 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
The 7th Column by Mainevent
|
The 7th Column: Deceit
Date: 28 September 2003, 9:00 PM
Martina Sal Dur, Sal Uradus
Trevor was reclining in his plush artificial-leather chair as Stetson waltzed in, apparently happy about something. He was whistling a merry little tune to himself, and was nearly skipping as he sat down at his desk.
"What are you so happy about?" Trevor asked with a grin.
"Georgio approved it." Stetson replied with a whoop and clap.
"Your lying!" Trevor nearly fell back in his chair at the wonderful news. He sat upright, then got on his feet and stood over his desk staring at Stetson.
"I jest you not. I gave him the schematics on it, showed him some concepts, told him how it would work, B.S.'d him a little, and then gave a big one-two punch ending."
"Hot damn. Well, where do we get the materials? I mean, the UNSC isn't just going to hand it to us."
"Georgio is prepping several pelicans as we speak. In twenty-four hours there will be one very pissed off Spritza security chief. They're hitting it, and hitting it hard."
"Well, now that we're getting the materials, and we got the go ahead, we should start making it. One of us has to get it, so who'll it be?"
"You can go, I'll prep the labs for our tests."
"Alright, see you tonight."
"Yea, stay safe."
Spritza Power Plant, Sal Duradus
"Dropping in five, lock and load. No radio chatter about us coming, they still don't know we're here. Hopefully the dumb bastards will stay complacent long enough for us to slip in, slit their throats, and slip out. Rogers, Martinez, Carson, Debrose, and Wilson, you're special guard to our scientist. He gets a bullet only after all five of your sorry asses got one to match. Got it?" Corporal Randaford asked half-heartedly as the vehicle made several small bumps.
"Roger that, he dies, we dies." Debrose responded as he cleaned the grit from under his nails with his battle knife.
"Son, do that when we're back at base, you're gonna cut your finger off with that thing one day." Randaford chastised with a shaking head.
The pelicans coasted unabridged into the facility's perimeter, and easily slipped past the unguarded gates at the entrance. The group of eight pelicans split off into four consecutive groups, to confuse the enemy with multiple fronts.
Travis' landed at the eastern edge of the enormous towering structure, which provided clean electricity to over five million civilians in the large industrial city of Rasta de Azur three miles down scope from the plant.
His personal escort hopped from the rear and secured the area, then gave him the all clear. Fifteen or so marines brushed past him as they forged into the compound, eager to clear out the plant's security in a hurry.
Travis took a deep breath and combed the structure several times as they waited for the signal. In a matter of five to ten minutes the voice of Randaford was heavy on the comm. His escort checked their weapons and led the way as he and the large cylindrical tube he carried entered the sliding doors.
The dull gray's and neutral beige's that covered the walls had a tint of green from a mold buil-up near the door. Maintenance was apparently of little concern as long as the reactors worked. He strolled unopposed down the long corridor, and finally came to a retinal scanner, at which a crying technician was being held hostage.
Travis nodded once, and the technician's head was jammed into the security terminal. The scanner crossed his eyes several times before finally accepting his retinas. Bullets spattered his brain against the wall, and his corpse was kicked against the wall as Travis shrugged into the reactors core.
Checking the cylinder for any visible defects, he found none, and inserted it into the corresponding port on the large machine. Lights and sirens came to life as the cylinder drained trillions of raw neutrons from the device, and after a three minute wait the gauge on the container read full. He unsnapped it with a crisp tug, and then inserted it into a back-strapped box he was carrying.
The thick metal doors slid quickly apart as his team headed for the exit, eager to return to their base. Five other technicians were being prodded down the hallway, and Travis glared as they were locked into their seats aboard his pelican.
"Without us, the facility will go into a meltdown. This whole city will be destroyed. Millions will die if we don't run the reactors." A balding technician pleaded, but was returned with a quick butt from Randaford's rifle.
"Isn't this facility automated like the rest? It should take care of itself just fine." Debrose quipped, but another technician interupted.
"No, that's what you don't understand. It isn't automated, if we don't keep it in check, it's core will overheat and a thermo-nuclear explosion will wipe this entire valley clean."
"When's the next shift supposed to arrive?"
"In five hours. Far too long to prevent what is going to occur if we're taken hostage."
"Well, then I guess this will just have to serve to teach the UNSC a lesson. They should've listened to us when they had the chance."
Another blow to the man's head knocked him unconcious as Travis stared at the twinking lights of the city below. In less than four hours, over five million people would be reveiving a three hundred megaton surprise for breakfast.
Cana Sel, Sal Uradus
Stetson stood at the center of the large plaza at the heart of Cana Sel. The sprawling government complex was at the heart of the city. Cana Sel was the home of the Sal Eurades system, located on the enormous terra-formed world of Sal Uradus. The perfect place to get their message across quickly.
His heavy black overcoat wasn't all to strange during this time of the year, but the bulky item conceiled under it got him several strange glances. A small squad of security personnel approached him through the corner of his eye, the perfect targets for his live tests.
He whirled around to face the stunned cops, and they fumbled quickly for their weapons. Stetson snapped the safety off and nudged the barrel from under his clothing. He gripped the weapon firmly, and pulled it's large trigger.
A brilliant chartruese beam broke the calm air. It landed squarely on one of the guard's chests, which he clutched futilly before keeling over. It was edged over to the other two guards, with much the same effect. A black and white warthog sped into the plaza's park, but was quickly sent headfirst into the ground as Stetson reversed the weapon's effect.
