Initiation Series: Series One Compilation (Terran Chronicles) Page 8
The carrier De Gaulle amazingly holds her own, and in the turbulent waters, rights herself. Her escort ships do not fare as well, they either sunk instantly, or are sinking fast. A few lucky sailors bob in the waters. For the rest, these once proud vessels are now their metal tombs, as they descend into the depths.
High up in space, the Gamin are as surprised as the sailors below by the carrier’s survival. In annoyance, a clawed hand presses a single control, and unleashes a bright bolt of energy downward. Travelling at the speed of light, the bolt strikes the carrier’s deck almost instantly, and electrifies the hull.
The electric charge radiates outward in all directions blowing electrical circuits, killing most people instantly, and scoring the hull as the charge expands. Within seconds, much of the ship is engulfed. Timmons is electrocuted at his console, as is Philippe a split second later. The captain, being the only one not touching a main console, survives the initial charge. With all shipboard electronics overloading or destroyed, the few hapless survivors have little time to celebrate. Without cooling, both nuclear reactors overheat quickly. Gasses ignite deep inside the carrier causing spectacular secondary explosions. Finally, one of the reactors goes critical. A superheated slag of radioactive material melts through its containment area. The area is now so hot that the metal flooring literally starts to sag, and, finally, collapses. The two aircraft launched moments ago, can only watch helplessly as the flagship of the French navy, sinks. Unbeknownst to them, both reactors are still spewing vast amounts of radiation as they sink to the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.
As the carrier’s captain drowns, he realizes that he was played by the old submarine captain, goaded into action. In death, he manages to sigh at his failure to protect his crew and his ship. The captain of the submarine gambled, and whether he won, or lost, is a hot topic for future debates.
The two pilots, being powerless to assist those below, nervously head for home in southern France. They are hoping not to be shot down or run out of fuel.
The few survivors that get picked up a couple of hours later, offer reports of torpedo tracks passing through the area minutes after the carrier had sunk.
While the average person will take these facts at face value, nuclear scientists will argue for some time about what caused such a catastrophic and fast meltdown of the reactors.
Regent Voknor glares at the weapons station as he intones with hostility. “I said REPORT, not respond.” He returns to his studies of the various cultures below.
The weapons operator, expecting a reprisal, is surprised when he receives none. He watches the two fragile air craft that survived with curiosity, clawed fingers poised over controls, awaiting orders.
Location:
Kyoto Station
Kyoto, Japan
Hayato looks down at his desk phone as he hears the one word message. “Archangel!” He never expected this day to come, especially now. Looking around the room his mind rolls back to a fateful day last year, at this very train station. He lets his lithe body relax as he closes his light brown eyes recalling that day.
The man stood apart from the crowd. Few middle easterners are in Japan, and even fewer stand before the Phoenix Clock on this busy morning in the middle of rush hour. Some onlookers glance, then in the respectable way of the Japanese, move on. A security guard approaches the stationary man.
The guard makes a slight tip of his head whilst watching carefully. He asks in Japanese if he can be of assistance.
The Middle Easterner turns around, and, in Arabic, says. “Infidels! Malak’s hand is approaching!”
The guard does not understand the words, but does gather the tone of insolence. He speaks calmly into his radio. “Backup to the Phoenix Clock, we may have a….” The guard’s words stop abruptly as his chest suddenly seems to collapse inward. A millisecond later his back violently explodes, trailing viscera and bone in macabre strings some thirty feet away. The shotgun blast is deafening; both barrels trail smoke. The guard is flung to the floor where he lives for a few futile seconds. People scatter in all directions, getting away from this gun-toting mad man. Those that run toward the trains will not return.
Eighteen seconds later, a train pulls in; it’s bullet-riddled and blood-splattered from four more gun-toting extremists. They wreak havoc with their AK-107s as they blaze a gory path through the daily commuters. Stepping out onto the platform, these men work in tandem to deal maximum damage. Transit guards shoot back in futility, but their weapons and training are no match for these terrorists. The guards soon join the ranks of the dead, and dying.
