No Hope Hotel, Southwest Sector
0440 EST
Bundmeister's arm flashed up, the combat knife in a reverse overhand grip, before her eyes were even open. Its arc was arrested as her wrist hit a hard and muscular forearm, the back of the blade brushing over weathered skin. "Easy, Bunny," chuckled Ryckmen softly. "Just came to see what was going on. You were having a nightmare, I think."
"Yeah," Bundmeister replied as she slowly sat up in her sleeping bag, rubbing her eyes. "Back in Baluchistan there for a bit. One of my last jobs in Pararescue. Had to sneak into the Pakistani Tribal Areas to recover a pilot." She stretched out, then slipped the blade back into its sheath. "Lousy job. Fifteen hundred klicks from drop point to extraction, bleeding all the way from the bullet wounds."
"How did you not die?"
"I ask myself that question almost every day." Bundmeister looked over Ryckmen. "What're you doing up?"
"Been up a couple hours now. I racked out right after we ate last night. I was keeping an eye on things out on the street. So far, nice and quiet. Figured I'd come back in, see if I could scavenge some Kerman's mini-brew packs from the food service closets. Starting to get a little savage from the chicory."
"Not quite as good as Colombian, I'll give you that." Bundmeister stood up and stretched again. "I'll get Ricky and Peace up. Good hunting."
Twenty minutes later, the agents were up and munching down protein bars. Ryckmen hadn't been able to find any real coffee, but had scrounged up some packets of English breakfast tea. Gregory shook his head slightly as he took in the scene. Just another domestic moment in post-Dollar Flu America.
"Peacemaker, this is Casablanca," squawked Gregory's watch. "Stand by for White House Actual."
"Casablanca, Peacemaker here, standing by." He saw the looks on his comrades' faces and shrugged. "Guess we'll have to skip the hot yoga this morning."
"Gregory, it's Manny. You have the others with you?"
"Certainly do, Manny. Team Peacemaker is bright eyed and bushy tailed." Gregory suppressed a chuckle as Tarvey grinned and gave him the finger. "You're up awful early."
"I was rather rudely awakened. We got a hot tip from Mike Snow over at the Castle. Guessing Kelso's 'hearts and minds' visit had some impact. How close are you to the Air & Space Museum?"
"Fifteen minutes, assuming the streets stay clear. What's going on?"
"I won't say you kicked a hornet's nest," said Ortega slowly, "but it seems you may have spooked the True Sons, or at least the leadership elements immediately closest to you. Snow got word from a guy he used to know before he bailed out. The guy wants to defect, and he has some intel which he figures will help make good his escape. There's a short company working out of the museum. From what the defector is saying, they've been salvaging exhibits to try and get a working missile put together. And there was a communique last night asking for a progress report. The defector noticed there was a question about payload capabilities. Specifically chemical weapon dispersal."
The four Division agents saw echoing looks of shock on each others' faces. Aside from Gregory, they all had at least some training in what to do around chemical weapons, and how to neutralize them as quickly as possible. But that training didn't make it easier for them to be told somebody was planning to use them.
"Manny, Lobo here. Did this defector have any information on what chemical weapons they might be trying to use?"
"No, he didn't. And that's ominous. As far as I know, they don't have anything like VX or sarin. No irritants like mustard gas, either. None of that stuff would have been stored anywhere close to D.C. before the Dollar Flu, and forget during the evacuations. But it's not like there's a lack of household chemicals around here. Not mention there's still tons of DC-62 laying around. And believe me, with everything that happened with the Dark Zones around here, DC-62 is literal nightmare fuel. It'd be suicide to try and make use of it, but a lot of folks around here these days are carrying a death wish, and there's ample opportunities to satisfy it."
Bundmeister looked grim. "So we take out their missile production line, we curtail their options for offensive strikes."
"Pretty much. And because this defector is seriously spooked, they want to get out of there before sunrise. Which is in about forty-five minutes. Can you make it over there?"
"Can do, Manny," said Gregory confidently. "How will we find this guy?"
