"Thank you." Sébastien Durand nods when Dufour has completed his summary. The Frenchman's voice is low, the words sincere. He knew that Dufour and his team would have done all that they could, as would the team that had worked on Crewe.

The Frenchman's eyes show signs of his tiredness. The adrenaline rush of combat has gradually dissipated, ebbed out of his system, given way to fatigue. Perhaps some stress as well. Durand has over twenty years experience, first in the French military, then DGSE, has fought in a number of wars, but never one like this, where the enemy are from another World. This is a whole different level, one that he is not sure he'll ever fully get his head around. At least they do not appear to have any energy shields or any other shit from a Hollywood movie. Vullets killed them. Durand wasn't sure how many he had taken down. Not enough.

His rifle is still slung over his back, barrel pointing towards the floor. The presence of a number of wounded cops and FBI agents in nearby rooms may mean that the floor is swarming with law enforcement personnel wearing everything from multicam to blue windbreakers emblazoned with the letters of whatever Agency they worked for , but Durand isn't taking any chances. The only easing of his posture is the fact that his helmet is off, rests on a table next to a jug of water, upside down, his balaclava and gloves inside it.

After Dufour has made his exit the Frenchman looks at his phone, quickly reads the text from Maçon in Paris. With everything that had been happening he had almost forgotten about Belize, and the overflight by the Dutch that had been arranged. That could wait another few minutes though. First the Frenchman has a text of his own to send to the members of his team not present. It only takes a few moments, even if Dealer - or any teenaged kid - would probably have been amused at the way that he typed with one finger. Dancer critical but stable. Will update when able. Bullfrog. As he sends the text it occurs to him that he doesn't really know anything about the Polish woman, doesn't know if she has family. Presumably Mewse would be on top of that.

The DGSE operator then turns his attention to the text received from la piscine, DGSE headquarters in Paris' 20th Arrondissement. "Can you give us the room?" he murmurs to the non Grey Cell personnel present, waits until the room is clear before he dials the number. "Ici Durand." he says when the call is answered at the other end. Durand here.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:34, Mon 07 Aug 2017.

"So," James says to the Attar, "were going to have a doctor take a look at your wounds. It was kind of hard to find an extraterrestrial medicine specialist at this hour, so you'll have to pardon the wait."

Do these things have a sense of humor? James wonders. If so, he can't tell. The E.T.'s giving him nothing. It just lies there, staring at the olive drab roof. Perhaps its language skills aren't up to detecting irony. Maybe, James has to admit to himself, he's just not that funny.

"It would help us, and you, if you could give us some pointers on your non-human physiology. Do you understand?"

The Attar nods almost imperceptibly, slack human mask impassive. So, it's got a basic mastery of human non-verbal communication.

James sits on one side of the Humvee ambulance, custom Colt in his hand, resting on his black-clad right thigh. Its not meant to be threatening. But, if the alien has retractable metal claws, it might harbor other nasty surprises. The supine Attar, still cuffed, is strapped down to a stretcher on the bench opposite, head toward the cab. James is sweating under his layers of tactical battle rattle. The Humvee's AC is blowing full blast, but the vehicle currently immobile, the effect is negligible.

"Now, while we wait, I don't suppose you want to tell me what you're doing here, on this planet. I mean you and your... people."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:39, Sat 12 Aug 2017.

"It's Maçon," comes the reply, tinged with tired, dry humor.  "Let me guess.  The thing in Miami: your operation?  No, don't tell me."  In an office in Paris, a hand rises in a wait gesture.  "I think there are some details I am better off not knowing now.

"There was a night SAR training flight last night.  A CN-235 crew was over the Caribbean.  A very long flight - possibly someone offended the squadron commander, to be sent on such a mission."  The shrug is almost audible.  "There was some small matter of paperwork not filed until the last minute, but they received permission to refuel in Belize City.  They're on the ground there now.  I'm sending you the imagery they shot on their way in.

"The island is unchanged from the commercial imagery.  Manor house, three Second World War outbuildings.  Two boats and a seaplane at the dock.  But thermal showed six well-built fighting positions.  Only a light watch - two positions manned, and another man and dog walking patrol.  Rifles, with some indication that the fighting pits can accept heavy weapons.  Thermal also suggests there's a buried structure under the outbuildings.

"The aircrew is off duty but they can give you a daytime pass in three more hours."

---

The Attar turns its head toward James.  "Any physician who would understand me is probably retired or senile at this point," it states in generic Midwestern English.  Its blank face could be irony to match James' own or an emotionless delivery of fact.  "And we've made a lot of progress in the surgery and implants in the last," an almost-imperceptible pause, "half-century.  We're as much engineered as born now.  Though if you have any, your citrus is a good pain reliever."

It frowns.  The movement seems rehearsed - or practiced, as if in a journeyman class on human nonverbals.  "My ability to answer your other question is limited."  The restraints halt a gesture that may be more natural, and its face flickers.  "There are... this is hard to verbalize.  I have to be oblique.  Your scientists would not be able to identify or even find these limits.  Do you understand?"  Its eyes roll up briefly, as if glancing toward something above its head, before returning to James' face.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:27, Sun 13 Aug 2017.

"'Is anything radioactive?'" Dacovetti snaps at one of the open laptops on his appropriated work table.  A series of four faces are peering back at him from half the screen.  The other half is showing a series of typed observations and data points.  He's reasonably well acquainted with two of the faces, two of the Green Cell science types attached to the task force.  Other two faces are his ex and the Aussie, Dr. Ghosten and Crit.  "I just want to clarify.  Your question is 'Is anything radioactive.'"  Michael doesn't wait for an answer.  He sweeps the table with his arms, showing the collection of geiger counters, spectrum analyzers, and assorted camera, microscopes, and other doodads of esoteric electronic arts.  "Yes.  The answer to your inquiry is yes.  Something is radioactive.  Me.  Do I look fucking new?  That was the first thing I verified."