Neutrons were ripped violently from the vehicle's molecular make-up, and it's tires crumbled into a thick white powder as it nosed into the soft dirt. It's occupants were thrown like ragdolls from their seats, and one landed on the spear-tipped top of the nearby fence.
Stetson smiled to himself and rushed through the crowd of panicked onlookers, who created a smoke-screen as they rushed for cover. He took refuge in a ten story building, and sprinted to the rooftop.
"Tell me you got that on tape." He greeted a chuckling Travis with wide arms.
"Beautiful man, just beautiful."
Debrose and the rest of the security team, as well as Randaford, were still watching the ensuiing chaos from above. The security team, turned to face the scientists, whos newest weapon seemed to be the very thing that would save humanity, as well as move The Seventh Column to their dominant status.
"How much do you think that ole' bastard Georgio is gonna pay us? Hell, I could probably retire off of it." Stetson grabbed his stomach from the pain in his gut, he couldn't stop laughing.
Randaford, Rogers and Debrose approached the men with smiles, and shook their hands. Wilson, Carson, and Martinez only stared at them from their prone positions perched atop the building.
"Ohh, and speaking of retirement, Georgio wanted me to personally give you men a reward for all of your hard work and dedication." Stetson held out his hand to receive whatever payment Randaford was going to give, but was welcomed with two bullets to the stomach.
Travis' eyes widened and his jaw dropped uncontrollably as he watched his friend clutch his midsection and then fall to his knees in pain. Blood soaked his shirt and hands, and was running onto his pants. Randaford turned the pistol to Travis' skull.
Travis closed his eyes and braced for the bullet as he heard a gunshot. He was still alive though, and he opened his eyes quickly. Randaford grabbed the back of his left leg and his face was contorted in pain, and Debrose turned to his attacker. Carson received three shots to the face, but was quickly taken down by Wilson and Martinez.
Rogers unloaded ten rounds into Martinez's suit, which absorbed the bullets with little grace. Wilson unholstered his pistol, and fired three shots. The closest he got was a lancing wound on Rogers' arm, which began bleeding only minorly. Randaford turned to face wilson as well, but felt another sharp sting in his right leg.
Travis pulled the trigger again, this time aimed at Rogers' head, and the marine fell to the rooftop motionless, his head breaking into a fine white powder. A crisp wind blew the remnants of the traitor across the plaza and further on.
Travis brought the weapon to bare above his head, and it slammed into Randaford with a sharp blow to the temple. Blood sloshed from his mouth as he lay motionless on the ground. Wilson pushed himself to his feet, and ran to Travis.
"We've gotta get the hell out of here. Locals will be all over us in five minutes." Wilson urged Travis with several tugs on his arm as he headed for the door. "There's nothing you can do for him, he's dead. Let's go!"
Travis stared at his friends corpse momentarily, and then turned and followed Wilson down the dimly lit staircase leading to the tenth floor. Whatever the hell just happened he wasn't sure, but right now it didn't matter. The heavy footsteps of S.W.A.T. teams heading up from below was ominous, and Wilson stared over the railing.
STAY TUNED
The 7th Column: Disguise
Date: 4 October 2003, 4:24 AM
Travis and Wilson burst through the large double doors leading to the other half of the building's roof. Large white birds fluttered away in a spooked effort at protecting themselves from any attack that could have come, but didn't.
The click of the door behind them told them it was closed, but they needed to bar it quickly. They combed the all-but-devoid gravel-laden ground searching for anything that would help them. A solitary air conditioning unit lay humming at the corner of the building's handrails, but it was of no use.
Travis bounded to the edge and peered over, cars, people, and police scurried below. Wilson thought they looked like ants under a magnifying glass, but this was no time for his petty musings. There was a small emergency exit gangplank one floor below, and they needed to get to it.
Wilson removed his thick black belt and secured it to the handrail, tugging at it a few times to make sure it would support his weight. He assured himself it would, and slowly inched over the side. If he missed the walk-way, there wouldn't be anymore running for him, ever.
Travis held onto the belt, anxiously watching the door for anyone coming through. His stomach was in his throat and he was sweating profusely as the tension built. The clink and clank as Wilson's boots made contact with the floor below was a relief, and Travis took a firm grasp on the life-preserver.
Wilson urged Travis on, and casually glanced around to be sure they weren't under anyone's watch. Travis was moving to slow for his comfort, and he tugged at the belt. Sweaty palms loosed Travis' grasp on the rope-like object, and he slid uncontrollably until landing on face-up on the heavy grated steel.
"I hate you man." Travis coughed as he rubbed his throbbing skull.
"I know you do, now go. I'm surprised they're not already here the way you move." Wilson locked wrists and pulled Travis to his toes. Their feet rolled in unison as they hurried back and forth, back and forth, back and forth down the steps.
They passed window after window on their descent, Wilson prayed that they wouldn't be spotted, or else. In two minutes they had made it to the third floor, and took a knee as an officer and his partner patrolled the alley.
"I hear they pulled up three bodies. A damn bloodbath up there. Mark says it's most likely a drug deal gone bad, but he's not sure. Said something about military histories and something." One of the cops said to his friend, who had stopped to relieve himself behind a dumpster.
