Headquarters Allied Air Command
Ramstein Air Base, Germany
11 May 2015
1050 hrs local (0950 hrs Zulu)

The speaker closes the three-ring binder in front of him and slides it aside.  Paper flutters as the six uniformed men at the curved table follow suit with varying degrees of haste.  Folding his hands atop the table, the speaker clears his throat.  "The board of inquiry into Operation PEASANT WRENCH is hereby closed.  It is the opinion of this committee," a couple of the other members stir but hold their tongues, "that the loss of Oberfeldwebel Geerts was unavoidable given the tactical situation at hand.  We also judge it likely that his sacrifice will have a net positive effect on future Peshmerga cooperation with your command.  You will extend White Cell's stand-down another ten days before beginning the selection process for the Oberfeldwebel's replacement.  The committee will forward you a list of vetted candidates."

"Understood, sir."  Group Captain Grant Mewes tidies his own workspace at the smaller table in the room's center.  He would very much like to leave now.

The speaker nods jerkily, twice, as if priming a pump.  "Very well, Group Captain.  This committee will now address the evolving outcomes of Operation ESSENTIAL NOMAD, particularly as pertain to the Five Eyes special relationship and the effects of Grey and Amber Cell actions upon it."

The pause lengthens enough that Mewes senses he's expect to speak, though doing so without explicit invitation is always uneasy in this room.  Still: "Sir.  Grey Cell was deployed without organic support into an environment where the local authorities had not been fully appraised of the threat.  Given the circumstances, I determined that--"

The speaker holds up a hand and Mewes clamps his lips shut.  Another lengthy pause falls.  The speaker gestures to the United States Air Force four-star who leads NATO AIRCOM.  The general's eyes tighten but he does something with a shadowed hand out of Mewes' view.  There's a light electronic chirp, then a recorded voice speaks:

"No, sir.  This was entirely of my own volition."  A flicker of edited-out response.  "Because the sanctioned mission package was a fail.  We don't have enough operators to send them into the field without force protection capabilities or the ability to continue the unit's strategic mission.  They were placed under high and unnecessary risk, even without the local ASIO compromise."  Another edit.  "Yes, sir, I am aware of that.  If you are cleared for my full operational history, sir, you will see why I felt the risk was worth taking."

Chief Warrant Officer 3 Ted Bannon's voice falls silent.  The speaker leans forward incrementally.  "Group Captain.  I am familiar with the script from which you were reading.  You were about to take full responsibility for ordering Chief Warrant Officer Bannon to violate Australian sovereignty, procure black market weapons and other equipment for Grey Cell, and bypass the Special Air Service Regiment's chain of command to engage directly with an operational unit after Task Force Forty-Seven had been declared persona non grata by the Australian government."  He pauses for breath and coughs wetly.  "You were to further state that as far as Chief Bannon and his Amber Cell subordinates were concerned, your orders were sanctioned by the appropriate parties.  Your argument justifying these extraordinary and illegal orders was to be that Grey Cell was dangerously exposed without Amber Cell operational support, with a hint of the ends justifying the means."

Better to be hanged... "Sir, I have no response."

The speaker is motionless for a long moment before emitting the bubbling rasp that Mewes has learned to associate with humor.  "Very well, Group Captain.  Be aware that this committee is a collective past master of retroactive justification and very few administrative tactics are new before us."  He pauses again to cough and neatly re-fold his handkerchief.  "Group Captain, your command is the tip of the proverbial spear in an undeclared and undeclarable war that predates your birth.  Extraordinary and illegal actions must be evaluated in that context.  However.  In the future, you will inform this committee upon issuing orders which violate international or host nation laws so that we may provide more effective political cover."

"Understood, sir."  Mewes does not allow himself to sag in relief but he does invite a moment of speculation about the bar in his hotel room.

"See that it is, Group Captain."  The speaker settles back in his chair.  "Group Captain, in your career, have you previously encountered Project SAPPHIRE MODERN or Observation Squadron Fifty-Four?"

The American four-star jerks upright as if someone's hooked his spine to an electrical outlet.  "Chairman!  That's not--"

The speaker's head rotates.  "General."  He returns the shadowed pits of his eyes to Mewes. "Proceed, Group Captain."

The non sequitur and its effects on the committee evoke a startled blink and a sinking feeling, as if Mewes has been caught without his homework.  "No, sir.  I'm unfamiliar with those designations."

"Good."  Mewes' startlement grows but the speaker continues.  "Group Captain, you will begin preparations to integrate two Australian technical personnel into Amber Cell.  They will arrive within the week.  An additional Australian liaison will arrive after the appropriate medical board clears him to return to duty.  You also will regularize Stárshiy Leytenánt Andrey Vasliyev within Task Force Forty-Seven.  Plesetsk is aware of his recent activities and has not requested his rendition at this time.  Pending resolution or deconfliction of these tasks, you will authorize Grey Cell three weeks' leave.  You will suggest that the American personnel take this leave within the eastern United States..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:27, Sun 10 Jan 2016.

Stanford University
Stanford California
May 15, 2015
1055 Local, 1655 Zulu


“We have had some success dealing with the interface,” Dr. Jeannette Ghosten says, one hand tapping the lecture podium lightly.  She adjusts the glasses sitting on her face slightly to fight the glare coming from the projector mounted on the ceiling that is projecting her lab’s latest research on the screen behind her.  “The neurons have been able to pick up and transmit the electrical impulses of the bio-circuit systems.  However, both the accuracy and reproducibility of the signal leave something to be desired.  Without accurate mapping of exactly which neuron we are stimulating, it is difficult to construct a two way conversation between the device and the brain.  The current systems in place mimic other sensations already in place in the brain.  What we want is something much richer:  a true partnership between digital information and the wetware of brain tissue.”

