"That will do, Caporal.  That will do..." Cooper said with a nod toward the Belgian weapon in the case.  The Mark 48 was the sister of the FN Maximi, which had entered in to Australian service so recently that it the weapon system still didn't have a F-series designator, like the F89 light support weapon or the the F88 series of assault rifles.

Spying a nearby 416 as he signed the hand receipt for the Mark 48, Cooper glanced toward it then added "You know, one day these Yanks will embrace the bullpup rifle like Australia and France have done Caporal Sauvageot.  I think when they do, they'll be very happy.  An' if they get one with an optic, they'll be very happy indeed."

"Alright, now to sort out the rest of the kit."  Cooper started to draw field gear, protective equipment, and ammunition.

Once, in a previous episode in the way-back, Michael Dacovetti heard Rangers described as "too stupid to feel pain, to tough to die."  The description has always proved unfair, and the airman has always had the pronounced urge to replace the first half of the declaration with: "overly aggressive for sensitive processes."  That, however, does not exactly roll off the proverbial tongue.  And doesn't begin to touch his pronounced discomfort with the motto: "though I may be the lone survivor."  Any mission that leaves one survivor has failed miserably in Michael's opinion.  "The assistance of a PJ is welcome.  Someone else to habla the español is more than welcome."

Michael leans back and perches his thin frame on the back of a folding metal chair, letting a sigh escape.  Fatigue is fighting a battle behind his eyeballs and the last can of consumed Red Bull is less than an hour old.  Any more and The Saint is going to be treating him for heart palpitations.  That means an adjustment for sleep during the transit to the jungle.  A future injection of caffeine stimulant might be more effective then than the present.  A yawn emerges.

"Blaster rifles," Dacovetti says with a smile. "'Phase plasma rifles in the twelve mega-watt range?'"  There isn't much of an Arnold impersonation with the delivery, but a anyone who quotes Aliens will get the Terminator reference.  "The short answer, Martinez, is the blaster will probably penetrate the trauma plate, although I don't have any direct evidence.  The plate is probably still crucial given the large number of unwashed masses that accompany the alien assholes who still believe in delivering kinetic energy in far more conventional ways.  Plus splash from the energy weapons that tend to fling bits and pieces of shrapnel from their impact points."

"This fuckin' guy always like this?" Martinez raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Confused the shit out of the SERE instructors," Graph shoots back with a grin.  "Heads fucking exploded compadre."

"Tone it down?" Dacovetti asks, with a grin of his own.

"Fuckin'A," Martinez says.  "I make holes and plug holes. No hablo physics."  Self deprecation is evident in the tone.  PJ's aren't exactly famous for being dumb.  Not with the ridiculous amount of medical knowledge socked away in their skulls.

"I've been known to get carried away."

"It's cool, my man."

Michael nods.  "My hope is to figure out away to acquire more prisoners.  Highest pay-off for intel.  All that being said, we lucked into that one.  Odds aren't great of that occurring again."  Dacovetti flicks his eyes back to Graph. "ET here isn't hard to spot with thermal.  They pop right out of the background.  At least the variants of alien we're familiar with so far.  I can't say with any degree of certainty that we won't run into something else.  We've seen mind-control, flesh camouflage, acid emitting decomposition, cloaking devices, anti-gravity, spaceships, and plasma weapons.  The good news is they are mortal.  They bleed and die.  And if a jumped up computer geek like me can get his shots in, you crew of killers should be just fine."

With another yawn, Michael stands. "Let me show you where we're prepping.  The next scenario is going to be popping off soon."

James has to fight back the urge to shrug. "That's all anybody can do," he begins lamely. "Keeping a secret is never easy, especially when it's the mother of all secrets." James continues, his wry expression adding, "I should know."

Detective Salcedo's expression reveals exasperation.

"We don't exactly have a PR department. We're kinda making this up as we go along," James confesses.

"That doesn't help me, James. I've got to tell my bosses something."