"Aww hell. Everyone on this planet has a military history. I got one, you got one, damn Steve, even your wife has one." His friend made a sort of grunt-like laugh as he zipped up. They finished their round and disappeared around the corner of the alley.
Wilson and Travis inched down the catwalk, making sure that they could find cover at a moments notice. Noone presented themselves, and the duo dangled from the final ladder and then dropped simultaneously to the sandy earth. The shadows of the alley chilled it to the core, and Wilson whirled around as a cat skittered past.
They jogged to the street, and casually entered the crowd. Wilson fell several yards behind Travis, and casually followed him to whatever destination he was led to. Although decked out in full military battle dress, he wasn't all that suspicious in the crowd.
The solar system's governmental homebase was constantly being visited by UNSC ships at port, and the local militia was always on duty. His biggest threat was that someone actually need assistance, and force the unwanted attention on him.
Travis slid slyly into a small cafe, and Wilson strolled in casually behind him. He refused eye contact, and made no recognitive motions. Only staring at the signs on the wall while fiddling at the change in his pockets.
"Good day sir. What'll it be?" The shopkeeper asked politely.
"I'll have a...bacon, lettuce, and tomato, and some fried Bangaro chips." Travis answered as though he had been in the town for some time, when in reality this was only his second trip. Wilson had to give him credit where it was due, he may be a tech-monkey, but he knew how to stay cool in a hot situation.
"Comin' right up. Wierd what happened today 'eh? Some guy shootin up the park and then three guys found dead on the Basserby Bank rooftop. Damn near spooky if ya' ask me." The gray-haired and stubby manager stated in his subtle manner of probing his customers.
"I wouldn't know, I'm here on business. I just got out of a meeting. What happened?" Travis replied with a quick and witty response, any hint of insecurity or falsehood in his lie unnoticeable.
"Which company you say you worked for again?" The squatty man was getting too deep for Wilson's pleasure, and he slowly nudged the barrel of his rifle at the glass display case between him and the man.
"I didn't."
"You didn't what."
"I didn't say which company I worked for."
"Oh, oh yea. That's right. I'm sorry. Here's your order." The man snatched the ticket from the small holder and handed it to him with his tray. Obviously disheartened by his lack of personal intelligence gathering. Wilson lowered his weapon and placed his order as well, the man said nothing to him, and Wilson took a seat at the other side of the restaurant, yet close enough to maintain a line-of-site with Travis.
Travis finished his meal in what he believed was the fastest he had ever eaten before, and noticing Wilson's progress on his lunch, decided to buy some time by getting a desert. After the two had finished they left the restaurant.
They found cover in a small street-corner hotel, the kind where nothing's asked and nothing's told. Grimy walls were an unusual site to behold in such a squeaky-clean city. The dark reds and heavy carpeting looked out of date in the contemporary city surroundings. They shared a room.
Travis exhumed obvious displeasure in their choice of board, but Wilson, being accomodated to Starboard quarters, was more than pleased with it.
"I want to know what the hell was going on up there!" Travis nearly yelled as he unbuttoned his collar.
"You think I know? Then your sadly mistaken. Randaford just pulled us along for the Op. I had no idea. Debrose and Rogers were the only ones I know in on it."
"And why did that cop say they only found three bodies? There should be five. Your two partners, Debrose, Rogers, and Randaford. That means that at least two got away. That snake-in-the-grass bastard Randaford took two in the leg from you, and I gave him a shot of XM-90. He shouldn't be going anywhere." Travis' voice was hoarse as he inhaled another deep breath.
"I don't know what happened there, but I know someone we can ask."
"Who?"
"Guess."
"Georgio?"
"Yea, that lilly-livered son of a bitch is the one who picked us, so I figure if anyone knows about this, it's him. Tomorrow, we hitch a ride out to San Uradine, which is a small village about fifteen miles from Martina Sal Dur."
"Alright, tonight we rest. Tomorrow we find the truth." Travis said enthusiastically, turning out the single light in the already dimly lit room.
STAY TUNED
The 7th Column: Abandoned
Date: 9 October 2003, 12:14 AM
Author's Note: I'm sorry, but I don't do prologues, and I forgot to explain, that this story takes place before the Covenant war, when the various pirate groups were the UNSC's biggest dilemma. Sorry for any confusion this might have incurred.
Travis and Wilson had taken the earliest flight out of the city, aboard the Aerowak transport Serenity. Their ship had landed on Sal Buran at 0400, with only several people at the station. Several people anxious to greet loved ones, or stragglers, nothing important.
Travis still worried about the large bulge nestled on his back. This weapon was the only bargaining chip he had against Georgio, and he was sure to bring it to the table. Security was lax, but still present, in the form of a rather husky man with a tan and moustache, and a lanky black man.
Wilson was still dressed in his battle regalia, complete with assault rifle and M6D pistol, so taking on the two lightly armed guards wouldn't be a problem if the unfortunate need arose. The taller guard stared the two down, but didn't make any moves.
The pair hustled to the nearest rental facility, and borrowed a Warthog IX. It's slick yellow paintjob and bulky tires made it an impressive sight, and the off-road durability was exactly what they were looking for.
"I'll drive." Wilson said cockily, taking the keyes from Travis' palm and jumping into the driver's seat. Travis rolled his eyes and stepped into the passenger side. Dust and rocks shot into the air forming a thick cloud as the massive tires grabbed and shot the vehicle forward.