The shuffling of the undergrads in their seats tell her that the hour is done, so she steps away from the intruding lights and looks at her class, twenty some odd students spread out in a lecture hall built to hold hundreds.  It’s not a defeat, this is Stanford and these are the future biomedical engineers that will join her in tackling these problems.  That the administration scheduled her class in this room is a scheduling error.  “Here’s my reminder, finals are next week.  You know what to do to prepare.  That’s-“  Jeannette’s voice trails off when she sees two men, clearly not students, sitting in the back of the room looking at her over the glow of a computer screen.  One of them, even from a distance, is built like a solid brick wall of muscle.  The other, smaller, but familiar.  Both of them are staring at her intently, following the lecture.  Then her stomach drops out at recognition.  “You must be kidding me,” she says quietly before dismissing the class.  She climbs the stairs to the two waiting men who are now rising from their seats.

”Hi Jeannette,” Michael Dacovetti says with a grin.

”I’m ninety percent certain I told you to die in a fire the last time I saw you,” she says.   Two years of dating the guy come back in crush of frustration, anger, challenge, competition, and a tinge of regret.  And a side dish of respect for the talent in that maddening brain.

”You did,” he says.  Then he brushes aside her argument.  ”Jeannette, this is Crit.  Crit, Jeannette. Or Doctor Ghosten, if you prefer.”

”G’day, Doctor.  Nice to meet you.  I’ve heard good things.” the wall of muscle says, with far more politeness (and Australianess) than she suspected.  She sizes him up carefully: the same short hair as Michael, the same controlled movements and eyes sweeping the room.  Another soldier.   He offers her his hand, which she looks at like it is something under an electron microscope that she doesn’t want to touch.

”What’s a Crit?” she asks.

Michael doesn’t seem fazed, and the Australian laughs.  It’s not an unpleasant sound.  ”That is a Crit,” Michael points to his companion.  ”A Cambridge educated man of the waves.  And electrons.  I told you she was feisty,” he finishes to the human wall.  “Jeannette comes to us via Cal-Tech as well.  She was a grad student responsible for one of my labs I was required to take when I was there.  There is a not insignificant chance that we violated more than three university codes of conduct together.”

”Perhaps we should-“

”I could list them."

”Would you like me to call your wife?  I know her, you know.  We’re friends on Facebook,” she spits.

”Oh, I like her, mate.”

”I hypothesized that you might."

”I’m right here.  In this room with you.  Why are you here?  This better be good.”

She watches with some disbelief as all the bluster and humor drops out of the men in front of her.  Their spines change, grow rigid.  Brows tighten.  When Michael speaks again, it is with a seriousness she was familiar with when he would stay up late chewing through problem set after problem set to understand a theory or complete a project.  ”We are here because you are the best at what you do.  We need an expert in making machines talk to brains.  Neuroscience, bio-engineering, bio-physics, electrical engineering.  We require it all.  Urgently.  And you, Jeannette, are the best in the world at it.”

”Military work? Not interested. And I don’t need your compliments.”

Michael turns his laptop around.  ”I know.  But you should really look at this.”

She can't help herself. A partial schematic is there, edges blurred or blacked out.  Redacted is the word that leaps to her mind.  Then she sees it.  The promise and application.  “This shouldn’t…” be possible?

”But it is possible,” Crit says, finishing her thought.  ”Very, very real.  And very, very hostile.  Want to grab your ball and come play at our house?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:22, Sun 10 Jan 2016.

Motel 6
Somewhere west of Charleston, WV
May 17, 2015
0610 Local, 1015 Zulu

Hannah stood at the motel window staring out across the highway into the woods that lead up to the Appalachian mountains.  The East Coast of the United States didn't have anything like the Alps or the Dolomites; but, the blue hills had their own allure.  She'd started up in Maine and had already gone well into West Virginia, a trip of over three days and almost two thousand kilometres on her odometer since she'd taken mostly mountainous backroads to get this far.

Still, the auburn-haired army aviatrix had toured all over Europe and Western Asia on a motorcycle and probably would have toured sections of the Far East and Southeastern Asia on her trusty BMW, if she'd had her druthers.  But, Mewes had made it clear that the group was 'strongly recommended' to stay on the eastern seaboard.  So, she'd followed orders - sort of.  Hannah had invited Cooper and the others in TF47 (though especially Cooper, even if she knew he couldn't really due to his leg - she had offered to find him a sidecar) to join her.  And in less than a day had mapped out a tentative route, booked passage to the northern most tip of the eastern portion of the country that she could manage and started to slalom down the entire length of the range that followed the Eastern Seaboard.

Conveniently, Uncle Sam had brought her bike and driving kit over for her from Turkey.  It had even arrived in the States before she had - as though the psych boys had her all figured out after that debacle that was a debriefing following the pooch screw in the Australian Outback.  Hannah hugged her shoulders as she stood in a bathrobe in front of the window, her hair wrapped up in a towel to help it dry.  She shuddered slightly, though she wasn't really cold.  At least, not physically.