James thinks it interesting that Salcedo choose to call him by his given name. He's well aware that familiarity- feigned intimacy- is often used as a good cop interrogation tactic. Could the detective's word choice indicate something more? As if he doesn't have enough keeping him up at night already. Either way, James feels guilty. He hates to leave her to clean up Grey Cell's mess; he wants to help.

"A shootout with terrorists," he posits. "They had a couple of hi-tech drones and some kind of hallucinogenic gas or something that they were planning to release. Some of it escaped during the gunfight. A few people got dosed, thought they saw spaceships. They'll be fine. The residue is being cleaned up- no reason to fear any lasting ill effects. The terrorists were killed. The immediate threat's been neutralized. The investigation is ongoing. No further comment. The good guys won."

Salcedo's quiet, mulling it over.

"Or you could go with the old classic- swamp gas ignition..."

The attempt at levity falls flat but Salcedo's expression has softened.

"Look, if the heat's too much, I can see if we can arrange a transfer. We're always on the lookout for new talent."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:10, Sun 05 Nov 2017.

Hannah excused herself when the Group Captain summoned her.  The lithe army aviatrix trotted over to where Mewes was standing and saluted him.  "Group Captain." Double Down addressed her superior officer, "You called, sir?"  She stood at ease as Mewes spoke, giving him a wan smile when he mentioned not having enough rest.  But it was the same for all of Grey Cell; even if none of the others were going to be doing the driving.  She nodded curtly, when he finished up with the order to sort out her team placement with Durand; Double Down paused for a moment, as the loss of Dancer as the group's leader finally was internalized.

But it was only for a moment.  "Yes, sir." Hannah acknowledged, the various parts in turn, "Excellent, sir ...  Of course, sir ...  Thank you, sir."

After being dismissed, the auburn-haired pilot made her way over to talk with Sébastien when he had a free moment. "Bullfrog," her light alto timbre called out to the Frenchman, "Mewes wants to know if I should deploy with the team on the ground or my skills are better utilized in the air."  She looked a touch pensive, as she gave the team lead a moment to respond.  Then Double Down cleared her throat slightly and spoke again. "If I may speak freely," Hannah asked, then continued, "Much as I love to fly, it wouldn't feel right to remain on the Hind while the rest of Grey Cell was on the front line.  Unless you want me there to provide some level of air support, I think along side the rest of the team would be best."  Without overtly speaking about any sixth sense that may or may not be in play, that was the closest that Double Down could come to trying to explain her position.  Given her call sign, Hannah wasn't nearly as adept with firearms as the rest of the team - she wasn't exactly a liability, but her main advantage was much less tangible.

And for the time being, she was okay with that.

Durand grabbed two of the folding chairs that had been used during the briefing, slid one across the floor to Hannah, turned the other one around so that its back was to the American woman before taking a seat, facing her, his arms draped over the back of the chair as he listened to her.

"I think you're right." The Frenchman said when she had finished speaking, said that she wanted to be with the team. "Don't get me wrong, Hannah, you are one hell of a pilot. If there was one person I would want in the air covering our asses as we go in it would be you." Durand grinned. He wasn't bullshitting her or trying to build her up. It was true. "But what we're dealing with here goes way beyond anything any of us have experienced before." And the deeper they dig into things the crazier it all gets.

They had all seen things that Durand would never have believed a year ago. But Omdahl had perhaps experienced more than any of them. Maybe. Durand didn't really know for sure, he just knew that she had a....what? An ability? A gift? Was that what it was? Or was it a curse? Sébastien Durand didn't know. Was he being a bastard taking her out of her natural element and wanting her with them on the ground? Treating her almost as a weapon, but one made of flesh and bone? Perhaps. But having her with them added a new dimension to their abilities. And maybe made it more likely that they would all be coming back.

And that was all that really mattered in the end. They already had two members of their team down. How seriously in Dancer's case was still not clear. And Durand was determined that he would do all that he could to make sure no one else fell.