"He'll be manning a gate near the back corner of the museum's loading dock and freight storage area. It's where they stage big exhibit pieces before moving them inside or loading them on to trucks."
"All right. We're out the door in five. Peacemaker, out."
* * *
Air & Space Museum, East Mall Sector
0530 EST
"Sunrise in about twelve minutes," murmured Ryckmen as they moved along the street, approaching a chain link fence covered with plastic tarps.
"Can we trust this guy?" Bundmeister asked, her finger behind the trigger on her shotgun.
Tarvey shrugged slightly. "Maybe, maybe not. We'll see when we get there."
Gregory scanned the area, seeing the gate in front of them, looking for any signs of an ambush. Finding none, he approached the gate, then quietly whistled a couple bars from "The 1812 Overture." A True Sons soldier appeared from the side, a black bandana over his nose and mouth, hair cut high and tight. The man's right hand sat on top of the butt of his pistol, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Mike Snow sent us," Gregory said quietly. The defector relaxed visibly and opened the gate, allowing the team inside.
"I won't say I'm glad you're here," the defector said coldly. "Understand something, I hate everything you represent, and I am absolutely not going to be providing any aid or comfort to your little fascist gun club. But I also didn't sign up for this sort of thing. There are some things which you do not do in a civilized society, even if that society has been devastated like ours has. And the potential targeting of civilian population centers, no matter how small, with indiscriminate weapons is an atrocity, plain and simple. I hate your guts," he growled, "but even I have to admit you've never used or been tempted to use WMDs of any sort. Certainly not any chemical weapons."
"Does Ridgeway have anything like that?" asked Ryckmen, his voice quiet but firm.
"He's got people experimenting with bathroom nerve gas. Effective, but not sophisticated. Lt. Kelly has been working on dispersal systems most recently, but Ridgeway sent him over here to help iron out problems with missile assembly. They have the prototype almost ready for a test launch."
"So why help us if you hate us so much?" Gregory asked, honest curiosity in his expression as he looked at the defector.
"Like I said, WMDs aren't your weapon of choice. I'm willing to bet they're not even an option you or your superiors have even considered. You're monsters, but you're human scale monsters. Ridgeway, the True Sons, they're becoming something worse than that. They've grown into an organizational monster that no one person can fight alone. A Grendel that requires an army of Beowulfs to slay. And God damn both you and Ridgeway for that," the defector finished bitterly.
"Take off," Ryckmen said, glacial ice coating each word. "We'll deal with Kelly and the missile." The defector nodded and slipped out through the gate. "All right, guys, we're going to hit hard and fast. It's still pretty dim out here, so get into position, hold for my signal. I'll call out targets."
The agents nodded and crabbed into firing positions, Ryckmen glassing each target through his SVD and sub-vocalizing to ISAC, the corner of his eyes catching the faint shifts as the others brought their weapons to bear. "Fire," he murmured, finger gently squeezing the trigger. Between bursts of automatic weapons and the sharp crack of rifles, the outer guards were cut down simultaneously, wiped out in a single wave of fire. "Move." The agents trotted over to the loading dock, Bundmeister on point with her shotgun, Tarvey close behind with his MP5. Bringing up the garage door, the agents went inside, pausing only to eliminate a few True Sons who'd apparently been using the garage as a temporary guard room.
Gregory noticed the papers laid out over a pair of large crates and came over to examine them. "Map here," he said quietly, tracing a finger over it. "They've got the major settlements all marked up. Also looks like District Union Arena and Roosevelt Island. Columns of figures next to them."
Tarvey came up next to Gregory. "Ballistic calculations would be my guess. Trying to figure out how to get the most bang for the buck."
"Take it with us," said Ryckmen firmly. "Might not be able to set up any sort of counter-battery emplacements, but it'll give Odessa, Snow, and Hayes something to work with if it comes down to that." Gregory folded up the map, frowning a little in thought. Ryckmen had always been cool under pressure, but this situation had summoned a different side of him. Still focused, still lethal, still ruthless, but now it held an edge of hostility. Almost outrage.