"You are radioactive." Jeannette Ghosten repeats the statement with a bit of alarm.  "How much?"

"Twenty five x-rays?" Dacovetti shrugs then steps back and rubs his eyes.  It's not enough to make him worry about much more than his current sperm count.  With a baby on the way, that's kind of an insignificant input.  A geometric stack of coffee cups is balanced between his two computers, the fuel his body is consuming in the increasingly difficult task of thinking clearly and analyzing all the debris that are being deposited on the ever growing collection of folding metal table stretching off to his left and right.  Right for the prescan, left for the post.  Too further complicate his efforts, the airman's eyes keep darting back to the other laptop, the one listening for the Wildwood Grouse signal that implies impending doom from high elevations.  "Apparently, narrowly avoiding applied energy annihilation leaves a radioactive splash.  Good to know.  Maybe our satellites can be tasked to look for the neccessary signal trace.  If, if, if."

The glucose levels necessary for proper brain function running perilously low, Michael reaches out and takes a Clif Bar from the table and tears it open with his teeth to avoid touching anything with his hands.  There are risks and there are risk profiles.  He judges holding food to be okay, touching it a no-no.  He feels like a target sitting hear in the industrial park.  Many years ago, working with Specter gunships, he'd had the unsettling conversation with a sensor operator that was able to describe his location and actions in full detail from several miles and several thousand feet of airspace away.

"I hope they get this jurisdiction situation sorted," he tells the computers.  "Otherwise I'm going to be forced to consider the Buddy Mac Strategies of Army Management."

"Dare I ask?" Crit's faces asks.

Buddy MacArthur had been one of Michael's instructors way back in the day at Hurlburt Field, back on the Florida Gulf Coast for TACP tech school.  He'd had advice in how to deal with the normally obstructionary Army chain of command.  "Sure.  Strategy one, never ask a question that has an answer you don't want to hear.  The cousin of it is better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.  Strategy two, they can't tell you to change course if you're not there."

"You want to take the bodies and the tech and run."  Jeanette sums up.

"You are correct."  Michael sighs.  "We can get to work somewhere that doesn't feel like we're waiting to die."

"Have you talked to Bannon?"  Crit asks.

"That would be asking permission now, wouldn't it."

"Well, yeah."

Another Air Force spec ops guy arrives, this one brandishing all of the uniform accouterments of a Combat Controller, the TACP arch nemesis.  The man is carrying a cylinder two or three feet long with an articulating joint in the middle.  Some sort of ochre fluid is leaking out of one end.  Michael is absurdly glad he's in a sterile uniform, not ready to engage in a little bit of who is better at controlling air strikes better by-play.  "You tech?"

"Clearly," Michael says. His hand is vibrating from caffeine and nor-adrenaline.

The CCT doesn't rise to the bait, either to professional or warned away by the look in Michael's eyes.  "Where do you want this shit?"

In a van on the way to Homestead.  "Table on the right," he sighs instead.  "Thanks."

"Citrus, eh? I guess if you had to get yourself shot full of holes, you picked the right place to do it."

James wonders if he just violated OPSEC. It seems unlikely, though, that the 'visitors'' main agenda on earth is to plunder its supply of tasty, all-natural analgesics. He compensates for the slip by neglecting to mention his first-hand alien autopsy experience. You'd be surprised, buddy.

He opens the ambulance door and makes eye contact with one of the armed airmen encircling the vehicle.

"I need two tall O.J.s, preferably organic, stat!"

That sounded authoritative enough, didn't it?

He shuts the door and hopes that he's not about to provide the alien with the equivalent of napalm.



James didn't, not really. All he's got is a hunch; he follows it.

"You mean you can't say, as opposed to won't." he says, hoping the creature can recognize the semantic distinction. To clarify, James adds, "Someone is listening in on us... psychically?"

Dancer is- was?- Grey Cell's de facto expert on telepathy, or whatever these things were using to communicate sub-sonically. James is just grasping at straws.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:42, Tue 15 Aug 2017.

The alien's gaze turns inward for a moment.  "Not listening," it says.  Then, slowly, as if tasting the word: "Can't."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:53, Tue 15 Aug 2017.

Despite the circumstances Durand's lips curled into a grin as he heard the pause on the line, could almost picture the Gallic shrug as his erstwhile boss relayed the results of the Dutch recce flight. So it seemed that the island was indeed another piece in the puzzle of what was going on here. And was protected by armed men, at a level that appeared to be well in excess of what might reasonably be required.

And then there was the question of what might lie underneath the outbuildings. Some sort of concealed base of operations? Another space ship? Durand shook his head. A year ago if anyone had suggested to him that there might be an alien spaceship buried on a Caribbean island he would have laughed out loud, thought that they were crazy. And now he was thinking that.

"Thanks, Sir." the DGSE operator replied when Maçon had stopped talking. There was a brief pause as he considered the different options. A second overflight might provide them with more intelligence but it might also alert whoever was on the island that they were being watched, particularly if they had raised their state of alert after the events that had taken place overnight. ”Let’s hold off on the daytime pass for now I think. Too much risk that we might alert them that we know about that site.”

Ending the call with Maçon, Durand stabbed one of the speedial options on his phone, stood against the wall while he waited for it to be picked up at the other end, a black clad wraith, one that was out of place in a hospital. ”Nemesis, it’s Bullfrog.” he identified himself when Bannon came on the line, kept his report short. A more detailed briefing could com when they were all back in the same place. ”We have another target. And we should probably move fast, before the other side put the pieces together about what has happened this morning." If they hadn’t already of course. "Do you want me to bring Vest up to speed?”

Hannah stood on the roof surveying the area for a moment.  She'd spent the past couple of hours scouring it to ensure that there was nothing left to spot from the air.  Even with a no-fly zone, all it took was some yokel with a telephoto lens to get a grainy picture of lord-knows-what.