"For this mission I think you can make a huge contribution on the ground. We need your skills." Skills. That was one way to put it. Durand smiled, his hand clasping the aviatrix's shoulder, firmly, a gesture intended to convey solidarity. Comradeship. To dispel any doubts that she may have. "Let's do it."

Rising to his feet, the DGSE Operator pushed  his chair away. It was settled, one decision made. But there were still a multitude of other things to be dealt with, to occupy his mind. After checking in with each member of Grey Cell he went to speak to Christophe Vidry and his Air Commandos, joined them as they gathered in a huddle that concluded with a loud rendition of the French national anthem, La Marseillaise.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9J6rFWTfVA
This message was last edited by the player at 22:10, Tue 14 Nov 2017.

Salcedo blinks at the unexpected offer.  "Huh.  Y'know, I..." she trails off in thought, then shakes her head.  "Ah, shit.  I love this city, even though I spend all my time doing street proctology on it.  I can't leave."  She smiles tiredly.  "But hey.  Call me when you can and let me know what happened in Belize, will ya?"

Philip S.W. Goldson International Airport
Ladyville, Belize
12 June 2015
0436 hrs local (1036 hrs Zulu)

The Polish aircrew assigned to the Hind are not - quite - aviators on Hannah Omdahl's level, but they've been quietly professional during a seven-hour ferry flight which included two detours around thunderstorms and a covert refueling aboard a U.S. Coast Guard cutter.  Moreover, they're quite aware of the fate of their Grey Cell countrywoman.  Their preflight checks of the weapon pods hanging from the aircraft's stubby wings are edged with anticipation.

Between the Poles' muttering and a similar - if more apprehensive - ritual among the Knighthawk's flight crews, the raid's command group huddles for a final briefing.  In the predawn fog beyond them, the AFSOC and CPA 10 operators form an inner security perimeter around the helicopters.  Unseen, the outer ring is a company of blissfully-ignorant Belize Defense Force troops.

"CAP just came off the tanker and is back on station," Major Graph reports.  "AWACS has nothing on radar," with a sidelong glance at Michael Dacovetti, "or the, uh, new sensor package."

Sergent-Chef Christophe Vidry sips from a steaming mug and threads his free hand under his plate carrier to scratch his ribs.  "We're ready.  Groupe Un and Blanchard with me on the helo.  Groupes Deux at Trois are at the harbor and can launch any time."

"Hey, one thing here." Staff Sergeant Diego Martinez waggles the tablet PC that bears the fruits of James Choi's in-flight investigations.  "So I don't know shit about electrical engineering.  I know cops look at high power bills like this and think 'grow lab,' but this isn't exactly the kind of country where you need to hide your pot plants, if you know what I mean."  He gestures in a general inland direction.  "But there's other kinds of labs that draw a lot of power, too, and they're having a lot of medical supplies shipped in.  I'm just sayin'..." he shrugs.  "Pig and elephant DNA just won't splice."

The tablet in Sébastien Durand's hand bears a live feed from the CN-235 lazily circling the target island at 20,000 feet.  A rifleman and a large dog are walking a slow counter-clockwise patrol.  Two more riflemen occupy guard posts on opposite sides of the island.  There's no other sign of motion.  But beneath the footprint of the trio of Quonset huts on the island's north side, the ground glows in a squared-off pattern indicative of a large underground complex.

The island is perhaps ten minutes' flight away.

Durand took another look at the image on the tablet's screen then turned his attention to the small group of figures that had gathered round. "OK, ladies and gentlemen, we are a go." The DGSE Operator let his eyes move around the group. "Primary objective is here -" a nomex gloved finger pointed to the image of the underground complex that was on the tablet "- we'll infiltrate as already briefed*. Dealer will issue the special headgear to those that will be using it. Does anyone have any questions?"

Durand's expression didn't change when the briefing concluded and he was handed the modified circlet that might act as a countermeasure for the aliens' psychic capabilities. Or might fry every synapse in his body. Well, there was only one way to find out he thought as he looked at it, turned it over in his hands, ran a finger over its surface, let the fact that he was holding something manufactured on another world sink in.

