Headquarters Allied Air Command
Ramstein Air Base, Germany
29 March 2015
0959 hrs local (0859 hrs Zulu)

The uniformed guards thoroughly scrutinize Group Captain Grant Mewes' identity before saluting him and stepping aside to open the polished wood doors.  Two minor details somewhat alleviate the churning in Mewes' stomach: the men are from the RAF Regiment and the security camera in the hall is paired with a newly-installed thermal imager.  He collects his briefcase and steps into the room.

The doors thump shut behind him as his eyes adjust to the dim lighting within.  He steps forward eight paces, places his briefcase on the table in the room's geometric center, and comes to attention beside it.  There is a chair - another incremental encouragement - but he makes no motion toward it.

"Group Captain Mewes.  Thank you for coming."  The speaker is at the center of the arc of seven men arrayed at the room's far end.  Overhead lighting gleams from his bald skull and makes shadowed pits of his eyes.  He is the only one in civilian dress.  "This committee has reviewed your report and those submitted by your unit's personnel.  Do you wish to add anything further to the official record?"

"No, sir."  Mewes keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the NATO flag hanging behind the speaker.

"You're quite certain?"  The speaker chuckles wetly.  "Very well, Group Captain.  Please be seated."

Any verbal response would betray Mewes' banked anger.  He settles for a brisk nod, then pulls out the chair and settles into it.

Some of the flag officers shuffle papers or adjust notepads.  The speaker remains motionless.  "Group Captain.  You're an officer well aware of the exigencies of intelligence service, so I won't insult you by implying that you may feel your command is 'owed' an explanation.  However, it is this committee's belief that your operational effectiveness may be enhanced by some context.  A full historical briefing is being prepared but some parties remain recalcitrant."  He turns his head slightly toward his right and the American four-star commander of NATO AIRCOM stiffens.  "We expect to remedy that shortly."  He brings a handkerchief to his mouth and emits a heavy cough before continuing.

"In the interim, I will say this: Task Force Forty-Seven's original mission was neither snipe hunt nor smokescreen.  White Cell's successes in locating and suppressing emergent threats is a matter of indisputed record.  This committee was aware that such a unit could experience contact with our old visitors and manipulated the personnel selection process to ensure the best possible chance of success in such an event.  Past contacts have shown that careful psychological screening is necessary to assemble a unit capable of maintaining function in a contact situation.

"Now.  Trends over the past decade indicate that visitor activity on Earth is escalating, but our picture remains woefully incomplete.  In response, your command is being re-tasked.  You will maintain cover as an emergent threats interdiction task force, but your actual focus will be known and suspected visitor activities.  You will be the flagship unit of all alliance military operations against this threat.  Expansion plans are in the works but you will maintain your current minimal footprint for the time being.  You will report directly to this committee, which also will control scientific and intelligence analysis of your unit's take.

"Once White Cell is fully briefed and has adjusted to their new operational realities, an item on the Iran-Turkey border requires their attention.  You will place Grey Cell and their Amber Cell and attached supports on two weeks' mandatory leave before returning to duty..."

Dacovetti's Asics Gel-Kayano running shoes strike the asphalt at a measured clip.  Just so.  Precisely in tune with the music emanating at high volume through his ear-buds.  The early morning Turkey sun is pouring it's fusion heat down on his shoulders, but this morning ritual, this morning jog has taken on more significance.  Part meditation, part training, part internal audit.  All designed to keep him alive.

I've got a streak and you want to loosen up,
But there's no time to feast your eyes,
You want it all be the world won't give it up
Up to the edge, a star will rise

What is your weapon of choice,
What is your weapon of choice,
Where is the weapon to free us all?

The actions the Airman had taken over the last couple weeks, the weeks since the op in Libya, had been loaded.  Heavy and carrying a new urgent weight.  Bannon had intervened before Michael had even started removing his body armor and weapons, still on the tarmac.