The two-and-a-half hour trip to the remote and secluded base was bearable, but very quiet. The two men only stared off to avoid any form of contact. Travis sighed as they pulled onto the shoulder and out of sight of oncoming traffic.
"I bet Georgio's gonna crap himself when he sees us." Travis insisted. Wilson merely slapped a new clip into his weapon and cocked the bolt. "Alright, what the hell's your problem? You haven't said a damn thing this entire trip."
"Nothing. I've been thinking about how we should approach this." Wilson's words were bland. The sudden whoosh of a car speeding by barely stirred the marine as he casually looked behind him.
"Whatever man, let's get going."
"You'll need a gun. Take my pistol." Wilson unholstered his sidearm and dropped it into his partner's palm. He retrieved two clips of spare ammo for him as well, with more secured to his utility belt if needed.
The heavily wooded forest area they were sludging through was oddly beautiful. Slivers of sunlight broke through the canopy wonderfully, an almost miraculous sight to behold as the red and yellow leaves reflected their colors.
They walked for easily several miles, crossing a small brook and then free-rapelling a small cliff. Wilson was still unsure of the whole situation, what made Randaford and Debrose turn, and why he was trekking through the forest to kill his old boss with a strange scientist.
The rhythmic crackling of leaves under their feet had been stricken from their minds after several minutes, and the addition of a new set of footsteps stopped them both cold. Wilson instinctively rolled behind the nearest tree while gripping his gun, and was surprised to find Travis already hidden.
A sentry waddled past evidently unaware of their presence, his pants around his legs as he searched for a suitable place to relieve himself. He stopped inches from Wilson, and took a welcomed leak on the opposite side of his tree.
He had never heald his breath for so long, at least he was sure he hadn't, frozen in fear as he waited for the man to pass by. The zipping sound and sputter of broken bark signaled his finsish, now all he had to do was leave.
Unfortunately his weapon slipped, landing with it's barrel facing Wilson's panicked body. The half-stooped soldier heard the heavy panting of a breathless marine as he jerked his head upwards. He yanked his gun up and prepared to fire.
He wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled it hard. The blurt of automatic weapons fire roared through the forest, sending several hundred birds soaring into the air, and a deer-like animal skidding downhill in a mad dash for safety.
The man moaned and tears trickled down his cheeks as he shakily probed his side and back with his hands. Two large holes had ripped through the skin, and imploded inside of him, tearing his organs and tissue to hell.
Wilson watched as Travis leapt stealthily from his tree-branch perch, nearly invisible. He was holstering his pistol as he made a crouching dash to his friend.
"You a'ight?" He asked while visually scanning Wilson's body.
"Yea, I'm fine. What about him?" Wilson watched as Travis shook his head solemnly.
"I put one his his spleen and two in his spine, he won't make it. Not unless he get's some serious medical treatment extremely fast."
"Well, all we can do is pray, let's go before backup arrives."
The duo skittered off around the base, which was nestled at the crest of an almost mountain-like hill. They found an unguarded side entrance, which was locked. Travis knelt at the keypad and fiddled with the mechanism for several minutes, and it sported a wiley pop before opening.
They cautiously surveyed the facility before entering, hopefully blending into their fellow scientists and marine counter-parts. No one seemed to notice their strange appearance as they strolled through hall after hall on their way to Georgio's throne room.
They entered an enormous room, covered in pictures of old generals hanging on the walls. Large trees adorned the corners, and an exquisite rug covered the floors. Intricate precious metals and sparkling rare-gems reflected the light off of his heavy chair.
Georgio looked more like a Mayan tribal leader than the sophisticated head of the UNSC's most troublesome pirate organization. He was to busy chatting with an associate to notice them at first, but his eyes quickly locked onto his new guests.
"Well if it isn't my old traitor friends Deskin Wilson and Travis McKaulen. What brings you two back-stabbing bastards to my humble abode?" Georgio snarled as he finished his sentence.
"Back-stabbing, your a fine one to talk you prick." Wilson began, but was cut off mid-sentence by the entrance of Randaford and Debrose. Randaford's legs had been replaced with artificial limbs, and Debrose sported a thick mechanical device around his torso.
"You two thought you could just waltz in here, steal my, our, weapon, and then leave unpunished. I'm afraid not." Georgio interupted as three more marines, sporting shotguns, entered the room.
"We didn't steal anything, you've got your facts mixed up. That bastard Randaford and his pal Debrose turned on US. Not the other way around." Georgio's forehead crinkled in though momentarily, but the wrinkles were quickly replaced with a bullet.
"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson screamed to Travis, who was firing at the three marines in the corner. They dropped to their knees as bullets punctured their throats, stomaches, and other exposed bodyparts.
Debrose quickly backed through a door at the rear of the room, and Randaford jumped for cover behind the late Georgio's throne. Wilson was confused but had to fire as four more guards entered the room. His shredder rounds slicing through their thin body armor as though it were leather.
Randaford peeked out from behind his cover, and delivered a crippling round to Wilson's leg, and he crumpled to the floor in pain. Blood seethed from the wound, and he delivered as much preasure as he could to slow the bleeding.
Travis only glanced at his wounded partner once, before firing three shots and Randaford, which all happened to miss by a wide margin, but just close enough to distract him, and then exited the room in the chaos.