She thought about her situation.  It had been easy to comply with the Group Captain's orders.  Where could she really go?  Even with leave, where was she bound to be?  She couldn't go visit her family in Minnesota.  What would she say to them when they asked the uncomfortable question?  The ones like 'How are you?' and 'Whatcha been up to?'....  Hannah hated to lie, especially to her parents and her siblings.  But, they just wouldn't understand.  Plus, her father, being an old aviation mechanic himself, would really want to know more and more details about her missions and her companions.  Hannah lips were pressed thin as she contemplated that she couldn't even visit Fort Campbell either, even though it was just over the hills in Kentucky - and ostensibly also still her branch of service.  Double Down knew that, if she tried, she could be there in less than half a day.

But then what would she say to her old battalion mates?  How could she explain the things she'd seen in terms that would make any sense at all.  Hannah shook her head ruefully at what Task Force 47 and their missions had done to her, the towel falling away and her damp shoulder-length hair cascading in disarray.  Mewes had promised her any assignment after her term; she'd wanted to go to the 101st Airborne and they'd already picked her out.  But, she had suspected even then (when she'd first met the Group Captain on the cold Kentucky night) - as she knew with certainty now - that would never actually happen; Chief Warrant Officer Omdahl was unlikely to ever fly in an army sanctioned mission again.  She'd seen too much outside of the Army, experienced too much extracurricular activities.  Her right hand fell to her side, brushing the dressing that she'd just changed after showering.  As Painter had seen firsthand, the location that the bullet had penetrated was not virgin territory.  No, the shrapnel in Afghanistan had seen to that.  At least, this injury was not nearly as severe - and didn't require almost a year of physical therapy.  Or a year of away from active flying duty.  The latter was a dull ache that never went away.  Hannah definitely knew which hurt more; it wasn't her leg.

But, that still brought her back to the present: what was she going to do?  Honestly.  Yes, she would ride (at least for a few more days).  But beyond that.

Hannah sighed, it was a plaintive, rueful affair.  What else could she do?  The morning sun lit the tops of the trees high up on the slopes, peeking out in the clear air of the dawn.  She'd have to be true to her callsign  She'd have to double down at this point; the lithe helicopter pilot would be nothing, if she didn't go all in.  Hannah knew that she needed Task Force 47 at least as much as they needed her.  What else could she really do?

The day was looking brighter already...

Sharia Qalaa Souq
Doha, Qatar
May 18, 2015
2130 Local, 1830 Zulu

"Salaam alaikum." Peace be upon you.

Faisal Khan looks at the two men who have entered his shop, one of whom had just spoken the traditional Islamic greeting. The Sharia Qalaa souq was a maze of narrow streets and alleys, uneven, under foot,  its stalls and shops selling everything from spices and fragrances to clothes and jewellery. Unlike the larger Souq Waqif, the Sharia Qalaa Souq was rarely visited by tourists or Qataris, who preferred to shop in air conditioned malls where they could buy luxury designer goods. The Sharia Qalaa's main clientele consisted mostly of the economic migrants who carried out the manual work in Qatar, men who worked as taxi drivers, labourers, waiters, sending money back to their families in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh and more than a score of other countries.

"Wa alaikum salaam." And upon you peace. Khan came from Pakistan, was short, around five feet seven, dressed in the traditional Shalwar Kameez, or long shirt and baggy trousers, both white, sandals on his feet. The two men were not like his usual customers. The man who had spoken to him was tanned, hadn't shaved for a number of days, He was dressed in a black leather jacket, blue jeans, a black shirt, tan desert boots. Around his neck he wore a red and white chequered shemagh. Neither he nor his companion look as though they were here to purchase spices or hand woven baskets. They make Khan uneasy. "How may I help you gentlemen?" He can't make their nationality but the switch to English is automatic, it being the lingua franca of the souq.

The man in the leather jacket nods to the Pakistani shopkeeper, feigns an interest in the goods on display, speaks without looking at him. "We are friends of Ahmed. He told us to come see you, said that you might be able to help us. We have need of documents,  passports." Faisal Khan hesitates, the uncertainty evident in his voice, an uncertainty that increases when his unknown customer reaches into his jacket pocket. When the man's hand emerges it's with a folded roll of bills, United States dollars. Benjamin Franklin goes a long way to assuage Khan's nerves. "Not here." He nods towards a doorway at the back of the shop, behind a faded green curtain.

Sébastien Durand turns, nods to his companion, slips the wad of hundred dollar bills back into his pocket and walks towards the back of the shop whilst Khan moves past him, headed  to the front. As the Frenchman steps through the curtain there's the sound of a shutter coming down as the Pakistani closes his shop, now focused on the more lucrative business that is apparently on offer,

The room Durand has stepped into is small, lit by a solitary low power light bulb, furnished with a table, two hard plastic chairs, assorted goods piled up against the walls. A small refrigerator sits in one corner. It appears to be a combination break room / store room. The curtain covered opening is the only way in or out.

He shouldn't be here of course, shouldn't be spending his leave this way. Vasliyev had counselled against it when he'd first spoken to the Russian about it. But this was something that Durand had to do. This was nothing to do with Grey Cell or little grey men from outer space. This was personal business. He'd lied to Mewes. The Englishman thinks that Grey Cell's acting team leader is in Paris screwing Lucile Barthez. No doubt there would be consequences should Mewes find out where he actually was, but Durand was willing to deal with that. Barthez was in the loop. Sort of. She knew that Durand was doing something under the radar, would cover for him if anyone from Task Force 47 decided to check on him or try and contact him in Paris. He hadn't told Barthez where he was actually going or why he was there and she hadn't asked. It was better that way. If she had known she would have likely wanted to come. This business was personal for her too. He had spent a couple of days in Paris with her, before flying out to Doha on Emirates via Dubai, armed with new leads obtained from Vasilyev and using a Swiss passport in a false name, one of several he had cached, one issued by DGSE that had never found its way back. Just in case. The dollars had come from the same cache.