She felt tired, having pushed herself both physically and mentally for a while now.  Blowing an errant lock of hair from her face, the young army aviatrix had to walk gingerly given the compromised state of building.  Double Down would have preferred not to be up on the roof - especially near the ragged, gaping maw of a hole where Dancer had been snatched up along with the rent concrete and other detris.  And then unceremoniously dropped to the cold, hard pavement far below.

Double Down felt a chill down her spine.  And it wasn't just from the chill early morning breeze.  She sniffed the crisp air for a moment - more for effect that anything else - and the pointed to another spot just beyond one of the still intact HVAC units.  Hannah could feel the purple energy pulsing and grating on her peripheral vision.  A tiny scratch or prickling.  Just the lightest touch.  She had to let her consciousness drift outwards, meander a bit without too much focus.  But Hannah couldn't let it wander too much, but just enough to let something else creep in and do the heavy lifting.

At first, the men aiding her had been more than a touch skeptical.  Hell, she'd been wary as well about any information that she was 'sensing.'  But, eventually, everyone settled into a routine.

Honestly, she'd rather be flying.  To the hospital.  Over Belize.  Even over the Arghandab in Kandahar at this point.  But, that wasn't really an option.

The men in their Tyvek™ and Mylar™ suits pulled the pieces lodged in the thermal insulation out with industrial-sized tweezers and bagged the shrapnel.  But only after photographs and various spectral readings were taken.  Double Down wasn't fully suited up.  She still had her tactical webbing on.  Whatever residual exposure to cosmic rays that might happening was far less than the suntan she got from direct exposure to the interior of that damned tractor beam and alien craft.  Plus, she'd been shot at by plasma ray wielding aliens already.  And she had the psychic scars and dreams to prove it.

"There's one more..." the auburn-haired pilot noted distantly, pointing to something lodged back behind a crevice in the sheet metal housing, "Make sure we catalog the exact placement and radiation readings..."  That piece seemed especially bright for some reason; and Dealer would want the info.  She was pretty sure of that.

Cooper paused briefly between his movements, taking deep breaths and using a Buddhists meditation technique he had learned just outside of Kandy, in Sri Lanka.  His breathing was effortlessly measured, eyes drifting between closed and heavily lidded.  Cooper's face was as serene as that of the visage of Jayavarman VII of the Temple of Angkor Thom in Cambodia.

It was in such contemplative nullness that Coop had achieved the most progress in his time at the Rhine Research Center.  Doctor Gellner had strongly encouraged Williams to tap into his prior Eastern experiences and studies.  The Professor of Linguistics and Parapsychology cracked just the slightest smile when he learned that Cooper had studied and was able to read the I Ching and the other Chinese classics.  For Gellner, such countenance was as close go giddiness as the Israeli-American might ever come.

After taking in nothingness for an uncounted number of breaths, Cooper shifted his mindfulness to the hear and now.  It was time to shift positions and try again.  This time he'd follow the debris trail away from the office park.

Homestead Air Reserve Base
Homestead, Florida
11 June 2015
1726 hrs local (2248 hrs Zulu)

The sun-bleached ramp outside the hangar groans under the full weight of Task Force 47.  The Gulfstream and Knighthawk have been joined by a pair of German A400Ms.  The heavy transports' wings shade a small squadron of unmarked passenger vehicles forested with antennas.

Inside, Group Captain Grant Mewes stands in quiet conversation with a sweating, green-faced Commander Stephen Vest.  His backdrop is a charcoal grey Mi-24V, undergoing arming and fueling at the hands of Barbrak Tarabi and his technical crew.  It's an unsubtle reminder to some of his audience of TF47's global and somewhat-extralegal remit.

The audience in question is... varied.  To the right, a depleted Grey Cell, somewhat more functional after a forcefully-ordered eight-hour stand-down.  Behind them, White Cell, scabs fresh from its own loss in May, leans forward in silent support, backed by the task force's full contingent of French air commandos.

CWO3 Bannon and his intelligence and support staff occupy the center seats.  Their mood is tense and restless.  Uncharacteristically, they're universally armed.  They form a protective, almost proprietary, bubble around Darnell Hawkins and Robert Paddon.

On the left, the task force's local partners segregate themselves by agency.  The FBI occupies the front row, stone-faced, arms folded, defensive at not being the alpha predators in the room.  Behind them, Adriana Salcedo casts an apologetic glance toward James Choi as she takes her seat with the other local cops.  In the back, a quartet of AFSOC personnel quietly brings a couple of Ranger Regiment officers up to speed.

Mewes turns and Vest steps back a pace.  The hangar falls silent save for the clatter of 12.7mm rounds being fed into the ammo bin of the Hind's Yak-B.

"Good evening."  Mewes nods tersely.  "For those of you who I haven't met, I'm Group Commander Grant Mewes, RAF.  I am the commanding officer of NATO Task Force 47.  Before we proceed, please allow me to extend my deepest regrets to the colleagues and family of Special Agent Jason DeLuca.  I'd like you to join me in a moment of silence."  He bows his head and inhales deeply as Barbrak's crew pauses in their task.

"Now. The task force has primary jurisdiction for this operation under the 1961 annex to Article Three of the North Atlantic Treaty and, within and under United States airspace, by National Security Council Intelligence Directive 6110."  His eyes flicker toward the FBI contingent.  "All material in this briefing is classified as code word OSSUARY GROVE, as is the existence of the documents I just cited.  Given the nature of this material, penalties for unauthorized disclosure may far exceed those normally prescribed by law.

"To summarize and clarify, Task Force 47's mission is to gather intelligence on, and perform direct action against, an extraterrestrial presence that is operating on our world in conjunction with numerous terrorist and criminal organizations.  Early this month, we became aware of possible extraterrestrial activity in Florida targeting former members of Observation Squadron 54, a U.S. Navy research and flight test squadron that was engaged in reverse-engineering captured extraterrestrial craft between 1956 and 1964.  The subsequent events of which you are now aware stemmed from our operation to identify and interdict these attacks."  He nods to Paddon and Hawkins.