STAY TUNED
The 7th Column: Revelations
Date: 13 October 2003, 1:42 AM
Wilson's forehead was drenched with sweat as blood squelched freely from his wound. Randaford and Debrose moved slowly due to their "handicaps", and approached him with weapons raised. He was panting heavily, with pale skin and bloodshot eyes. Pleading silently for any help he could get, but secretly knowing he was dead. Darkness slowly overtook his eyes, and his heavy lids sank lower and lower. He watched Randaford and Debrose stare at him expressionless before finally succumbing to the overwhelming urge to sleep.
Upon becoming concious
The extremely bright overhead examination lamps burned his eyes as he awoke from his slumber. He winced in pain and squeezed them closed. Straps on his wrists restrained him from covering his eyes with his palms, which he so wished he could. The light still shone opaquely through his thin eyelids much to his displeasure.
"Looks like he's awake, turn off the overheads. Give him thirty cc's of Metafine or Remalex and then remove his straps. Check his blood pressure and heart rate, then wheel him down to recovery."
An unseen figure welcomly turned off the overheads, and Wilson opened his eyes. His vision was blurred to say the least, and he was only able to make out the shadowy outline of a man near his bed. The chirp, beep, flutter, and stutter of machines slowly became clearer as his senses returned. The high amount of medication and powerful painkillers he had been kept on were wearing off just in time.
A cool liquid seeped into his bloodstream through the IV drip already jammed into his arm, and he shivered slightly at it's burn. Sloppy unintelligible words slobbered from his numb lips as he tried to make out a sentence, but nothing he could do lessened his plight. The figure payed no attention to him, and the shaking of his bed told Wilson that he was being moved.
It seemed like forever before the hallway ended and his bed stopped rolling. By this time his medication had almost fully dissipated, and he could make out reasonably understandable words.
"Wer an I?" He muttered.
"Your at Fort Peck Condor." The seemingly tall, gray haired man replied with a smile. "Open wide." He took out a small probe and inspected Wilson's mouth, followed by an eye and ear exam. "No signs of infection, you'll live. General Condor wants a word with you as soon as your up and about, give that leg twenty four hours though."
Confusing sentiments echoed through Dreskin's mind. Why were they being so nice to a supposed traitor? How come they didn't kill him as he suspected they wanted to so eagerly before? He wasn't sure, but that mattered little now. All that mattered was that he was still alive to find out. He had apparently been given more medication, as his eyes began slowly drifting closed again until finally he was asleep.
Twenty four hours later
As he awoke yet again, his surroundings were once more changed. The light and comfortable matress he had been pinned to earlier had been replaced with a stiff and unsupportive cot. Olive green sheets rested loosely on his almost-naked body. He wasn't sure if they were originally the olive color, or if years of use had slowly turned them the dull shade.
The room he was in was adorned with cots, lining every wall and the center of the room, and three stories high, this facility was well equipped for any battle that might require the usage of large-scale sleeping habitats. Only three dull red lights lit the room, a single door the apparent entrance and exit to his location.
Tossing the sheets onto the floor and swinging his legs around the side, he only now realised the stint covering his leg. It's protective gel support took the brunt of his steps, and the small container latched to the side was able to keep a fresh supply of bio-foam and anti-biotics circulating his wound.
A thin pair of Microsafe boxers were his only clothing, but a full battle dress uniform was folded on the cot next to him. He dressed as quickly as possible, making sure his clothes were secured and in tip-top shape. He limped from the dark room into a surprisingly long corridor, and stared down both directions. The hallways branching through the Fort, especially this one, were emaculate.
Neigh a single Pantra bulb (a lightbulb that required no filaments, and instead used a liquid medium to provide light) was out during the expansive length of the hall. The metallic floor was mopped clean and waxed, with the walls being stainless and solid white. Wilson had never seen anything as clean and orderly as this before.
He criss-crossed his way through the large complex, moving between the long lines of militants going to or returning from drills, and weaving about the hundreds of other personnel roaming the walkways. He had never been to Fort Peck Condor, but it was a massive place.
At first he assumed it was an old bunker nestled far underground somewhere, and he was partially right. As he crossed an open-glass bridge the realization that they were hidden deep inside of two massive mountains became more evident. Their beautiful snow-capped peaks sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight, the dense jungle several hundred feet below providing a dark-green backdrop for the scenic fortress outpost.
A dark-brown mountain-side stood supportingly on both sides of the bridge, and the thick river that snaked through the valley and into a large lake several miles downspin gave a picturesque view that he couldn't help but stare at for several minutes. Two F-67 Hell Vultures (early predecessors to the SkyHawk model fighter planes) ripped from the belly of the eastern mountain from an unseen launch bay and skimmed the treetops until finally disappearing over the horizon.
A group of three marines loud banter awoke him from his stunned moment of tranquility and he returned on his trip to see General Condor. It wasn't too much longer before a commanding royal-blue sign that read "General Peck J. Condor" entered his view. He buzzed the small ringer on beside the door, and waited for the massive entry to open, which they finally did.
The General had a quite impressive office established, with a view of a large bay only a half-kilometer or so from the mountain's bulbous base. Two fishing boats swayed happily on the near-calm water below them. The General was facing the gargantuan windows overlooking the spectacle as Wilson stood at attention in front of his desk.
Several minutes passed as dusk set on the bay, sending dark oranges and passionate reds cascading along the rolling waves before they finally foamed as they crested and crashed on the rocky shore. Wilson couldn't complain at having to wait, as he enjoyed the view as much as the General.