“Tech Sergeant Dacovetti,” his voice was like tearing paper.  “That was some brave shit there.  Nice work, but you keep that up, and you are a dead man.  I mean it.  Dead.  Send your wife a flag, some medals, and a nice letter about the terrible training accident you had.  Have a beer.”   It had been a forgettable lager from some random African brand and it had been delicious.  Bracing and alive.

In silent indictment of his decisions, the mental calculus that he had made, the scarred trauma plate from his vest is leaning on his desk, a mute reminder of how inches could have unleashed an entirely different reality.  One that Michael isn't ready for.

I won't waste it,
I won't waste it,
I won't waste my love on a nation

Also on his desk, at this moment, is a new laptop.  One secured by bio-metric login that contains a heavly encrypted hard-drive.  Residing on the hard-drive is the entire video that Michael's GoPro had captured of the raid, the Nazca feed, as well as the recording and measurements Overlord had captured during the operation.  What he is looking for yet, Michael isn't sure, but despite his early jokes about becoming a video producer, it seems to be happening.  Days have been spent, cutting, editing, and changing parameters, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.  Each viewing another reminder of how easy it would have been to occupy an unfortunate time space coordinate.

Everyone's got their own spent factions
Every bomb will pay its price
I've been digging in the wrong directions
Lets see you threaten the afterlife.

Hours are spent with Seb. Hours with Crewe. Learning. Absorbing.  Preparing for the coming conflicts.  Each day measured, broken into discrete blocks, maximizing efficiency.  Questioning, questing, and looking for answers.  His lungs burn and sweat pours from his body.

He visits the Kaptain, recovering from her injuries.  Another physical reminder of what could have happened.

He visits Italy to meet his wife for a short break.  Sleep in a comfortable bed.  Visit Venice.  They take Nero Flight out for dinner on Grey Cell, to much fanfare of extravagant meals and bottles of wine that his wife doesn't share.  She has her own preparations to make, battles to fight.

That first night together, where they had been looking up at the stars, secure in a Venice gondola like terrible American tourists.  She wistful against his arm, commenting on their beauty while he ponders the threats that he now knows are contained among them.  Threats that were always theoretical, thought exercises, before now.  New models to develop and arguments to be made.  The danger is not intimidating, the greater concern is the response he has shown towards it.  The casual disregard for risk or maybe just not recognizing it.

Or maybe, hypothetically, he had made the correct call.  It was dangerous, however, to mistake luck for skill.  Black Swan events lay down that particular path.

The asphalt turns faster under his feet.  Lungs ache for the final stretch.

“I love the stars, Michael,” his wife had said.  “I want to share them with our baby.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:44, Sun 26 Apr 2015.

The door to Durand's office is open. The Frenchman is sitting at his desk. A laptop is open in front of him, a cup sitting next to it, the coffee within barely touched. He isn't looking at the screen. His elbows are on the desk, his chin resting on steepled fingers, his expression a pensive one as he reflects on the past few weeks.

After Tripoli there had been debrief after debrief. Every part of the operation studied, analysed, ripped apart then put back together again. Lessons learned. Then the conversation with Mewes. So Seb, we need someone to lead the team whilst Kaptain Kowalska recovers from her wounds. Just until the Kaptain is fit enough to return to duty. You can say no of course, but I really do think it's best for the team.  And so he had said yes.

He'd gone to see Dancer of course, the sight of her reminding him of how it could so easily have been him lying in a hospital bed. Or worse, for he'd thought of Attar's pistol misfiring in Boulos' garage, played that scene back in his mind over and over again, together with the memories of examining his helmet aboard the helo on the flight out to the Bulwark, seeing the mangled and twisted bullet lodged in it, an inch above his left eye.

And then, after the endless debriefs, after he'd visited Kowalska, he'd taken time to decompress as well. To be fair, it hadn't really been presented as an option so much as an order. Mandatory leave. Not that the Frenchman had needed to be told twice.