"Our present status is as follows.  Recovery of extraterrestrial artifacts and spacecraft debris from the Miramar site was completed at 1530 hours local.  All recovered material is now en route to Europe aboard a U.S. Air Force transport with heavy fighter escort.  The primary objective of this movement is to begin artifact analysis at appropriate laboratory facilities.  The secondary objective is to provide sufficient force to overmatch any extraterrestrial attack during transit.

"Additionally, Task Force 47 captured one living extraterrestrial.  That specimen is currently being prepared for transport.  Special Agent Choi led a preliminary interrogation.  I'll ask his team to brief out on that momentarily.

"Finally, through interviews with Observation Squadron 54 survivors and parallel research, we've identified two additional sites of interest.  The first is a small privately-owned island off the coast of Belize.  This site and several attached assets have been owned by a former flight officer in VO54 since 1964.  It is surprisingly well-fortified for its size.  Financial records suggest a permanent population of approximately forty with a high consumption rate of medical supplies.  There is are no current indicators of extraterrestrial activity."

"The second site of interest is a storage complex at Naval Weapons Center China Lake.  This is the last known location of all material and records from VO54.  However, there have been some recent status changes with regards to this site.  I'll turn this portion of the briefing over to Commander Vest.  Commander."

Vest swallows hard and steps forward.  "Hello.  I'm Commander Stephen Vest with the Office of Naval Intelligence.  I'm the execu-- excuse me, I'm now acting commander of the Policy Liaison Group.  We're the U.S. Navy intelligence component charged with monitoring current alien activity on Earth and maintaining security for Navy personnel who were involved in contact or research during the last period of incursions.

"It also appears that we're compromised.

"Due to a high number of coincidences over the last few days of operations, we began to suspect that the aliens had a source close to the task force.  Chief Bannon, Captain Kowalska, and I arranged a smoke test.  Every reporting chain tied to the task force received different status reports yesterday.

"When I reported the China Lake connection to my group's commander, he sent most of our office out there to investigate.  That team arrived a few hours ago.  They're reporting that another group arrived last night and cleaned out whatever was left in the storage site.  No one knows who that group was... and no one's heard from our commander since he cut those orders."

Mewes nods curtly and Vest gratefully relinquishes his position, sinking into an isolated seat on the front row.  "Thank you, Commander.  In light of this development, this operation has conflicting immediate priorities, which we'll attempt to resolve immediately.  First, though, we have some new insight into our adversaries.  Special Agent Choi, Chief Omdahl, Petty Officer Williams: you have the floor."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:47, Sat 19 Aug 2017.

Earlier

Dacovetti has the basic appearance of being human once again, synapses approximating normal operating function at a level he rates somewhere around 75% of optimal.  In a decade and a half of military service, worse operational levels have yielded successful conditions so while not ideal, he's not going to complain as simply medicate with Red Bull.  Drink now.  Pay later.

The airman is leaning on a table in front of his Grey Cell teammates, the ones not in a trauma center, holding a small metal circlet maybe three quarters of an inch thick and slightly larger around than a human neck.  One side holds a clasp made out of a metal alloy that all the tech in the room hasn't been able to identify.  A tungsten ring leads away from the clasp around both sides of the circle to a hinge and a box about the size of two match books.

"Get on with it, Dealer," Bannon croaks.  The malice in his voice is probably for show.  Probably.  "The op brief kicks off in twenty."

"I'm aware, thank you," Dacovetti returns a little more sharply that he intends.  Let's call it 70% of optimal.  The object goes into his left hand while the right grabs a half full can of Red Bull that he consumes without relish further spending his future suffering bank.  "This is important.  Seb and I located something in the wreckage.  This ring."

The airman pauses, eyes rising to take in the others, maybe waiting to see if anyone will chime in to ask what it is, take the obvious question.  The expressions he sees indicate that everyone present knows that he's going to explain and aren't willing to waste the time or energy to bite.  "At first I assumed it was a power-couple or something similar.  It didn't respond to any of the initial tests I ran.  Except, well except for the a slight uptick I noticed on the spectrum analyzer when Cooper got on scene.  That resulted in a deep-dive down the the BRONZE FREESTYLE well.  The little psychic bastards."

Michael takes another sip, utilizing the pause to make sure everyone is following him. "I managed to open up the hinge mechanism.  The circuit design is almost organic, several of the connections damaged, either from falling or from close contact with the energy weapon the spacecraft deployed.  The source is inconclusive when I can't even identify how the system is built.  Best hypothesis is that this was some sort of booster for psychic energy.  Don't get overly excited because it's not that now.  Now it's...well..."

The can goes down and Michael opens the hinge placing the circle around his neck before snapping it shut.  As it closes, his mind disappears from the sensitives in the room.  A background hum that they might not have even noticed suddenly goes still.  "I'm gone, correct?"  Michael asks, rhetorically.  "This used to boost a psychic signal.  Now it blocks one.  To a point, I believe.  I pinged the system a few times with a blank signal along the same spectrum we think the BRONZE guys utilize for their offensive capabilities.  The necklace experienced some significant thermal growth.  It's probable that the system could be overwhelmed, possibly turning on the user."

Durand looks at Dealer, the implication of what the airman had just said written on his face. "So what you're saying, Mike, is that we might be able to block that thing's signal. But there is also a chance that we could end up frying the mind of the person that they've taken over?"

"You are correct Seb.  It has a pronounced downside, but we have psychic ECM."

"Thanks, Group Captain Mewes,"James begins, rising from his seat to face the motley crew.

"Myself and agents Omdahl and Cooper have spoken with the alien prisoner at length. It was surprisingly chatty."

James quickly surveys the room. Poker faces all around. The seasoned interrogator is having trouble reading his audience. Are they dumbstruck by Mewes' revelations- a powerful dose of cognitive dissonance- or is this old fashioned skepticism? Maybe they're just as dog tired as he is. Perhaps a little levity is in order, to break the ice.