"At ease. Please have a seat." The General passed his hand across his desk, and Wilson took a seat in one of the four oversized and very comfortable plush chairs in the room. "I understand you were the victim of an unfortunate series of events that spiraled out of hand. I partially blame myself for the deaths of your comrades, and your own wound, and am beyond grief for the loss of Commandant Georgio."
"I'm sorry sir, but I don't know what you mean."
"I know you don't, so I'll explain. I.I.S. (Imperial Intelligence Services) agents working for the 7th Column under my command came under information recently."
"Such as?"
"Information that directly linked your partner Travis with UNSC C.I.A. members. Several recorded visits between him and UNSC operatives further settled the dispute, and I gave the order for Randaford, Rogers, and Debrose to eliminate the two."
"The two? I'm not a spy."
"I know you're not, and very sorry you had to become entangled in this whole mess. Travis' partner, Stetson, was the other operative. We successfully eliminated Stetson before the plan went to hell, and that's where you came in. You should've been informed ahead of time, but secrecy was key. If two of our best scientists could be spies, there was no telling who else was."
"I see. So what do we do now."
"He has the Excalibur, the weapon we were sure could bring the UNSC to it's knees if implemented in vast numbers. The fusion reactor incident got their attention, and the government complex proved that we were dead serious. We have to have that weapon back. If they UNSC get's their hands on it, we're doomed. Everything we've worked for will go down the drain."
"I will warn you, I have observed his technique, and he is very skilled. You should send only the best you have."
"I fully agree, and as such I have decided to let you accompany the team on their search for him."
"But I'm only a grunt sir, and a wounded one at that. I doubt I could match any of our special forces."
"But you have one thing they don't, you've spent time with him. You know how he works, and you know where he'll be likely to head. So you're on the team."
"But-" Wilson was cut off by the General's heavy words.
"This isn't voluntary Wilson. You'll leave in two days. Get some rest, relax, and prep. That is all."
"Yes sir." Wilson braced himself on the arms of the chair, stood up, saluted, and left the room solemnly.
STAY TUNED
The 7th Column: First Strike
Date: 8 November 2003, 4:59 AM
Johnson and Peters entered the bridge quietly, being nodded off by all but the Captain as a nuisance. The two men were suited in solid black fatigues and gear, uncharacteristic for the time and place. There were no Black Ops, or any operations at all for that matter, scheduled for that night. Peters shuffled across the heavy metallic floor silently, none of his straps or buckles making so much as a disturbance in the air.
Johnson bypassed a confused Captain Roberts and descended into "The Pit", the small recessed area that housed the ship's pilots. The two men were sitting comfortably in their heavily padded seats, checking the multitude of various monitors and computer banks cacooning them. The rapid appearance of Johnson went unnoticed by the men, and neither saw his shadowy figure emerge.
The muffled shots sounded like someone punching a pillow as the silencer attached to his M6D went to work. The shells would have been the only sounds giving away the tragic deception that had just ocurred, had not he caught both of them before they landed. A panicked guard turned to pull the alarm, but never made a move as a 7.6mm bullet severed his jugular vein and vocal chords in one shot.
"Captain Robertson, I'm afraid a mutiny has ocurred." Johnson said with a chuckle, the glimmering weapon in his possession bouncing up and down as he smacked the butt of it against his palm.
"My name's Roberts." He gritted under his teeth with a heavy breath. His fists balling from anger and the fact that he wasn't sure whether he was going to attack the men holding him hostage or follow their orders. For the time being he would wait, jeapordizing his crew was the last thing he wanted to do.
Peters was already sealing the outer doors leading into the bridge, his small plasma torch quickly closing the prisoners' chances of escape. A cocky Lieutenant decided to make a move before it was too late, swivelling quickly in his chair and leaping towards Johnson. Johnson sidestepped the attack with graceful precision, bringing the butt of his pistol down on the man's head. His eyes rolled to the back and he collided limply on the cold steel.
The man's friend, an Ensign, attempted to help him, but was rewarded with a toasty slug in his forehead. Johnson wasn't sure which landed first, his brain or his body. Both were blown clear and the threat removed, the point that Johnson was going for more than evident.
"Who were those two men Captain?" Johnson snarled.
"Lieutenant Suarez and Ensign Kilpatrick. The communications officer, and the weapons officer."
"You'll be hard pressed should we run into Covenant forces. If only you'd had control over your men, been a strong leader instead of a whining baby who sits on the side and watches his men die. What kind of leader is that? That's just pathetic. Now wonder the UNSC is losing the war against the so called Guerillas."
The verbal assault was doing exactly what he'd hoped, breaking down Roberts from the inside. The more he could get the man thinking about himself the less of a problem he would be. Roberts' failure to respond only drove that nail home, both to Johnson and the Command Crew.
"Peters, how's it coming?"
"I'm working on the inside doors. The outer doors have been sealed."
"Good, good. See if there's a bathroom over there, we'll need some napkins. Poor leadership has led to the deaths of several fine men. Good men. Brothers, sons, or fathers to someone. Real men. Unlike this sorry excuse for a man in command."
"Yeah, I'll look." Peters responded with a chuckle.
A succession of two more muffled shots took the weapons control panel offline. Follow-up shots sent sparks flying into The Pit as several computer banks erupted into miniscule flames.
"You now have no remote control over your weapons or half of your steering. The only two ways you could use these systems is manually by having men in those areas take control. Then again, your the only one with access to the manual overrides. In other words, you're no longer in control of your ship, we are, get used to it."