And now the Russian's contacts had brought him and his companion here, to this souq. To this man.

"Tea?" Khan asks as he joins the two men in the back room. It's the almost inevitable preamble to doing business in the Middle East, the Pakistani already preparing the drink before either man can speak, and a moment later three small glasses of hot black tea are sitting on the table, The shopkeeper waits expectantly as Durand, still standing, takes one, takes a sip before placing it back down on the table. "So, what can I do for you my friends? What exactly is it that you need?"

Durand holds Khan's gaze as he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, draws forth two photographs, places each one on the table. Photographs of a boy and a girl. Teenagers. The same  photos that he had placed in front of Andrey in Melbourne. The kids that had disappeared in Somalia. "I am told that you know people my friend, that you hear things. Someone, you need not concern yourself with who, told me that you might know what has happened to these children. Whether or not they are dead or alive."

Khan begins to shake his head, look from one man to the other, denials falling from his lips. "This is a mistake. You should leave now please. I have many friends here." As he speaks Durand places money down on the table next to the photos, hundred dollar bills from the roll in his pocket, placed on the table one after the other, fanned out until ten sit there. The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders, glances at his companion.  It's clear that neither man is a particular stranger to violence. "We can do this the easy way my friend. Or the hard way. The choice is yours. But I promise you, you will tell us what we want to know."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:36, Sat 16 Jan 2016.

Bob Evans Restaurant
Somewhere west of Charleston, WV
17 May 2015
0624 hrs local (1024 hrs Zulu)

Despite West Virginia's legendary insularity (so attested by both his American teammates and the Lonely Planet forums), Caradoc Crewe has found that leaning on any flavor of British accent has the same mild hypnotic effect here that he's observed in several major American cities.  He gives the waitress a bright smile along with another sampling of Welsh and sips his coffee - when in Rome, et cetera - while waiting for Hannah to arrive.  He's accustomed to strange food in strange places, but after the first execrable "continental breakfast" at a Bar Harbor hotel, he'd put his foot down.  "Free," he'd told his traveling companion while brandishing a crumbling prepackaged muffin, "doesn't justify this atrocity.  Let's spend some of our combat pay on improving the experience."

The experience has been... interesting.  No wheelman of particular note, Crad's acquaintance with motorcycles prior to this trip has been limited to treating the trauma they inflict.  Hannah is something of a motor-whisperer, though, and a few lessons on the Incirlik taxiways were enough to convey the basics.  The details will take a lifetime to master but Crad was surprised to find himself enjoying the trip by the time they crossed the Vermont state line.

He's certainly having fun, but his reasons for coming on this trip, he reflects, aren't entirely recreational.  By a wide margin, he's more trauma physician than psychologist, and yet he's probably the closest thing to a head-shrinker that Grey Cell has.  Hannah's physical injury is healing well, adding another scar to her collection but leaving no lasting impairment.  The internal damage from her encounter with alien space dwarf telepathy is another concern entirely.  So when she announced her plan for this trip, it was an easy decision to not leave her to do it alone.  She hasn't said anything yet but he can be patient.

As he sees Hannah exit the Motel 6 across the street, he reacquires his smile and flags down the waitress.  "My tablemate's on the way," he informs her.  "So, what can you tell me about this 'Mothman' I've seen on your History Channel?"

Hotel Mercure Aeroport
Bordeaux, France
18 May 2015
2117 hrs local (2017 hrs Zulu)

"Do you know," Ted Bannon asks darkly, "what the best container for secrets is?"

Sergent-Chef Christophe Vidry chuckles and raises his glass in salute.  "I believe 'a coffin' is the answer you want, Maître Bannon.  Now that the pro forma ominous warnings are out of the way..."

Bannon relents, snorts a laugh, and looks around the hotel bar.  "Yeah.  But this really is some deep, dark shit.  I still don't know who's pulling the unit's strings and believe you me, I have tried to dig that out.  So once you're in, it's gonna be hard to pull yourself back out."

Vidry leans forward, suddenly serious.  "We already are in.  We saw what you brought into the hangar.  And then we saw Séb on CNN in Australia, and your medic, the Welshman, at a 'terrorist attack.'"  The booth is secluded but he casually checks for listeners anyway.  "This tells us there are more, that Libya was not an isolated incident.  So, yes, we very much are committed."

"Well, you did good work in Tripoli," Bannon admits.  "How many dudes are we talking about here?"

"Fifteen.  Everyone who was there.  Plus... one is married," he holds up a hand to forestall Bannon's outburst.  "No, she is a medic in CPA 30, a commando course graduate.  Unblooded but she has good instincts.  And he talks in his sleep," he admits.  "She heard enough that he had to tell her the rest.  And then have me tell her, to be sure he wasn't..." he gestures toward his head.

"Ugh.  So they're a package deal."  Bannon's eyes roll toward the ceiling for a moment, then he nods to Vidry.  "Okay.  I'll talk to the boss.  I think I can sell it.  We're definitely gonna need more shooter support for the operational cells..."

My Deli
Quantico, VA
18 May 2015
1245 hrs EST

"You know, same-old, same-old. Braylee's gonna need braces. Kelly wants to start her now but I'm like, 'at least wait until she loses her baby teeth'. You know how she is, though. How 'bout you, what you been up to?"