* as per OOC

"We know that the air-conditioning units the aliens prefer are massive energy hogs, which could lead one to conclude that we are dealing with more of the same," Michael says in response to The Saint's comments.  "Especially given the ambient temp around here.  The biomedical supplies could indicate that this is where they construct their 'flesh suits,' for lack of a better term."  Dacovetti shrugs.  "I recommend tossing speculation right out the window given that wide array of technology we've seen so far.  This place could be 'human experimentation station number fifteen' for all we know."  Or there is some truly epic reefer in this jungle.

"Yeah, so no we are going to conduct some non-peer reviewed research based on urban legend and Agent Cooper's baseline intuition.  Namely: do aluminum hats block psychic waves?"  The airman has exactly fuck-all evidence that this should be the case.  Based on the evidence of the alien brain wave propagation he's studied, the odds are somewhere between slim and not-fucking-likely.  "We've broken the commando team up into a experimental group and a control group.  Those in the experimental group will be issued helmets modified with aluminum foil, Reynold's, Heavy Duty."  That's a reasonable guess as to military nomenclature.  "And so no one feels like I'm secretly laughing at all of this," Dacovetti tilts his own helmet forward showing a new shiny liner.  Hopefully it won't make his head perspire anymore than the jungle heat already does.

"If anyone feels an alien taking over their mind, please make a note of it for review after the action," he deadpans then grins.

Hannah had occupied herself with the chatter in the cockpit as she leaned back against the bulkhead of the helo transporting Grey Cell.  It helped to calm and center her.  Not quite as much as flying the beast itself, which would have been theraputic on an entirely different level.  And as good as the pilots were, ever since she learned to fly the lithe army aviatrix was always most comfortable behind the stick.  Probably as most pilots were.  It was just the control freak in her.

The comment about the power consumption and the possibility of this being the most expensive weed bust in the world did elicit a slight, crooked smile from the auburn-haired pilot.  And a light chuckle at Dealer's rejoinder.  It would be a welcome shift in luck to bust in on something as simple as a super sophisticated underground grow room.  But, it wasn't going to happen.  No way, no how.  And she was glad that Michael was able to debunk the situation so effectively.  Hannah would probably have just ignored it to the detriment of the morale.

Double Down heard the discussion about the tinfoil swirling around her, but had little to contribute to it.  Everything was supposition or hypothesis or conjecture.  Plus, Hannah was not going to use either the circlet or the foil linings.  And since she wasn't about to tell anyone outside of Grey Cell anything about seeing purple auras or anything akin to having a burgeoning sixth sense or any type of extrasensory perception; that settled that.  She kept her mouth shut.

All that latter stuff, that would just be crazy talk - it was the corollary to Commander Vest's reasoning on mission briefing statuses.  Serious craziness.  And, as Double Down was well aware, the first rule of relationships:  Hide the Crazy for as long as possible....

Off the cost of Belize City
12 June 2015
0458 hrs local (1058 hrs Zulu)

Through Sébastien Durand's night-vision goggles, the island is a crackling green bulk against the sea's darker oscillation.  The DGSE agent crouches in the RHIB's bow, scanning Grey Cell's course.

Behind him, Michael Dacovetti and James Choi hunker under a poncho to mask the glow of their tablets.  James' thermal imaging feed from the CN-235 orbiting above the mansion shows the moving sentry and his dog following their regular track.  On Michael's screen, there's no indication of anomalous electromagnetic activity - alien or terrestrial.

Sébastien gives the commit signal.  Hannah Omdahl and Cooper Williams throttle up the electric trolling motors attached to their respective craft.  Grey Cell and its air commando reinforcements glide toward the island, aiming for the trio of quonset huts that rises from the north shore.

The nearest guard is in the post opposite the island's dock - roughly two o'clock on a clock face superimposed over the island.  The team's approach angle is from eleven o'clock, just outside his direct line of sight.  The boats hiss to a halt on the sand perhaps two hundred meters from his position, and one hundred from the huts.

By James' estimation, the moving sentry will pass the insertion point in another six minutes.