Peters strolled back into the bridge, tossing several napkins into Roberts' surprised face. Johnson meanwhile, had disappeared into The Pit and was tugging the mens' corpses out of their seats and onto the morgue-esque floor. He holstered his weapon and scaled the small ladder leading to the seat, essentially taking control over the ship.
Peters unloaded his weapon into all of the monitors in the room, leaving only the communications monitor active. He finished by joining his partner in the second seat, both of them staring into the ghostly beyond. They began chatting about random subjects and laughing carelessly, as if unaware of the deeds they had just perpetrated.
Roberts slowly inched his way to the abandoned Communications panel, and tapped several silent commands on the keyboard. He inserted the remote probe into the small headphones jack, and then disappeared behind the small partition that gutted the room. The Backbone, a small recess at the center of the bridge, not in the front, was home to a small series of monitors that kept accurate records of many of the ship's activities.
He patched into InShiCom, the in ship communications frequency. He routed the message to the place that would matter most, the guard station.
"This is Roberts, the bridge has been taken by two heavily armed gunmen. Two men down, repeat, bridge taken." He whispered into the small microphone strapped to his chin. A surprised guard wasn't sure how to react on the other end of the line.
"This is Roberts, the bridge has been taken by two heavily armed gunemen. Two down, repeat, bridge taken." Crackled over the channel, catching Corporal Wilkez offguard. He juggled the large mug nestled in his lap to keep from pouring the scalding hot coffee in his lap.
"Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit..." He repeated to himself, sitting the cup on his desk. His partner was just returning from break as his friend ended his chant.
"What is it?" He questioned.
Wilkez looped the broadcast over the small room's headspeakers, sending surprise through Belk's face.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Belk's repeated in a similar fashion.
"Whatta' we do Belk?" Wilkez moaned with a slight whimper.
"I don't know. Uh, first we...wheres the book?"
The Book was a thick guideline on how to respond to almost any situation the guards on the ship could ever face, from riots to fights, and even hostile takeovers.
"Got it, page three-thousand six-hundred twenty-two." Wilkez flipped quickly to the afformentioned page, and then read up on what to do.
"Get the access codes for the manual override from him. We can control the ship manually if something happens to him."
"Roger. Captain Roberts, are you there?" Belk asked in a near whisper.
"I'm here, hurry up."
"What are the access codes for the ship's manual overrides?"
"Why do you need those?"
"That's what the book says to do."
"The weapons codes are zero-zero-four-eight-nine, and the steering codes are nine-nine-zero-four-eight." Roberts responded with deliberate words, he didn't want to have to repeat it twice.
"Alright Captain, we have them. Stay safe until we can do something."
"We'll try." Roberts responded.
Johnson whipped around the corner of the partition, ending up beside Roberts. His mouth was scowling and his forehead red with fury.
"Well what the hell do we have here?" Johnson asked slapping the headset off of Roberts' head.
"It's too late now, they have the manual override codes. It's only a matter of time now. They'll be here any minute now." The Captain responded with a grin, which was quickly removed with a fierce backhanded stroke.
"Is it though?" Peters laughed demonically from beside Johnson as he returned to his seat.
Roberts watched Johnson return to his seat, obviously uneffected by the news. His coolness scared Roberts deep down. Why weren't they more upset? He pondered anxiously to himself.
"I'm going to give these to weapons and controls, and gather up several squads as well as putting the ship on alert. We'll save those men ye-" Belk grasped at his throat as a heavy bullet forced it's way into his throat. He died instantaneously from the wound, collapsing onto his knees and snapping his neck from the forceful impact.
"But that would jeapordize the mission. We can't jeapordize the mission, now can we?" Wilkez asked as he lightly blew on the smoking barrel of his pistol, which was also silenced. He turned from the still and mangled heap of flesh stenching on the floor to his right, and sent a private communication to weapons and controls.
"Operation successful. Proceeding to phase two. Repeat, phase two." Wilkez waited for the acknowledgement, and nodded as he received it. He rerouted his channel and updated the two operatives stationed on the bridge. Their work today was more than exemplary.
Peters was already torching his way back through the previously sealed doors, opening the way to freedom once again. Their mission had been a complete success. The 7th Column's first act of war was accomplished. Whether they would receive as much attention as The Incarnate or Alsam's Raiders they weren't sure, but they knew one thing. Everyone would know them soon.
In thirty minutes the doors were open and the two men were strolling from the bridge, the rotting masses of the entire command crew lying dead on the floor. It would be an hour or two before anyone noticed the strange lack of responsiveness from the bridge, as the only time anyone checked in was at the shift change.
Johnson and Peters entered Bay-4 Alpha and was greeted by Wilkez, Martinez, and Wilson. The five of them had single handedly taken over, and destroyed an entire UNSC cruiser. They quickly boarded the small prowler provided them, and while larger than a Corvetter, it was still a tight fit. But in several hours it would all be over. The small blinking countdown timer appeared on the console before Wilkez as he powered up the ship, and pushed her violently out of the docking bay and into the safety of space.
Bubbly explosions rippled the ship's stern, before a gigantic explosion ripped once and for all through the ship's heavy metal hull. She crumpled like a can at the center, and broke in half, decompression swishing into the surprised corridors killing many of the men stationed inside. The twin pieces finally erupted into goliath explosions that subsided into a small cloud of debris. The first strike by The 7th Column had been a total success. Soon, they would be the dominant pirate outfit in the sector.