"Well, Danny Boy, in Australia, I cut a 'Grey' alien in half with an elephant rifle. That was after I wasted a couple of aborigine gunmen who were under the influence of some kind of alien mind control device. Oh, did I mention the dogfight between an alien spacecraft and a couple of RAAF Hornets? I didn't see anything like that while I was hunting terrorists and acid-excreting E.T. warriors in Libya!"

"Nothing much, really. Just a lot of surveillance stuff. Sittin' in a van, looking through reams of cell-phone records, eating way too much take-out. You know- glamorous shit."

And that's why James spends most of his leave by himself, running, lifting, putting in hours at the range, watching sci-fi, and playing a little keyboard- anything to pass the time until the next deployment. He's doesn't even want to think about retirement. James Choi is learning that life outside of Grey Cell is very dull and very lonely.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 15:26, Sun 17 Jan 2016.

Duke University Medical Center
19 May 2015
09:17 local (13:17 Zulu)

”Our next patient is a 37 year old Australian male who suffered a gun shot wound in his right lower lower abdomen.  Mr. Law, please tell us the name of the structure in the right lower quadrant that separates the large intestine from the small intestine?” The man asking questions this morning on rounds was Senior Cardio-Thorastic and Vascular Surgeon Paul Evans.

”The ileocecal valve?” Charles Law said tentatively.  He had been burned by Evans twice the week and he had yet to recover from it.

”That is correct.  Ms. Kapoor, please tell us how arterial blood is fed to the ileocecal valve.” Evans asked.  His face showed neither pleasure or displeasure at Law’s answer, though he made a mental note to speak to Charles after rounds and let him know that he was being cut from the program.  The young man was too easily rattled and self-confidence was a prerequisite to lead a surgical team.

After Kapoor easily listed the structures starting with the superior mesenteric, Evans nodded and then knocked on the patients door.

”How are you doing today Mr. Williams?” Evans asked.  A gaggle of medical students followed the respected surgeon in.

”G’day Doc.  Ok I guess.  Still recovering from the jet lag I suppose,” Cooper answered.  Cooper’s restlessness was well founded - he’d stayed up during the air-ambulance flight flirting with the blond flight-medic.  The Royal Australian Navy Clearance Diver had wondered why he’d been flown halfway around the world to end up in this hospital.  At least until he found out that Evans was a U.S. Navy Reserve Medical Corps Captain.  For whatever reason, he presumed the Yanks wanted him here instead of an Australian or NATO Military hospital.

”That’s understandable,” Evans said, more concerned about a relapse of internal bleeding than Cooper’s circadian rhythms.  Still, Evans picked up the chart and wrote an order on the chart for Ambian after reviewing the overnight vitals.  ”And your leg?”

”Hurts about the same,” Cooper replied.  He suppressed the urge to say how do you think getting shot with a plasma weapon would feel?

”I see Doctor Chen is scheduled to remove the drainage tube tomorrow,” Evan’s said, leafing through the file and seeing that the specialist orthopedist assigned to Cooper was following up regularly as well.  ”Good.”

”Mr. Williams suffered a high-energy electrical burn to his left calf.  And if you are interested becoming a carpenter, Doctor Chen will be by in an hour,”  Evans spoke, addressing his medical students by comparing the muscular-skeletal surgical specialty to the woodworking and building frame construction profession.  None of his students would be staying to meet  Dr. Chen of course.  A CT/Vascular Fellowship was much more prestigious than Orthopedics.  In the world of specialized medicine it was far better (and much more lucrative) to be a plumber than a carpenter.

”I’ll check back on you tomorrow Mr. Williams.” Evans said before motioning to the door.  The gaggle of medical students started to make their way out.

”Sure, see you then.  Thanks Doc,” Williams said.  As the room became quiet once more, Cooper picked up the Tim Winton novel he had been reading.  Before he could find the paragraph he had stopped at though, there was another knock at the door.

”Come in,” Williams said.  He expected one of the nurses would be brining by something that Evan’s had asked for on his way out.  Instead, an elderly man who looked to be in his late sixties, with cropped grey hair and horn rimmed glasses entered.  He was dressed in a dark suit and carried a beat-up light grey hat.

”Uh, G’day.  Can I help you?” Cooper asked.  Williams was already trying to figure out the best way to tell his gentleman that he was in the wrong room.

”Yes, you can.  I’m Doctor Simon Gellner.  I wondered if you had some time for a few questions and tests Mr. Williams,” the man asked.  He shuffled toward Cooper, intelligent eyes studying the reclined Austrlian.

”Sure, I guess.  Though Doctor Evans was just here and Doctor Chen supposed to come by a bit later,” Cooper said.  He really wanted to get back to his book.  ”You might want to see what they order, because I’m pretty sure Chen already ordered a follow-up MRI on my leg.”

”You misunderstand Mr. Williams,” Gellner said, reaching into his jacket pocket.  ”I’m not with the hospital.  I am from the Rhine Research Center.”

Something in Williams mind clicked.  Rhine.  He had heard that name before, but from where?  When?

The old man placed a deck of cards on the tray in front of him.  But they weren’t playing cards.  The were Zener cards.

Then the answer struck him.

Mum
This message was last edited by the player at 10:07, Sun 24 Jan 2016.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
30 May 2015
1425 hrs local (1225 hrs Zulu)

"'Before I run for president' - and falsify my birth certificate - 'I must destroy all evidence of my involvement with... blank.'"  Colin MacLeod tosses the black card onto the table and waggles his eyebrows at his teammates.