Making their way up the stairs, they came across a makeshift machine shop, a clutch of lathes and milling machines crowded together. Gregory raised his CTAR to put some rounds through the controls of one of them when Tarvey's hand came down gently over the forearm, pushing the muzzle to the floor.
"There's a better way to make sure these guys don't get any work done while we're here." Tarvey pulled out a hex key set from a pocket on his backpack, then flitted from one machine to the next, taking out components. "They're not going to be turning anything without a lead screw."
"Thought you were in the Teams," Ryckmen commented, an eyebrow arched slightly.
"Indeed I was. But back in the dim days before BUD/S, I was a machinist's mate. Ended up customizing weapons for my buddies in the Teams, building suppressors and muzzle brakes, whatever little jobs they needed."
"Good thinking," said Ryckmen. "Odessa can get a recovery team in here and haul them out. Might make it easier to keep her people's gear in shape."
Going through the planetarium, Tarvey sighed as he looked at the projector, seeing the bullet holes and broken glass spread across the topmost sphere. "I always loved coming to the planetarium when I was a kid. Laser shows were the best."
"Me too," echoed Gregory. "Had no desire to be an astronomer, but seeing the programs always made me excited."
The team climbed up through the scaffolding above the planetarium's dome and out onto the next floor. As they approached the corner, a shout from across the way came out, followed by the hissing shriek of a RPG. The light anti-tank weapon flew erratically, jinking up and blasting a hole in the ceiling, a one-third scale model of the Space Shuttle crashing down on the concourse as the cables holding it gave way. Bundmeister slid behind a column, a furious snarl twisting her angular features as she ripped off an entire magazine from her AK-M and downed four True Sons in the burst. Without stopping, she switched over to her SPAS-12 and charged, working the pump as targets presented themselves. With the concourse cleared, she paused to reload, her expression still enraged.
"You OK, Bunny?" asked Gregory gingerly.
"Yeah. It's just...that." She pointed to the Space Shuttle. "I know it's a model, but everybody wanted to fly on it when I was in the Air Force. Even after they ended the program. I knew guys who'd gone up and they had this aura about them. They were changed in ways that I can't describe. It's like it was a promise of something better." Bundmeister shook her head, her expression cooling back to focused neutrality. "We've all got monuments we admire. I just hate seeing one desecrated by barbarians pretending they're the only hope of civilization."
The team passed through an exhibit showcasing Mars missions and on to another concourse. Making their way down the stairs, they came across work benches set up with blocky chunks of electronics and wiring on them. Gregory came over to one and inspected it. "Think this might their major assembly area. Lot of solid state pieces in here. Definitely not digital. They're going low-fi on this thing, wherever it is."
"How low are talking?" asked Bundmeister.
"Nothing more recent than the mid-70s, I'd say." Gregory cocked his head and growled in disgust. "Christ on a crutch, this chunk here is using bits from the Gemini program! I don't which is worse. The destruction of priceless pieces of aerospace history or the fact this thing's only slightly more sophisticated than a bottle rocket."
"Take offense at both and move on," Tarvey advised. "Let's see if they've got their prototype stashed somewhere."
"How's it coming, guys?" asked Kelso unexpectedly over the comms.
"We're all in agreement that Ridgeway and the True Sons need to go to the wall for crimes against history," Ryckmen replied wryly. "Almost finished the sweep. Where are you?"
"Still over at the Castle. Gathering intel from the locals, a little hearts-and-minds work, nothing big. I was going to head back to the Theater after lunch."
"Has Snow's turncoat buddy showed up?"
"He came in just before breakfast. Snow and a couple of his people are debriefing him right now. I'm thinking about maybe sticking around, see if I can't have a chat with him before I leave. It'd be criminally stupid not to talk to him myself."
"It would, if he's in the mood to talk to you. He's not exactly our biggest fan, Kelso," Ryckmen warned.
"Understood. If you don't mind, I'll keep the channel open. I want to hear what you find."
"Copy that. Lobo, clear." Ryckmen checked his ammo, then went over to a set of double-doors and opened them, the muzzle of his MDR dropping as he whistled slowly. "Guys, over here."