"We've learned a few things about our guests. First off, they frickin' love orange juice."

Nothing. Not so much as a flicker of a smile.

"Seriously. For them, citric acid acts as a powerful pain-reliever. Agent Omdahl will brief you on what we've learned about their physiology."

This would be easier if they were heckling me, James muses.

"According to our prisoner, the E.T.'s current operational cycle began in 2008, although they've been active here- on earth- before, most notably from the early 1940s through about 1979. It couldn't tell us why they weren't active between '79 and '08. We've identified at least three species of extraterrestrials currently operating here. Our prisoner- we're calling his type 'Attar'- is the alien equivalent of a deep cover agent. Their ops are compartmentalized, so its knowledge of alien strategy, technology, space travel, and other big-picture stuff is limited, at best. In addition, the Attars seem to have been conditioned against oversharing, with a sort of psychic kill-switch, if you will. Agent Cooper will have more on the E.T.s psionic capabilities.

"The Attars are capable of mimicking human beings with a high degree of verisimilitude. In addition to its convincing Midwest American English, our subject can speak Cuban Spanish and Muscovite Russian fluently. It's also proficient in non-verbal communication, although that doesn't seem to come as easy. In conversation, the Attars come off as somewhat socially awkward- like an adult with Asperger's syndrome."

James is met with looks of incomprehension from about half the audience.

"Asperger's is a form of high-functioning autism. If Rain Man is a nine on the autism scale, our Attar is at a one or a two.

"The human mimic variants, of which the Attar is one, are surgically engineered in batches. We've identified three templates, so far. We first encountered the Attar model in Libya. Their resemblance to humans is really just skin-deep. Beneath the surface, they are very alien."

Desperate for one of his teammates to jump in and save him from this tough crowd, James signals Cooper and/or Omdahl to step in take over the briefing. The former FBI special agent remains standing, preparing to field the questions he's sure are coming.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:18, Wed 30 Aug 2017.

”G’day, I’m Petty Officer Williams, Royal Australian Navy.  Much like you mob, I was rudely awakened to the existence of this threat when Task Force Four Seven showed up in my back yard a few months ago.”  Cooper’s delivery was direct, his face serious and stern.

”Thanks to the professionalism and skill of this NATO unit, we were able to contain and disrupt the extra-terrestrials plans.  During those operations, we discovered that two Australian Security Intelligence Organization Agents had been forcibly compromised by an Extraterrestrial Biological Entity that are listed in your dossier’s under the code word BRONZE FREESTYLE.”

Williams sighed slightly before continuing.  He wasn’t exactly sure how to broach the nature of the compromise.

”When I say compromised, based on the evidence the Task Force has collected to date, it appears some sort of telepathic attack was used against the Agents.  This is effectively a form of mind control and it’s this capability that BRONZE FREESTYLE EBEs… I’m just going to call them Blue Falcons from here on, because that rolls of the tongue easier.  It’s this Blue Falcon capability that keeps these Attar blokes in line.”  Coops briefing was quickly shifting between a formal to an informal style as stunned looks and hushed whispers passed among the previously unwitting.

”Now our friend Blue Falcon isn’t the only EBE that can manifest what we would consider a parapsychological effect.  The flying squid… I don’t think we have a codename for that Bunyip yet… the flying squid, which we’ve learned is a non-sentient predator from an unknown world,  appears to have an ability to mask itself from observation by sapient species.  If it doesn’t want you to see it, you won’t.  Thankfully, that is the limit of its psychic talents, according to our chatty Attar.”

”So Blue Falcon space dwarves appear to have a menagerie of species they use for differing purposes.  They command and exert telepath control over both species and have the capability to do so to our own.  If Squiddly and Attar are the diggers, Blue Falcon is the officer.”  Cooper thought it best to outline the last part explicitly.  Because everyone knew, officers were prime targets on the battlefield.  Even an interstellar one.

”We also learned the Blue Falcon in charge of the warehouse was given advanced warning of the raid.  It set its mind-controlled Russkies to packing up and then tasked the Attars to serve as bodyguards.  From the intelligence we’ve gathered during the interrogation, the loss of two Falcons on this mission and one Falcon in Australia has made significant impact on them.”

With that Cooper held one hand up.  ”Now please hold your questions because we’ve saved the best for last,” he added, shifting his hand gesture to invite the next presenter.  Williams gave Hannah a wink as he stepped back.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:35, Wed 30 Aug 2017.

Double Down blushed slightly and  gave Diver a wan smile when he winked at her.

Hannah stepped up next, in front of Williams and Choi for the moment.  Taking in a deep breath first, her light frame shuddered slightly.  "I'm Chief Warrant Officer Hannah Omdahl, United States Army." she formally introduced herself, rattling off her serial number in the process as well as her previous unit assignment.  "But enough about me." Double Down noted in passing, "You've just had your eyes opened to a broader universe - an apparently hostile one.  Here is what we know about the grunts the enemy uses, which we have gathered from direct field experience, post-mortem autopsy results, as well as interro.. interviewing our one live specimen."  Hannah paused for a moment, then continued, "The recent activity here has yielded our first live capture of an Attar-template EBE - seemingly modeled off of a known wanted terrorist:  Mas'ud Attar." And she pointed to screen behind her, while continuing, "His brief is in your packets, but long story short - they all look something like this guy.  Memorize that ugly mug."

"This EBE template has been shown to have enhanced strength, endurance, and reflexes - some of which is due to cybernetic implants of some sort, we believe." the auburn-haired pilot narrated, as various images flashed on screen, "These implants range the gamut in functionality.  And are tailored to the mission - and some individual preference." she let that latter fact sink in, the aliens exhibited plenty of sentience, "The list that we know of is includes, but are probably not limited to, the aforementioned enhanced physical capabilities, subcutaneous body armor, millimeter-band radar used for night vision, the retractable finger blades, a short-range directed electromagnetic pulse generators for trashing surveillance equipment, and various sensory augmentations.  We have also experienced that this EBE template has acidic blood and saliva, though we are unsure if this is a cybernetic-enhancement; it could simply be standard with the phenotype."