The 7th Column: Betrayal
Date: 24 November 2003, 3:39 AM
"Where are they when you need them? Always late." Graff whined emotionlessly at his rendezvous' inability to arrive on time. He was sweating, and had already run through his entire pack of cigarettes. The double flash of lights down the road signaled they were coming, the hilly and rocky landscape constantly obscured the view down the road.
He walked back to his Humrec Calkon Gemini. One of the finest vehicles in the universe. Six wheel drive, GPS, night-vision, leather seats, one million mile warranty, and over six-hundred radio stations. Those were only the standards. He had of course, being the paranoid bastard that he was, opted for all of the conceivable extras.
Tires that would re-inflate when shot out, and under-carriage that could withstand an anti-vehicle mine, armored plating strong enough to give a rocket a run for it's money. Windows not even a heavy round could pierce, enough oxygen to survive six days in vacuum, and MRE's for a small division. He wasn't afraid of anything inside of his vehicle, but the supreme protection made him skiddish about everything OUTSIDE of it.
"You heard?" Asked the shadowy figure in the front seat.
"Heard, hell it's all over the newsnet. Although rumor-control was their ten minutes before the ship blew, Georgio's name is everywhere. The new guerillas on the block. The 7th Column."
"I think we did damn good." Responded Johnson, a silent nod from Peters as well.
"As promised, here's your money." Graff passed a small datapad to Johnson, who checked the readout.
John, Smith
First Universal Bank of Sal Duradus
10,000,000,000
Box Number: 167849338538
"Damnit Graff, that's a lot of money."
"I told you, he pays well."
"It's not that you dumb shit. Ten million dollars in one day, at the same time as this? Hello, knock knock, anyone there. They're gonna track that a million miles away. Hell I'm surprised ONI hasn't already blown up my apartment."
"It's only been two days John, give 'em time." Graff chuckled doggedly. Johnson didn't think it was funny. "Besides, it's not in an account. We've had different men open separate safe-boxes. Everything that goes in is totally unnoticed. Then we had them consolidate it all into a master-box, and you're set."
"I damn well better be. But hey, if you ever need to meet me again. Don't pick these fucking woods. I know your tank can handle it, but Betsy, she just ain't got it. We could meet in a park or something."
"You know how I feel about parks, especially on this planet."
"Yea, they're all bugged. Well it won't really matter, soon Betsy will be all better, ain't that right girl." Johnson rubbed her metallic shell as he coddled his machine.
"You gonna marry that thing or drive it?"
The man gave Graff the finger, and Peters drove off. "You know where to reach me." Echoed down the bumpy dirt trail as the dust settled behind them.
"Yes, yes I do. I can't wait to see the look on their faces when they go to open that box, assuming they live long enough." Graff chuckled quietly as he pulled himself into the large cabin.
"Peters."
No response.
"HEY, PETERS!"
Still silence.
"Man, where the hell are you, this ain't funny." Patrick Johnson found the small note lying on the end table, and laughed aloud as he read it.
GETTIN LAID
BE BACK LATER,
Love Mom
"We haven't even gotten the money yet and he's already bangin his heart out. I'll have to adopt his style soon."
A slight breeze shifted the curtains. Odd. Peters was too careful to leave that open on purpose. Johnson approached the balcony, and moved the curtain with his hand. Outside of his villa was the beautiful view of another, large villa, which itself overlooked his beach. It spran up practically overnight, totally decimating his scenic ocean-side escape.
He turned from the glass doorway, and slid it closed, locking it behind him. There was a creak on the floorboards. He spun around. Nothing. His gun was in the bedroom, too far to go if someone was waiting for him. A vase on the entertainment center next to him was his only weapon as the assassin looked for his assassin. An ironic twist of fate. Bullets pocked the wall behind him, and riddled the television.
"Shit!" He tossed the vase at his agressor's supposed location, and hit the floor. Rolling under the in table near the couch. It was cover from above, but it wouldn't last him long. His cat jetted into the room, scared and confused, the worst place possible to come. Two bullets fluffled fur into the air, it's tiny head exploding into a sphere of gore.
"Oh hell no. You killed my cat you dick."
Two bullets riddled the table, one snagging Johnson's left leg. The pain was excruciating, he tried to sit up, and hit his head on the top. Two feet were standing next to the furniture he was taking cover under, the figure apparently about to fire. Patrick pushed the table onto the surprised assassin, breaking on of his knees in the process. He fell backwards, caught off guard, dropping his gun as he did. They both scrambled for it, but Patrick got it first.
Fear struck the masked soon-to-be corpse, who childishly put his hands above his head. Yea, right, that'll do you good. The military would take him under control, Johnson just wanted him dead.
"Who the hell do you work for." Johnson screamed, the blood loss was already getting to him.
"Go to he-" Was all he managed to say before a bullet lodged in his forehead, the body doubling over on itself on the floor. Johnson hadn't fired it, his head jerked to the door. Peters? Great, too late to help, early enough to fuck it up. Johnson was relieved and mad at the same time.
"What the hell's goin on here?" Peters asked as he applied pressure to the wound. "We've got to go, I'll get you to a doctor and you can tell me all about it there."
A.N.:This is a sidestory for The 7th Column. The main story is still there, but I like this one more for now.
|