The fifth terrorist walks calmly toward his colleagues, using his own AK-107 with lethal effectiveness. The walls are now smeared with the blood of victims, and pocked with shots that traveled straight through suit-wearing commuters. He occasionally adds a blast from his shotgun for good measure, making gore fly in all directions. He cruelly laughs as injured people attempt to escape any way they can.
Hayato's security force is at the train station, and they are ready. January’s expansion to Kyoto Station included many additions that were not advertised. Secretly based within the tunnels is a select guard of Ninja Juhakkei. These modern Ninjutsu-trained elite are arguably the best hand-to-hand specialists on the planet. The pride of the Tokushu Kyushu Butai fan out through special service tunnels, ones created just for them. Though the Japanese, in general, are taught to avoid the use of firearms unless absolutely necessary, these well-trained specialists are a rare breed indeed. Hand-to-hand training and firearm skills are of equal importance to this group of counter terrorists. The twenty-man squad splits up as all trains to and from Kyoto Station are shut down.
Thirty-eight seconds after the first shot was fired, the Kyoto Station is at a complete standstill. Water drips from a damaged drinking fountain. Some ceiling lights flicker off, then on. The moans from the wounded can be heard echoing off the walls of this underground station as the gunfire ceases.
One minute later, the five-man team of Malak’s Hand is together on a platform. They crouch down in a circle, provide cover for each other, and then wait. They expect the basic station security, and plan much more bloodshed before this day is done.
The Juhakkei make their attack from both sides of the platform. The violence is so fast, so brutal, that few shots are fired back. A bullet-riddled terrorist falls to the ground, and a vial of swirling green material falls from his hands. Dark blood pours from his mouth, his lungs destroyed, as he tries in vain to reach the vial.
A heavy combat boot clamps down on his arm. He looks up, and with his last bloody breath, curses in Arabic, “I die now, but you die later, infidel.” The other terrorists did not survive this long. Hayato looks down without pity or remorse as the man dies.
The vial of swirling material rests on the platform, just out of reach of the dead man's outstretched hand. It is still spinning, and comes to a quiet halt in the stillness of the battle’s aftermath.
Eight hours later, the station is re-opened amid a flurry of police and civilian activity. Commuters enter the station as workers are still painting the now-repaired walls and ceilings. Many of the evening commuters wonder about the morning’s exaggerations; the station looks just fine to them. The evening news carries little on the carnage and death toll, and leans more on the mild inconvenience to the public these terrorists caused.
“It was a shocking morning in Kyoto Train Station, as commuters were faced with an unsuccessful Sarin attack by a group of terrorists calling themselves “Malak’s Hand”. Casualties were low, as the local security force contained the terrorists, preventing their escape. These extremists took their own lives rather than being captured…” - The Japan Times
Hayato withdraws himself from the past, and looks around the room one last time, wondering if he will ever be back. Standing and stretching to his full height of five feet eight inches, he clears his mind of the past, gathers a few personal items, and heads to the locker room. After changing into civilian clothes, he
takes a few photos from his locker, but leaves his body armor and all his weapons. Grabbing his passport, he leaves a one-word note inside the lockers of a select few of his men. He knows that over the next few days, they will all meet with others from around the globe.
Hayato considers the team quite carefully. Being able to only select three members out of nineteen, he wonders at the strategic and tactical implications. Daitaro is the only pilot in the group and is an expert in demolitions. He can create and disarm pretty much any explosive, thus, he is a practical choice when facing unknown missions. Chokichi is selected as the communications expert; he has knowledge of just about every weapon on the planet. The team would be incomplete without a competent medic; thus, Akira joins the small team. A navy man in his earlier days, he is quite competent both in and out of the water.