The rest of the team stepped in and looked at the weapon in the cradle. A chirp came from their watches as ISAC quickly interfaced with the laptop hooked up to the weapon. "Prototype missile. Weapon designation: LMR-21."
"That would be the missile, I'm guessing," Kelso said dryly. "Please destroy that godawful thing."
"With pleasure," Gregory said, stepping up to the laptop. He typed in a series of commands, then smiled as he heard a small whine rising from the interior of the missile body. A brief pop and a whiff of ozone rose up and quickly dissipated. "Prototype has been neutralized. They might be able to rebuild it in six months, but they're not going to have the chance."
"Good deal. Tag it for Odessa's recovery teams."
A tone sounded on everybody's watches, followed immediately by audio. "Broadway, this is Tapdance 2. We have True Sons converging on our position near the main lobby of the Air & Space Museum. Please advise!"
"Tapdance 2, this is Kelso. We have Division agents nearby to reinforce you. Dig in and hang tight." A chirp from the watch, indicating a change in channels. "How far are you guys right now from the lobby?"
"Less than ten meters and a set of doors," Gregory replied quickly.
"Shag it over there and back them up."
"On it," said Ryckmen as he cross over to the doors and pushed them open. The MDR barked as he saw True Sons coming into the lobby from the far side, catching the treasonous soldiers in a crossfire. The rest of the team quickly moved in, backing up Ryckmen and the recovery team who'd wandered in too early. Apparently, the True Sons had placed their barracks close by to the work room for the missile. Between Team Peacemaker's sweep and the recovery team's early arrival, the True Sons were just gearing up, expecting to defeat the threats in detail. Instead, the lobby became an abattoir, the True Sons development team wiped out to a man in less than two minutes.
* * *
The Castle, East Mall Sector
0835 EST
"Good news, Mike," said Kelso with a beaming grin. "My guys just radioed in. Ridgeway's prototype missile is toast, Odessa's people are starting to pack up the machine tools, and they took out one Lt. Kelly who was heading up the True Sons' R&D group. And it's not even nine in the morning yet."
Snow felt an answering smile growing on his face. "I gotta say, that does make me feel a little better."
"How's your friend?"
The smile dimmed into a grimace. "It's going to take some time, Kelso. He's still pretty angry. And I don't expect he's going to like the idea of the Castle being used as a staging point for your team. I'm letting him walk around for a bit right now, smell the sunshine, get used to the idea that he's not under Ridgeway's command anymore." Snow shrugged. "No reason to rush things on the debrief. We can afford to take a break or two."
"Sounds like you've got things nicely covered. Now, if you'll excuse me, I thought I saw some peppers which would go nicely with a couple of those eggs I heard offered earlier."
"Enjoy," grinned Snow.
A booming thump seemed to echo to the south of the Castle, catching everybody's attention. Moments later, a whistling sound filled the air, ending with a sharper thump as an object came out of the sky and smashed a raised bed flat. Snow looked over at Kelso, who nodded and started to head over towards the back of the common area near the Castle's cellar doors. The residents of the settlement gathered to look at the object, then looked at each other in confusion, then looked at their leader.
"What is that thing, Mike?" asked one of the residents.
Snow looked down into the shallow crater. "That is a mortar round. Looks like a 120," he answered slowly, confusion spreading across his face.
"So why didn't it explode?" asked another resident.
"Because that's not a live shell. It's a dummy round. You can see the markings on the casing. It's used for training, when they want to send something downrange but don't want to have to worry about the windows getting blown out on the base."
"But why would somebody use it here?"
A second booming thump filled the air. Snow snapped his gaze over to Kelso, a flash of horror in his eyes as he realized another possible use for a dummy round. "SCATTER!" he screamed.
* * *
In the days that followed, everybody on Team Peacemaker would remember the two toned chime which came from their watches, a chime they'd never heard before. A chime that would haunt their dreams for weeks to come. "Alert," came the uninflected voice of ISAC, "Case Basilisk declared."
"What the hell is Case Basilisk?"asked Gregory.