With a round of muffled snickers, four white cards land face-down in an untidy pile.  MacLeod sweeps them up, gives them a quick shuffle, and peruses them.  "Hm.  'Hurricane Katrina,' you can't prove a damned thing, nor can you with regards to 'multiple stab wounds,' which I suspect you threw just to get our of your hand, whoever contributed that one."  He peers at a third white card.  "'Boris the Soviet Love Hammer?'  Oh my.  No.  I think this round has to go to the sick fuck who uncovered my involvement with 'interspecies marriage.'"

"My point, baaaa," responds Leigh Solak with a cackle.  "Play to the stereotypes, I tell you."

"I was certain Boris would win.  But why are so many people fucking sheep?" asks Barbrak Tarabi as he draws a replacement card.  "I hear that everywhere.  Everyone's neighbor have interspecies marriage."

"We shall not question the love that dare not bleat its name," Flynn Bryant intones.  "You're up, Barfight."

"Right!"  Barbrak crunches a mouthful of Chex Mix while he contemplates his turn as card czar.  "Mm.  Two cards.  'My life is ruled by a vicious cycle of blank and blank.'"  As he taps the black card's edge on the table, a repetitive ribbit sounds from his shirt pocket.  He extracts his iPhone.  "Yeah, Chief?  Now?  Good!  Thanks, I tell 'em."  To the inquiring stares of White Cell, he grins widely.  "Miss Lina is gearing up in the shoothouse."

"Shit, yeah.  Game paused."  Bryant grabs the remote control and thumbs the lounge's television on.  "Which channel is the closed-circuit feed on?"

"The hostage-whackin' channel?"

"Be nice, BB..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:53, Mon 18 Jan 2016.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
30 May 2015
1445 hrs local (1245 hrs Zulu)

Karolina Kowalski geared up inside the squat beige cinder-block shoot house as she had done several times over the past week.  She had finally been cleared by Med to return to duty and was eager to prove herself to Mewes and Maatsen.  This was her 9th run through just this week, and while she knew that M&M, her internal monitor for TF-47’s CO and XO, had received the previous reports, she also knew that this mornings run through would be logged-in to her docket as her official return-to-duty qualification.

Lina bristled when Maatsen had first told her that she’d be considered for a return to the field only after two weeks of re-qual training.  After her first run through however, she realized the wisdom of Maatsen’s requirement.  She shot the first no-shoot on her first run twice in the head with the AK-104 she had been using.  Alarmingly, NS1 was first in the order, before Tango #1 had even been presented.  Afterward, Lina admitted that her eagerness, combined with being out of practice, had gotten the best of her.

Subsequent range qualifications had been much smoother.  While she had clearly fallen out of practice, her target identification and shooting skills returned quickly.  She hadn’t engaged a hostage this week and didn’t intent to start now.

For the morning qualification, she had selected an FN P90 along with a FN FiveSeven.  Lina was very familiar with the TUNGSTEN MEMENTO reports.  Since returning to duty, she had focused her qualification time on firearm and calibers that might penetrate the alien’s thick skin.  The armory’s log showed that she had signed out not only the AK-104’s brought back from Libya, but also Russian A-91’s, HK 416s and FN SCARs with CQB barrels in 5.56 and 6.8, Krinkov’s in both 5.45 and 7.62, and the armory’s singular beat-up L22A1.  The Pole’s pistol selection had been even wider, and with the exception of the FiveSeven, she hadn’t signed out the same pistol more than twice.  She had focused on .40 cal S&W, .357 Magnum, .41 Action Express, and .44 Magnum, putting rounds through Glocks, HK USPs in several variants, IMI Jericho 941s and Desert Eagles, along with shooting several revolvers.  The only time she had gone out with 9mm was after using a drop-in barrel conversation kit on a Gen 2 Glock 22, mostly to get a feel for it in case of a ‘SHTF and we have no more 40 cal’ scenario.

Lina was painfully aware that today’s FN paring relied on specialized ammo that could be very hard to find in most of the world.  She was much more likely to find 7.62x39 or .357 magnum than 5.7 or 6.8.  This run wasn’t about simulating that however.  She not only needed to show M&M that she was ready to return to work, she also needed to give them the paperwork that could cover their collective asses if she screwed up on a real mission.  There would been no off-handed shooting or use of unreliable weapon mods on this run.  They needed everything to go smoothly.  She needed everything to go smoothly.

---

In the antechamber, Lina answered Range Control’s, ”Captain are you ready?" question with a thumbs up, followed by bringing the FN P90 up to her shoulder and switching the selector to 1.  When the buzzer sounded, Lina moved purposefully into the room, scanning for targets.  The first to appear looked to be a well-dressed mannequin holding a black Glock knock off in two hands.  Lina double tapped the trigger of the P90, firing two rounds into the target’s center mass.  She continued quickly into the room, clearing corners and watching for the new targets.

Facing three closed doors, Lina decided she’d work from right to left and she kicked open door #1.  She immediately spotted a Tango and engaged with two quick single shots, and again both found their mark, center mass in roughly the sternum and right clavicle area.  Moving into the room, she was forced to engage a second target at point blank range as she cleared the area behind the door, putting two shots into what would be the right lung of a real Tango.  Sweeping through, Lina found no other exits and halted just short of the door, pausing briefly for entry back into the first chamber.