It takes Hayato quite a while before he can board a ferry bound for the Chinese mainland. He wonders why he and some of his team are being sent to Europe at this time. With Japan being spared any ground impact, Hayato is further perplexed at this group’s activation. He is also bothered by having to limit the team to four members including himself. What can we possibly do against attackers from space? None of this makes any sense to him, but he is disciplined, and follows his orders. He sighs as he considers his route to Germany. He expects it will take his team a few days to make the long journey.
Location:
10 Downing Street,
Westminster, United Kingdom
The British Prime Minister and most of his cabinet, having assembled, are all in humbled debate over many issues. A particular concern is the loss of the French carrier; clearly, the aliens mean it when they said ‘no military missions’. Without a single asteroid hit on English soil, they have been spared the worst of the attack. As such, much of the debate leads itself to being left in the dark by the other countries, and then about the brief call from the Russian President.
Having heard enough, the Prime Minister slowly stands. With a polite cough, he places both hands in his vest pockets, and then begins his oration. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have not been left out of the loop as much as you think. The Australians did call us, as did the Americans, Europeans, and even the Russians. It's just that our own space program is not quite up to snuff with those chaps. But here we are today, and, as you know, our own military has been ordered to stand down. We should follow that up with a stern reminder, especially following the sinking of the FS Charles De Gaulle. She was a mighty ship, so many lives lost.”
The talks go on and on about action, and counter-action, but finally they all have to agree that compliance seems the best course of action right now. With communications cut, or at the very least hampered around the globe, the island nation has received little information. The cabinet has basic reports of the Manhattan and St. Petersburg asteroid strikes, and fear of such an impact on London, or any other major city, definitely influences their final decision.
The Prime Minister retires to his quarters; he makes a few local phone calls, signs papers, and, for all intents and purposes, is having a 'business as normal day'. In the back of his mind, he worries and wonders about this project ‘Archangel.’ His information on it is so scant that he wonders why the military even bothered to tell him anything at all. His greatest concern for his island nation is the drop in imports, especially fuel, as global trade grinds to a halt. With this in mind, he considers using the strategic oil reserve, especially since they have been spared any ground impacts.
He spends the rest of the afternoon writing a public address, even though he knows it will have to wait. He is a man that likes to be prepared.
Location:
London
United Kingdom
Radclyf stares at his computer, his light brown eyes wide in disbelief. This email is for the most secret group of SAS in the United Kingdom, and here he is, receiving a message. Running his fingers through his short brown hair, he reads the missive telling him that he and his group are disbanded. 'Z' Squad is no more, just like that. Storming off to the lockers, he sees the other members of his team, all standing there, with scraps of paper in their hands. At five feet eleven inches tall, muscular and solid, no one says anything to Radclyf, their leader, especially when he is angry. Looking at his team, some of his wrath is replaced with curiosity. He opens his locker to find a scrap of paper with one word scribbled in rough hand writing on it. ‘Archangel.’
“All four of us? Well, that’s better then. Let's get moving. We have ferries to catch.” Radclyf’s mood lightens, secret missions are his favorite.
In civilian clothes and leaving all his military gear behind, Radclyf feels almost naked without a hand-gun or a knife. During the drive to Dover, he recalls a mission last year on the northern Iraqi border. This mission has been bothering him for a while, even though it was deemed a success. It occurred just after the Japanese were attacked. He often wonders about the timing of it all.
Five members of the elite “Malak’s Hand” transport their cargo of infidels. The old truck bounces down a rough goat track toward a large hillside cave. Once inside, the five men park the truck. With the help of some guards, the drugged captives are carried downward into the cave. A man in a long white coat greets them and leads them to a laboratory where electric lights reveal a well-provisioned facility. The five would typically not speak up, but having gone without food for two days, the stock piles of food and water distract them.
The lab man notices their looks. “Eat, my friends; you have done extremely well. You have brought me four infidels to work with.” He motions to a table where some guards are seated. “I won't be long. Then you can return these fools back to wherever in Rawandoz you found them.”