"We have determined that EBEs do not appear to be vulnerable to any known terrestrial bacteria or virus.  They are simply too alien in biochemistry, apparently." Hannah noted with some discomfort, "However, do appear to display susceptibility to some types of fungi.  Go figure.  This potential weakness is still under investigation."   Hannah really had no idea how to weaponize athlete's foot.  "Also further, uh, interviewing of our one live subject has yielded additional information their specific dietary needs." the lithe army aviatrix digressed for a bit, geeking out a bit on some of the details.  But then she refocused on the briefing, "Some of the items are reasonably exotic; so, we may be able to work out a consumption pattern.  But that is a more long term project."  One that she knew that Amber Cell (and probably Dealer) were already working on.

"However, I know that as patriotic and protective citizens of the USA and the world in general..." Double Down added with a slightly crooked smile, "What is first and foremost on your minds: How do we kill these things."  Her gaze passed over the audience, as she measured her words and tried to keep her tone even.  "Not easily, is the ultimate answer.  Always remember that you can't presume that we know everything about them - they are definitely intelligent and have shown a blatant disregard for human life."

"But I digress," Hannah noted, returning from her somber tirade to the facts of the briefing, "We do have at least one major advantage.  The EBEs are unaware that their thermal signatures are different than ours.  In the case of the Attar-template, they run extra hot.  The Blue Falcon dwarves run cold."  Examples of live-action sensor feeds from the team's various cameras highlighted her points in the background.  She let the information sink in, as detection of disguised aliens was as at least half the battle.  "Still," she stressed, "Remember this remains an advantage only as long as the enemy is unaware of it."  It was a solemn reminder of what was at stake and how much of the intelligence game was due to the fog of war.

But to not end on a completely down note, Hannah added, "And we know that, despite their advanced technology and physical enhancements, the EBEs are still susceptible to extensive ballistic trauma."  It wasn't necessarily a license to use excessive force, but, hell, as far as she was aware these things took a real beating.  And so an extra double tap to the cranium wasn't always out of the question.  Having said her practiced bit, Double Down stepped back to be inline with Diver and Lizard King and ready to take any other questions.

Durand looked at the pad on his knee - why the Americans used yellow for these things was a mystery to him - several pages of which were now covered in notes that had been scribbled in French. He'd already known some of the information that his three colleagues had just shared with the room of course, but all of it. Clearly the others had also been busy while he and Dealer had been tinkering with the alien circlet.

A few things were circled or underlined. The dates 1979 - 2008 were circled twice. Durand wondered what was significant about those dates, why the aliens had stayed away between them. Something they were afraid of? Or had the leaders of Earth reached some sort of secret accord with them, one that was now no longer in place? If someone had said that to Durand a year ago he would have told them that was a crazy conspiracy theory. But the world had turned on its head since then. The Frenchman could empathise with the military and law enforcement personnel sitting on the other side of the room, could understand their gasps and looks of disbelief. They were at the bottom end of a steep learning curve.

The Frenchman looked up from his notepad, looked over at the non Grey Cell contingent seated on the left hand side of the room, waited for the questions to come.

A stunned silence hangs over the room for more than a minute.  No one wants to be the first to ask the wrong question, the stupid question - or the question that'll put another crack in an already-damaged worldview.  Then, from the back row, the major in charge of the AFSOC contingent makes brief eye contact with Michael, slides down in his seat, and drawls, sotto voce, "How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?"

A couple of heads in the FBI section whip around with expressions of disapproval, but a few nervous titters leak out of the local cops and Bannon guffaws audibly.  With that, the dam breaks.

James defers a question about alien psychology until he has a chance to consult an actual psychologist.  Hannah and Michael tag-team a series of best guesses on the effectiveness of Army air defense assets on low-flying alien craft.  James shuts down what promises to be a long-winded diatribe on the legal implications of the task force's handling of non-human subjects.  Cooper and Hannah neatly sidestep an uncomfortably-close question on the nature of the psychic phenomena, giving Michael a chance to brief his most recent finding on psychic ECM.  Sébastien steps up to summarize three months of frantic operations and research in six terse paragraphs.

ASAC Murchinson waits for the next pause, then unfolds the arms that have been crossed tightly over his chest since he took his seat and raises two fingers.  "I'd like some answers," he says acidly, pointedly not looking at James, "as to why none of this was briefed before the operation."  He clamps his jaw tightly on what's obviously a full head of steam and recriminations.

Mewes takes a step forward but Vest shakes his head.  "I'll take that one," he says quietly.

"Because no one fucking believes this shit."

He lets the profanity settle onto the surface what's been a professional, if tense and hectic, briefing.  "We've tried.  We have tried and tried to pre-brief people before first contact and it.  Doesn't.  Work.  They don't believe it.  They laugh it off, or they back away slowly, or they nod and smile and don't take it seriously.  It's probably because we all grew up in the era of science fiction and special effects.  But no one really believes us until they're face to face with the enemy."  He sweeps a hand across the still-standing members of Grey Cell.  "You only get read into this compartment after you survive your first encounter and don't lose your mind.  As you saw last night."  He runs a hand through his hair.  "Christ, man, we haven't briefed a sitting president since Reagan.  We can't risk driving one insane by proving to him that we aren't.  You guys took psych casualties last night.  You've seen it happen."

Vest pans his haunted gaze across the hangar.  "Show of hands.  Before last night, who in this room would have truly, in your heart of hearts, accepted a briefing that said alien infiltrators were working with the Russian mob to assassinate the last survivors of the last U.S. Navy unit to experiment with alien technology?  If these guys had come to you and showed you the alien autopsy DVD, who would have gone through the door to shoot E.T. in the face with no reservations or lingering doubts?  Who would have believed?"

Shoulders shift uncomfortably.  No hands go up.