Staging at the door gave Lina a chance to reset her stance and she burst back out into the main chamber, ready to engage.  As she turned right, suddenly door #3 popped open and two figures emerged.  Kowalska quickly realized that one was unarmed and being used as a shield by the other, who appeared to be heading at not-quite a sprint toward the antechamber door.  Lina shifted right and squeed off another pair, catching the hostage taker in the back with two 5.7mm rounds.  Adjusting her plan to the environment, she decided to clear room #3 immediately.  As she moved in, she spotted another figure, in roughly the same place as Tango #2 had been in the first room.  She correctly identified this target as a non-combatant as her eyes immediately located both empty hands.  As she cleared the room, she found a door on the right wall, which she assumed led to room #2.  After giving the universal stay hand signal to no-shoot #2, she moved quickly to breach and clear the final room.

The final room was configured a long dinning room and Lina’s dynamic entry met resistance as the door failed to open full and hit a strategically placed chair.  Kowalska shimmied through, as whoever setup this obstacle had clearly overestimated her size, and she scanned the room quickly.  At  the far end, a lone target with a bullpup FAMAS stood, rifle raised, with what was likely a great sight picture of door #5.  A chemlight glowed just behind the target.  Lina engaged as she sidestepped around the furniture.  Her first two shots went wide.  One lesser known Polish curseword later, she reengaged with a double-tap, this time striking the target in the neck and chest.

Seeing no other targets, but having not cleared the area behind the door, Lina pulled out one of the dinning room chairs with her left foot, and stepped up first onto the chair, then onto the table.  She pushed forward quickly, passing the dead zone behind the door at not-quite a sprint.  Seeing no target, she shifted her focus to the glowstick, running flat out for the item that would end her qualification run.

---

”We’ve had a lot of people try to skirt the dinning room table to get to the glowstick.  In fact I think that’s the first time I’ve seen someone run on top of the thing.” Staff Sergeant Green, this morning’s Range Controller said with a snicker. ”Next time we’ll put some silverware and china on it.  Should stop that little trick.”  Green knew that it had knocked at least two seconds off the normal time for that setup.

”And of course that last Tango had you dead to rights,” he added smugly.

”Keep talking like that Staff Sergeant and we’ll find out how well your little cameras do when I start bringing my own flash-bangs,” Lina said.  The message was clear - she’d been offered only three magazines for the range, much as she had been at every other outing.  She had done the best with the tools at her disposal.  Which is all anyone could ask of her.  Lina turned to the closest camera, tilted her head and smirked, before raising her right arm and giving it the bird.  Satisfied with her performance, she walked to the armory to stow her gear.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:26, Tue 19 Jan 2016.

New York City
31 May 2015
2123 Local (0123 Zulu)

The data stream intensifies.  All the information gathered from Libya meshed with what they learned in Australia, collated, filed in mental cabinets for repeated examination.  Searching for missed details.  Technical specifications of fighter performance, weapons tests, electronic signatures all exist as electronic ether a mere touch of the keys away.  If it wasn’t a literal battle for the planet, Michael Dacovetti might stop.  Might be able to stop.  But he can’t.  Underneath all of it, swimming like a shark, is a hunger to understand how it all works.  And maybe, just the slimmest chance, one bordering so far down the edge of the implausible that he only let’s himself entertain it for a few seconds a day: maybe this will be his ticket to the sci-fi worlds he dreamed of as a child.  Spaceships, other planets.  All of it.

“Even when you’re here with me, you’re not here with me,” his wife’s voice, with her soft Catalan accent, reaches his ears as if from a distance.  He’s somewhat surprised to find himself sitting in a hotel room overlooking Central Park in New York City with a seemingly empty glass of scotch in his hand that he can't remember pouring or drinking.  Down there in the city, hidden from the view of luxury, are the libraries and places he ran to as a child to escape the poverty of his family.  His wife’s money, and her family’s money, is something he still has trouble getting used to.  It is as alien as the Attars.  More so in some regards.  "Should I be worried about you.  About us?”

The question falls outside his normal parameters.  There has always been an division between work and home.  Even when dealing with the terrible people of the world, he's had partioned his brain into two drives: home and away.  Neither label tied to particular geography.“I am not sure,” he says, but his brain starts to wander again, reaching for more conclusions in the data sets awaiting examination in his computer.  Maybe he just needs sleep, but that’s been hard, too.  This crush of information is a new iteration to his work as well, never anything he’s struggled with before.  Maybe the thought of becoming a father is disrupting the normal mental processes he runs so efficiently.  Bringing Jeanette in had been part of the response.  He could hand off part of the work to someone else and trust the results.  ”I’m trying to make the world safe for our child.”

“I understand that, my love.  But I can’t watch you die on TV.  Putting your text together with what you do was trivial when the news started.  You should know better than to send that text.  And you should know better than to take those chances. Your child, your daughter, will need a father.”   For a scolding from Isabelle, it’s rather tame.  It’s the pain in her eyes that does the damage.  Combined with the revelation.

The word “daughter” impacts hard, somewhere right beneath the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs and sending him back into his chair.  A smile creeps on to his lips as he envisions holding a tiny baby girl.  His baby girl.  “When did you…”

”A couple of days ago.  Before we knew when you would be free for leave and if I would be here. These are the things I do myself because we are not together.  This is the life we chose, but we may have to allow for compromises.”