He'd thought about going to Geneva, to see his sister, but what would they have talked about? So, how are you, Sébastien? Yeah, pretty good Susanne, I just discovered that aliens exist and they most certainly do not come in peace. Hey, by the way, this cheese is really good, could you pass me some more? So, not Geneva.

He could have gone to Paris, stayed with  Barthez. Fuck, Seb, that was fucking amazing. Hey, how did you get that scar on your chest? You didn't have that in January. Oh that Lucile? That's where an extra terrestrial tried to slice me open with his alien knife. So no, he didn't have the inclination to go to Paris either.

So he'd avoided his sister, avoided his lover. For Durand knows things that he simply can't talk about, not to his family, not to a woman who was herself an officer in the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, not to anyone, for he knew things that he imagined only a handful of people on the planet knew. Even if he could talk about it, people would think he was crazy. Instead he'd caught a flight to Los Angeles, hired a car at LAX. He supposed someone would have eyes on him, maybe even a drone following him as he'd taken the I 15 to Las Vegas, spent five days in Sin City.

Decompressing.

Sébastien Durand chases away the memories, pulls the laptop towards him, begins to read the report that has been e mailed to via by an ultra secure server.

The time for decompression is over.

The wind off the Mediterranean presses through the open window, ruffling the curtains and replaces the scent of sex with those of sea and incipient rain.  Sabah Boulos lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.  His eyes register the flashes and ripples of light cast by cars on the street below but he sees only red-orange flesh dissolving in a boil of green vapor.  At length, he gives up on sleep and gently disengages himself from the arm flung across his chest.  Satish Tamboli makes a protesting sound in his throat but does not awaken.

Boulos pulls on a robe, reclaims his glasses from the bedside table, and pads silently to the suite's sitting room.  His paltry belongings - all he brought out of Tripoli, and what his hosts/captors have since given him - remain stacked neatly on the writing desk.  He flips open a new, unblemished planner and flicks through the business cards within.  He withdraws one and peers at it as if willing it to give up its secrets.  None are forthcoming.

The engineer shuts the ring-bound book and decisively thrusts himself to his feet.  He crosses the room and taps the hall door twice with the pads of his fingers, then opens it.  The pair of Carabinieri outside turn impassive faces toward him.  Boulos briefly wonders what thoughts their masks hide, then dismisses the concern.  Their opinions will be irrelevant in a matter of days, regardless of how his next play resolves.

He holds out the card in his hand until the junior military policeman takes it, then speaks.  His Italian is rusty but good enough for this negotiation.  "Please arrange a secure call to this Agent Choi.  Tell him I wish to discuss employment.  With his organization."

The thin brunette took a deep breath after removing her full face helmet.  After pulling off the small elastic scrunchy held her ponytail, she shook her head slightly and let the shoulder length locks cascade down across the kevlar reinforced shoulder pads of riding leathers she wore.  Hannah looked out over the high mountain pass of the Dolomites that separated Germany from Italy.  The stark basalt face of the ridgeline looked quite majestic and seemed timeless and stoic to her.  Pulling a water bottle from the hard travelling cases strapped to her bike, Double Down took a long draught of the cold liquid.

She'd hoped that some serious Retail Therapy™ in the form of her new steed, along with the long ride back to the Italian coast would help clear her mind.  The custom BMW S 1000 RR had all the trimmings and had been picked up at the factory along with her riding finery, which was a trim, form-fitting set of the red and black leathers.  Her Shoei RF-1200 helmet had been painted to match the bodysuit.  Her steel-shanked riding boots scuffed lightly on the paved shoulder as Hannah tread lightly around the sport bike surveying the open vista.

But, the landscapes while breath-taking and undeniably beautiful had not been able to purge the unworldly things that had been etched into her memory.  The deep forest greens and sweeping pastures merely reminded her of the sickly green energy that strange plasma weapon had discharged.  The high-tech whine of the four-cylinder, four-stroke engine and the light hum the stiff aluminum and carbon composite frame streaking down the road often spoke to turbines of Mi-17 and afterburners from Neroes One and Two.