"Right.  I believe that's covered.  Thank you, Commander."  Mewes takes the briefing in hand again.  "Unfortunately, we still have several issues in play.  Task force orders.  White Cell: proceed to China Lake and investigate the apparent compromise of the artifacts stored there.  You'll relieve the members of Commander Vest's unit who are already on site; they'll remain to assist you.

"Grey Cell: proceed to Belize and reconnoiter the island that Admiral Frye willed to Commander Ceelen.  AFSOC and Amber Cell security personnel will provide support.

"Bravo Company, Third Ranger Battalion will continue to provide security for recovery operations here, liaising with Miami PD.  Captain Tomlin, you should have orders in hand from Fort Benning shortly to confirm that.

"The Office of Naval Intelligence will take point on the investigation of Captain Brackney's disappearance in Maryland, coordinating with the FBI."  Mewes locks gazes with Murchinson.  "Given the investigation's nature and the issues Commander Vest shared, we'd prefer to arrange this as a temporary assignment for agents who are already inside the compartment.  ASAC Murchinson, I'd appreciate it if you could provide me with a list of volunteers."

"Major Bryant, Monsieur Durand, Chief Bannon: a moment of your time, please, gentlemen."

With that, the briefing dissolves into a dozen different conversations as people begin to stand.

Well, that probably went about as well as could be expected Durand thought to himself as the briefing came to its end and people began splitting up into various sub groups according to the tasking that they had been assigned. After all, virtually every man and woman in the room had just been told that extra terrestrials did exist. And they had not come in peace. The Frenchman could empathise with how they were probably feeling. After all, no one had briefed him on the nature of the threat, had only found out the hard way when he had gone hand to hand with one of the fuckers in Libya. And no one liked feeling that they were being kept in the dark. But the people in the room were all professionals, and all things being equal Durand reckoned that most of them had taken the news that mankind was not alone quite well. Most of them. The FBI guy still sounded pissed.

Still, that wasn't Durand's problem. The DGSE operator walked over to where Mewes was standing. He'd changed out of the black nomex assault suit that he'd worn the previous night, was now clad in a plain black t shirt, coyote tan cargo pants, well worn desert boots. A day and a half's worth of stubble adorned his chin. "Gentlemen," he said as he joined the group that was assembling, a nod offered to each in turn while he waited for the Royal Air Force officer to speak.

"Seb."  Flynn Bryant nods to the DGSE agent.  "Sucks about Dancer and Painter, brother."  He gives Sébastien a tap on the shoulder, then turns to Mewes.  "Sir."

The RAF officer's hand twitches in an abortive attempt to run through the hair that hasn't been there for years.  "Gentlemen, I know I've just handed you a rather large tasking, but we need to be thinking about contingencies.  Our luck held in Australia but this is a larger and more visible operation.  It's entirely likely that we'll shortly find ourselves less than black."

Bannon snorts and carefully does not look at the FBI contingent clustered around ASAC Murchinson.  "He can't leak to anyone if he's at the embassy in Iceland."

"I'm not pointing any fingers," Mewes says with a hint of reproach in his voice, "but this is a large footprint with a lot of people who aren't accustomed to operating in our world.  I don't expect anyone here to be stupid enough to go to the press but someone's chain of command may begin asking questions.  So..."  He hesitates.  "Do consider how best to interface with local authorities in a more open manner than we've been allowed to date.  That restriction may be changing shortly."

He turns to Sébastien.  "The Americans are loaning you one of their pararescuemen for medical support in Belize.  He speaks the local language.  Do you need me to chop you Bannon or Maatsen too?"  His eyes ask the real question: are you ready to run the team with a third of its strength in the hospital?

"Thanks, man, I appreciate that." Durand has time to acknowledge Bryant's sentiment of solidarity between two brothers in arms before Mewes begins to speak. When the Englishman has finished, the DGSE operator paused for a moment, considered what he had said and, perhaps more importantly, what had been left unsaid.

It's a brief pause, one that concludes with Durand shaking his head. "We'll be OK, Sir." His voice is low, his tone one that is measured. Determined. Grey Cell are going to finish what they've started. Themselves. They owe that to their two wounded comrades. Durand owes it to Dancer. He's not about to take the easy way out and hand over to Maatsen or Bannon.

With the reality paradigm destruction of the briefing complete and Seb being pulled into a scrum with the other powers that be, Dacovetti excuses himself from the front of the room and makes his way to the AFSOC contingent that has colonized a portion of the rear wall.  He gives into he Florida heat as he walks and rolls the sleeves of his linen shirt to his elbows.  The commander of the Air Commandos catches his eye again and smiles at his approach.

"Michael Dacovetti," the officer says and offers his hand.

Michael accepts the hand with a grin of familiarity. "Major Graph."

"I think once you've slept together in a dogpile, huddled for warmth in the bottom of a concrete pit, you can drop the formalities.  At least occasionally."  Graph steps back and sweeps the assembled men with a hand.  "Gents, Michael here and I had the dubious honor of attending Advanced Beatings together at SERE, what ten years ago?"

"Approximately," Michael confirms.  It's close enough to be within a reasonable margin of error, and even Dacovetti isn't socially dense enough to correct it in front of Graph's men.  Besides, he likes the guy.  For a CCT.

"You, my heat generating friend, have brought us into quite the little mess.  A goddamn bonafide bug hunt.  Graph smiles again, this time all incisor.  "I cannot thank you enough.  Blowing Haji up has gotten stale.  Now we get to fuck up ET.". There are nods all around, aggression Michael reads as compensation for uncertainty and confusion.  When most days of your professional life has been spent in environments where you are standard deviations above your adversaries, it's a common enough reaction.  One that Michael had been trying to excise from his own parameters for the last several months.  Somewhat unsuccessfully based on the risk profile he witnessed in his own video footage.  "We're going to hook you guys up with my supermedic, The Saint."