"Case Basilisk can only be declared in the event of a chemical weapons strike upon a civilian population center."
"Who declared it?" snapped Ryckmen.
"Declaration was made by Agent Alani Kelso. Coordinates to follow." ISAC displayed the GPS coordinates of the strike on their watches. Each of them felt the blood draining out of their faces.
"Sweet Jesus, that's less than half a klick from here," Tarvey whispered in horror.
Ryckmen looked over at Odessa's recovery team. "Get the hell out of here!" he snarled. "There's been a chemical weapons attack nearby. We don't know how bad it's going to be and you guys are not prepared. Get over to the hotel, get on the horn to Odessa, tell her nobody moves south of the Navy Plaza till she hears from us." The recovery team members nodded and bolted out of the machine shop area.
The four Division agents carried breathing masks in their backpacks at all times. Ostensibly, those masks were sufficient proof against biological and chemical agents. They'd undoubtedly have to go through decontamination procedures once they got out of the affected area, but that was for the future. Without a word, they all put their masks on, then left the museum and jogged down the street towards the Castle.
Within minutes, they made their way through the unmanned gates, weapons up. Going through the long entry tunnel, they were struck by the unnatural silence, the only sound the echoing of their footsteps. As they entered the courtyard, they stopped dead, surveying the scene.
Dozens of civilians lay on the ground, bodies twisted in unnatural positions, mouths open in rictuses of terror. Throughout the courtyard, rows of vegetables sat withered, leaves looking almost burned. Whatever the agent had been, it was heavier than air, and it had quickly settled onto the ground. Gregory felt his eyes burning as he looked over the devastation.
"How many people?" he asked, his voice hoarse from shock.
"Looks like fifty, maybe sixty, maybe a little more," Ryckmen answered, his tone leached of any emotion.
"Aerosol?" asked Tarvey curtly.
Bundmeister shook her head. "Doesn't look like it. Looks more like it was splashed over the area in liquid form. It's not spreading out. Doesn't seem to be vaporizing."
"But it's likely seeping into the ground," said Ryckmen. "Not an immediate threat, but we probably don't want to stand around all day. ISAC, give me a position fix and proximity tone for Agent Kelso."
The watch began to beep softly as Ryckmen panned his arm around, then turned and walked along the building's outer wall. As he approached a pair of metal cellar doors, the watch began to beep faster and faster until a final solid tone was achieved. Tapping the watch to turn it off, Ryckmen watched as Gregory and Tarvey opened the doors, then moved down into the cellar.
Kelso stood in the gloom of the cellar, emergency lights casting harsh shadows around support columns, clearly talking with the White House. Behind her, half a dozen people sat, huddling together, sobbing and trying to comfort each other. "Mortar attack, chemical. Seven survivors." A pause, then a growl escaping her. "Yes, Manny, seven total." She looked up as she saw the team coming in. "Peace and the others just arrived." She looked over at Gregory, her eyes flint hard. "Can you get these people to safety? I'm going to go kill the bastards that did this."
"You're first after me," said Ryckmen in a tone half a degree cooler than liquid helium.
Kelso ignored him, crouching down to look a little girl in the eyes. "You're safe now. I promise. See these guys here? They're going to take you on a trip up to--" She stopped as the little girl threw her arms around Kelso's neck and burst into tears. Kelso looked briefly shocked, then awkwardly held the girl close.
"Where did it come from, Alani?" asked Gregory, tears beginning to trickle down the corners of his eyes.
"The attack came from Jefferson Plaza." Kelso stroked the girl's hair soothingly. "You know what to do," she said coldly. Ryckmen nodded slowly, his expression grim. As they turned to leave, Kelso called after them. "Hey, guys? Kill them all."
Four sets of hardened eyes flashed back at her before heading back towards the cellar door.
@Ubi-Lucipus
It may sound laborious, but I've been writing each chapter as a separate file. I figured at some point, assuming I reach the "end" as such, I'd be doing a lot of copypasta to create an omnibus file. Shoot me a private message with an email and I'll get one worked up for you.