She forced out the darker thoughts and made herself tick through the things that were yet left to be done.  There were still a couple of more days before Hannah was required back in Turkey.  Time enough to get back to Italy; she still hadn't had the chance to thank the Tornado pilots in person for their timely intervention.  And Hannah wanted to visit Dancer once more in the hospital; the GROM Captain's injury sent an all-too-familiar shiver down her spine; it made her right leg throb sympathetically.

As she leaned against the parked BMW, Hannah massaged her leg through the black leather without thinking.  She tossed the bottle back into case and sealed it.  Pulling her phone from her breast pocket, she checked the GPS coordinates and set her sites on the next town to bivouac in.  Two hundred more klicks of twisting mountainous roads ... she mused to herself.  The phone went back into the inside pocket, then the heavy leather lapel was zipped up.  Her hairband went back on, then the ear buds with music and navigation instructions playing were in place.  Hannah carefully slipped her aerodynamic black and red helmet back on and then started the motorcycle with the touch of a button.  The gentle vibration of the precise German engineered parts rocked the single piece chassis 'just so', as the bike hummed to life.  Two hours. she noted to no one in particular, a smile creeping onto her lips even though they were hidden by the helmet. Tops.

She revved the engine up to 10,000 rpms for a moment and the new S 1000 RR growled, urging to give it the chance to unleash its two-hundred horses on to the unsuspecting pavement.  And then like a shot, the red and black blur slipped down the road...

James had become a shut-in. That was an exaggeration, he knew, but usually, with this much downtime, he'd be outdoors nearly 24-7, running, hiking, climbing- outdoorsy stuff. Not now. He didn't like to admit to himself that he was afraid, but, when he really dug in, that was it. Fear. Fear that whatever transported at least a half-dozen or so homicidal pseudo-reptilian E.T.s several light years to earth would somehow find him on one of his boondock runs, beam him up or whatever and probe him to death.

So he was spending nearly all of his leave time in the bureau's DL burb-clave, a nice but nondescript gated community used to house the feds' travelling agents and "guest assets". He was trying to stay active and fit, running, swimming, and hitting the weights at the community rec-center for at least a couple of hours every morning, braving the insane Commonwealth traffic and gridlock to visit the range for nearly the same amount of daily trigger time before lunch. And the rest of his waking hours, which were many, since he'd never been a big sleeper and was even less of one now after Libya, were spent watching movies. Close Encounters, They Live, Predator, Fire in the Sky, the first two Alien films, and that sort of thing, a few of the really good ones over and over again, a legal pad steadily filling up with "notes" on the end table beside him.

James is stepping out of the shower when the phone rings. This startles him- no one, save his new command, is supposed to know he's here. He picks up the receiver a split second before voicemail would otherwise kick in. The pause on the other end screams robo-call or telemarketer, which is unusual since every number in the entire housing complex is unlisted, so he waits. The voice that pipes in from other end is lightly accented and vaguely familiar.

"Agent Choi?"

"Speaking."

"This is The Engineer."

Long distance. James pauses, allowing the pieces to fall into place. Tamboli? What the fuck is he calling me for?

"Ah, yes. Good evening." James did a quick calculation. If Tamboli is calling from Italy, it's about a five or six hour time difference from Quantico. "What can I do for you?" The line is secure, but James still feels the need to keep it circumspect.

"My current employment and lodgings are... they leave much to be desired. I need... I need a challenge. I am hoping that your company has an opening."

I'm HR all of a sudden? What the fuck am I supposed to say? This isn't my call to make.

"Er, let me see what I can do." James looked down at the caller ID. Definitely an international call. He jotted down the number on a monogrammed flash pad- the hard-lined phone would scrub the number as soon as he hung up. "Can I call you back at this number?"

"Please."

James would need to make a couple of calls.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:42, Sun 26 Apr 2015.