”Emotionally, I get that, but-“  he pauses as the sight of the Attars and their human allies shooting up a downtown in a major metropolitan city flashes before his eyes. Again.  The happiness he was holding a moment ago vanishes into a uncertain sea of fear and helplessness.  The warrior inside takes the fear and sharpens a blade.  ”Lena, I love you.  And our daughter.  But I can’t compromise on this.  There is no allowance.  This work critical with very severe outcomes for failure.  I can’t promise that I’ll be careful or even that I will come home.  But I can promise you that you are with me, always.  Every morning and every night.  And our daughter will be, too.”

He reaches across the table and they hold hands in silence for a while, looking at the lights of the city outside their window.  Michael is thankful that he can’t see the stars, that for once in his life they would spoil the moment he is engaging in.

”Do you wish you could tell me what it is you do? What you fight? That sharing could ease this burden for you? ” Magdalena asks at length.

The question causes a shudder.  ”No Lena.  No I do not.  You should not have to carry this.  You should carry beauty and life and our happiness.  This is not for you.”

”Then come to bed and stay with me until we must go.”
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 18:29, Sun 24 Jan 2016.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
01 June 2015
2148 hrs local (1948 hrs Zulu)

The shoothouse is quiet; the cameras, off.  For this, Ted Bannon has - politely - expelled the facility's Air Force owners.  They aren't cleared for this.  He makes a mental note to scavenge all the brass that's about to be expended.  The Air Scouts may not even cleared to know the ammunition exists.  Though digging the rounds out of the backstops will be problematic...

"Colt?"  Leigh Solak eyes the large plastic cases dubiously.  "You brought us out here to look at 1911s?"

"Not exactly."  Bannon grins at the small coterie he's assembled: Solak, who's the best pistol shot in White Cell; a French Armée de l'air caporal named Corin Sauvageot whose personal MR73 may have saved Michael Dacovetti's life on a dusty Tripoli street; Karolina Kowalska, freshly returned to duty and bearing a personal interest in this acquisition; and Barbrak Tarabi, just because he's Barbrak.  "This isn't in the regular catalog."

Bannon pops the latches on one of the cases and spins it around, lifting the lid.  Nestled within the foam insert is a large pistol with a strange humped profile, sheathed in charcoal polymer.  The protruding muzzle is fitted with a compensator.  Atop the received rides a miniaturized red dot sight.

Sauvageot opens another case and hefts an identical weapon, checking the chamber before beginning a more thorough inspection.  The lack of a separate slide gives him a moment's pause until he finds the charging lever.  He tilts his head toward Bannon and raises an inquiring eyebrow.  "Here - a fire selector.  This is a machine pistol?"

"Yep," Bannon agrees cheerfully.  "Based on a design from the seventies.  They did some more tinkering on it when the PDW craze hit in the nineties but it never went anywhere.  And then the Lizard King," he nods toward Lina, "asked about getting some anti-alien ordnance."  He pulls a loaded magazine from a cargo pocket.  "Eyes and ears, people."

Bannon pivots and opens fire.  After the first few shots, he flips the selector to 3.  In burst fire, the weapon cycles so quickly only a single report is audible.  Downrange, the supersonic rounds tear through helmets, soft armor, a car door - and a sample of pale green Attar subcutaneous membrane stretched over calibrated ballistic gelatin.  Karolina steps back quickly as the gun pelts her with unexpectedly vigorous hot brass.  Even with earplugs under electronic headsets, the muzzle blasts are tooth-rattling.

"Ooh, mama want," Solak grins when the gun locks empty.  She stares appreciatively at the disembodied scrap of Attar, now with a trio of neat holes through its center.  "That'll fuck up an illegal alien.  How many did you get us, Chief?"

Bannon hoists an ammo can to the table and flips the latch, revealing a stack of magazines.  "For starters, two of the prototypes and twenty from the first production run."

Barbrak giggles as he strips a round from one of the magazines and hefts its unexpected weight.  "Mister Caradoc will be sorry he missed this..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:18, Mon 25 Jan 2016.

Bob Evans Restaurant
Somewhere west of Charleston, WV
17 May 2015
0628 hrs local (1028 hrs Zulu)

Hannah plopped into the booth seating across from Grey Cell's medic.  "Hey, Car." she quipped casually, sweeping up one of the menus next to him.  After a contemplative moment, she noted to the waitress that he'd been chatting with, "I'll have the corned beef hash with eggs, Jolene.  Over easy."

"Shore 'nuff." the curly haired waitress started, then paused.  "Do I know you, hon?" the woman asked, "How'd you know my full name?"

Double Down's eyes darted to waitress name tag which clearly stated only 'Jo'.  "I..." Hannah lied unabashedly, "heard the hostess call you that the last time I was through here about... oh, eight months ago."  That seemed to placate the young brunette and she wandered off towards the back of the restaurant to place their order.  The auburn-haired army warrant officer breathed a sigh of relief.

Hannah grimaced slightly, her lips pressed thin once Jolene's back was turned.  When the waitress was well out of earshot, she confided to the Irishman, "Something's been going on since Australia, Car."  She paused and Double Down glanced in the direction of the back of the restaurant, "Stupid stuff like that..."  Her brow furrowed slightly and her volume ratcheted down a notch, "I ... I used to dream in color, though never remembered that much really.  But lately, it's been vivid.  And in monochrome.  Purple-tinged monochrome."

She shook her head ruefully, "That sort of confession would normally get me removed from active flight duty immediately..."  But this wasn't exactly normal duty.  Thankfully.  She probably still needed a psych eval; hell, she might still be crazy - and not fit for duty.  But, at least, Painter was well aware of what they'd all been through.