The four-man SAS team halts outside the cave. Well camouflaged, they blend in with the sand and rocks. A quick hand signal from Radclyf, and the four rush as one, silently, into the cave. Two lazy guards are no match for swift shots from silenced weapons. Stealthily creeping downward, another guard is dispatched equally efficiently by Paul's knife. He slits the unwary guard’s throat, then quietly lays the man down.
Entering the room stealthily is not very difficult. Supply boxes are stored around the walls, and these elite of the SAS are all third tour veterans. With silencers removed from their guns, they await the signal to attack the twenty plus guards in the room.
The SAS ear pieces have some trouble receiving at this depth, but the helmet-mounted cameras pick up enough detail. Their transmitters are more powerful.
Radclyf gives the signal, and bullets fly. The battle is very one-sided. A well-dressed man wearing a white lab coat still stands, encircled by dead guards. He holds a hypodermic needle to the throat of one of the drugged captives, and his other hand is held high with a vial of swirling green material in it.
“Shoot me and we all die, infidels!” He looks frantically around, like a trapped rat.
The SAS ear pieces’ sputter. “Extraction protocol six, NOW!”
Their training ranks with the best, and they run like there is no tomorrow. Donning Hazmat masks as they run, small oxygen tanks pump air into their masks creating positive pressure and buying the team precious seconds. They have seven minutes to be anywhere but within one mile of ground zero.
“Where are you going fools? I have Allah’s breath in my hand.” The man laughs zealously.
Forty-five seconds later, a ballistic missile launches from a British submarine stationed just south of the Gulf of Iskenderun.
Exiting the cave, Radclyf'’s team runs toward a small clearing. A special purpose fast attack helicopter comes in, and it’s friendly. The chopper barely lands to let the four men board before it takes off at breakneck speed. Purely designed for fast extractions, the heroic flight crew pushes the craft to its limits. Radclyf can see the looks the flight crew exchanges as they race toward safety for all they’re worth.
A few minutes later, a magnitude 7.3 earthquake is felt in northern Iraq. The explosion is devastating. The entire hill is in
stantly vaporized, as is the cave system. It is not a nuclear explosion, but close to it. The helicopter is struck by a powerful shock wave, and is tossed about like a rag doll in the turbulent air. The pilot fights with the controls amid the turmoil.
The Submarine never surfaces, but heads out of the area at maximum speed.
The flight crew, along with Radclyf's team, makes it to a friendly base and all are held in long term quarantine.
Another amazing escape was also made that day. But these escapees, already so filled with hatred, are now even further fueled by the loss of their compatriots. They also took with them a small but precious cargo.
Oh, and the news, the cover up... if only people knew. Radclyf thinks to himself as he continues his recollections.
“At 10:42pm local time last night, a massive earthquake struck a remote area of Northern Iraq. Coalition forces are expected to work with local authorities in cleanup efforts. The 7.3 magnitude earthquake was felt as far away as….” - CNN
“The Syrian Nation will not stand by whilst weapons of mass destruction are fired across our borders. Such actions are not peacefully productive. The western powers of this coalition think they can do whatever they like and get away with it. Our brothers in Iraq continue to suffer under the iron rule of western…” - Damascus Daily News
“The Coalition did not, does not, conduct any military operations over Syrian airspace. Satellite feed does confirm the existence of a small meteor travelling across the Syrian night sky at about the time of this claimed incident.” - Coalition Military Response
Radclyf, his thoughts returning to current events, arrives in Dover to find a ferry about to leave. He hurries with passport in hand, and, surprisingly, makes it in time for the ninety-minute trip to Calais. He had expected more people at the ferries, but is also glad that his countrymen are standing tall and not falling into panic. If all goes as planned, a car will be waiting for him, for the next leg of his journey. His team will follow as they were instructed, each making their own way to the destination. People are scared and talking of the destruction in St. Petersburg and New York. News of the carriers sinking has yet to make it to civilian ears. Radclyf finds a place to sit and rest as he ponders what this is all about. Why is high command sending his team to Europe, especially at a time like this?