timed.
He swallows and expects a team of tactical gear loaded armed men to just rush out but the door opens and a casually dressed middle aged man appears with his long haired German Shepherd. They make their way over and into the bar as well, but head upstairs to the second floor. Ryan is surprised, but when he sees the man head upstairs, he rolls his eyes.
'Geez, gonna fuck one of them worn out hoes? I can't understand it. And why bring the dog? What the hell kinda kink does he have?' He thinks to himself but doesn't go further. The bartender arrives and pours him a drink, before taking his order for dinner. Ryan enjoys the moment for it's probably his last drink he'll have here for a while if not forever.