A squat Hispanic man steps forward, crimson PJ beret tucked into his BDUs and offers Michael his own hand.  Another quick shake ensues.  "Diego Martinez."

"San Diego!"

"Yeah, message received, thanks Spence," Dacovetti quips back, taking advantage of the informality the moment possesses.  The TACP assesses the PJ in professional mode and concludes that he likes what he sees.  "We are grateful to have your assistance.  We need it."

"Well, that went about as well as could have been expected," James thinks, glad that Vest had put Murcheson in his place. James still isn't quite jaded enough not to have a little trouble believing all that he's seen and done- that he and his Grey Cell teammates are at the tip of the spear in a shadow-war against a covert extraterrestrial invasion force.

"Bug hunt, indeed..."

"So, we're off to Belize, eh. Never been. Should be fun."

-

Hannah stood for a moment and let out a deep breath, as she watched the formal portion of the meeting end and the people disburse into their smaller cliques.  The thin army aviatrix made her way over to where Double Down thought Grey Cell was gathering - though Dealer and Bullfrog were both dealing with adjunct issues, it seemed.

She nodded to Lizard King's quip about their next target location, "Me neither.  They speak Spanish there, right?  Or is it Portugese or French?"  Not that it mattered really, Hannah didn't speak any of those languages.  Perhaps being regular ol' army-o, she presumed that communication by armalite was the preferred method.  But probably not; she'd not proven to be overly trigger-happy up to this point.

Double Down glanced around the room nervously, there were a lot more people in on the 'secret'.  And that didn't seem to make her feel better.  She'd hated keeping it bottled up inside, but letting it out actually didn't seem to have been better either.  I guess the grass isn't always greener... the auburn-haired pilot mused to herself.  She leaned in towards her other squadmates as her gaze fell upon Murchenson and his gaggle.  "Seems like the ASAIC has a bee in his bonnet, " she mused, this time aloud, "Think we'll have trouble with the FBI?"  Hannah obviously didn't included James in that group, given both her proximity and tone to the Lizard King.

She continued, "Could make life domestically really crappy..."  Hannah did wonder just how much personal power, the man wielded or if any of his peeps were anywhere as competent as Choi was...

"I don't know," James answers, honestly. "I'm feeling more like an imposter every day. I mean, I think I'm still on the Bureau's side, but I really don't have any way of knowing if they're still on mine."

James smiles, a snippet of an old song he'd heard on a late-night infomercial for 'Smooth 'n' Easy Hits of the '70s' or something like that popping up, unbidden, in his mind. It'd made such an impression on him that he'd found it on YouTube and listened to it all the way through.

Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool
Loving both of you is breaking all the rules

He smiled because the chorus described his current career situation pretty nicely. He wasn't sure if he was really FBI anymore, but, when he wasn't preoccupied with shooting at space aliens, sneaking around behind the Bureau's back rubbed his Confucian sense of duty and loyalty pretty raw.

"It'd be nice if jurisdiction wasn't still such a grey area," he continues, musing, "Maybe that's why we're called Grey Cell..."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:33, Thu 26 Oct 2017.

In reply to Hannah Omdahl (msg # 357):

Cooper was passing by when he heard Hannah speculate on the local language of Belize.

"Português, estou bem com. Espanhol, não tanto," Williams said.  The thumbs up after Português, followed by the thumbs down after Espanhol gave all the context that was needed.  Cooper only paused briefly however, as he was focused on finding the unit armorer.

"Tell me Mate, do you know what an F89 is?" the Australian frogman asked after a quick introduction.

Group Captain Mewes gives Sébastien a terse nod.  "Copy that," he says.  "Get your people ready.  You'll launch at dusk.  No, wait - I need you here for one more conversation."  He lifts his head and raises his voice slightly in another summons: "Chief Omdahl."

---

"I think they're sending me with you as much for el español as the fentanyl," Martinez advises Michael.

Graph nods in confirmation.  "The other terp option was giving you one of the Rangers and they're too monosyllabic to be useful."

"Aliens.  What the actual fuck."  Martinez shakes his head.  "Okay, I hope you're not planning to take any more prisoners, 'cause I am not equipped to keep those motherfuckers alive.  So talk to me about these blaster rifles the bad guys have.  Should I even bother with a plate carrier?"

"Ugh."  Graph shakes his head.  "And speaking of heat generating, just how obvious are these things on thermal?

---

"Of course you'll have trouble with the FBI," Detective Salcedo murmurs as she steps up between Hannah and James.  "They're not used to being the ultimate authority."  She nudges James with her elbow.  "No offense, Jim."

She pauses, then tilts her head at Mewes' summons.  As Hannah walks away, she turns back to James, sobering.  "It looks like it's time for cleanups and cover-ups here.  I'm assuming you're not gonna use the flashy thing to erase everyone's memories, so... what the hell happens now?" she asks quietly.  "Just act normal?"  There's a flicker of locked-down desperation in her eyes.

---

Caporal Corin Sauvageot gives Cooper a bland stare that suggests he'll have to delve much deeper into obscure hoplology to stump the French air commando.  "It's like a Minimi but upside-down, no?"  He turns to the row of rolling hard-shell cases from which he's been dispensing armament.  "I hope you don't mind if all I have is the Mark 48..."

---

Mewes acknowledges Hannah's approach with another brisk nod.  "Chief.  We have a preliminary flight plan.  Grey Cell will take the Hind.  The air commandos will ride in American Navy Knighthawks.  There's a Coast Guard cutter on station in the Gulf for refueling or an abort point, and we have an agreement with Belizean authorities for a final refueling stop there.  You'll also have a flight of F-22s on CAP the whole time."

He pauses for his fellow pilot to absorb the need for a covert night flight over water before continuing.  "You are implausibly far outside crew rest parameters, but you have more flight time in the Hind than anyone else in the unit.  You also -" he hesitates and glances around - "you're also a unique asset in other ways.  I want you and Monsieur Durand to determine if you're better employed in the air or on the ground for this one."