There's no immediate sign that the team's arrival has attracted any attention.

The metal circlet tucked beneath Sébastien's ballistic helmet is cold in the tropical air.  Feathery sensations like the legs of insects trickle along his scalp where it rests.

The team moves forward as planned, spreading out as the huts loom larger in the darkness.  The structures bear no outward markings, just a thick and peeling coat of battleship-gray paint.  But to the thermal imagers attached to the team's weapons, the ground beneath seems to glow the warmest beneath the westmost building.

Three minutes.

Neither the large roll-up door nor the small personnel door to its right bears a lock.  James and Sébastien check for security systems; again, nothing.

Two minutes.

James cracks the personnel door.  No alarms sound; no alert is evident on the distant aircraft's thermal image.  But there's a glow of fluorescent tubes from within.  If the door is opened enough to admit the agents, the glow will spill across the cleared space in front of the huts like a bonfire.

Your move.

James carefully rests the edge of the door back against the rim of the jamb, cutting off the light from inside. His night vision is temporarily shot. He blinks hard twice, glances down at the luminescent hands of his watch, then holds up two fingers.

We've got two minutes 'til the sentry arrives.

What the team needs now- and doesn't have- is a blackout curtain. In fairness, it's not usually on the tactical entry packing list. The former FBI HRT shooter kicks himself for leaving his poncho in the RHIB.

"Anyone have a poncho?" he whispers, hoping the question would elicit duplicate visions in his teammates' imaginations. If the answer is no, the next best option is probably to ambush the sentry when he moseys into view.

-

Durand is trying not to think about the circlet that he is wearing, trying not to contemplate the fact that it could spring to life at any moment with consequences that he can only imagine. And his imagination has been very dark when it comes to conjuring up different possibilities when it comes to what could go wrong.

As Choi eases the door closed again the Frenchman withdraws the fish lens camera, digests the images that it captured, passes the information on in a hushed voice. "No tangos inside. We need to make an entry." Mindful of noise discipline, he's keeping his words to a minimum but his tone attempts to convey a sense of urgency. There are things in there that they need to check out, if only for purposes of elimination.

"No poncho here." The FBI agent's query is answered in the same whispered voice. The crye camo clad DGSE Operator is equipped with various items designed to aid a tactical assault and incapacitate or kill opponents but it simply hadn't occurred to him that he'd need a poncho.

”Poncho up,” Dacovetti whispers from inside the huddle.  The plastic fabric is still damp from its exposure to the ocean spray from the ocean traverse.  Damp and almost slimy from the island humidity.  Clutching his WASP close to his body with his right hand, he passes the folded form forward.  Had this been an urban assault, the piece of kit would have been left behind.  With nature playing a possible starring role in the order of battle, the extra weight had been worth the effort.  He’s carrying entirely too much equipment that gives off the telltale LED glow of hostile units present in the AO.  The PRC-117 nestled between his shoulder blades is a familiar weight the other members of the team don’t have to contend with.  Weight that cost him weapon choices.  If a silent fight breaks out, he’s going to be hitting the ground and staying out of the way.   The WASP in his hands has proven more than adequate at dispatching it’s targets in an acoustically profound way.

The plasma pistol strapped to his leg is an alien shape, one he’s not used to yet.  The presence reminds him briefly of what they could be facing again.

100 seconds.  A low tone runs constantly in his left ear, just above the threshold of background noise, an audible expression of his monitor gear.  Should the EM spectrum become active in the bands he’s designated as hostile, the tone will rise in pitch in tandem with the strength of the signal.

"Get inside and kill the lights," James whispers, quietly unfolding Davocetti's poncho. He's comically overqualified for the task, but time is the great leveler. Mk.18 hanging from its tactical sling, he presses one end of the poncho against the lintel, allowing the rest to dangle like a drape. "Go!" he nearly hisses, stepping aside so that Durand can squeeze by. It's an uncomfortably vulnerable position, back to the darkness, sentry no more than a minute-and-a-half out. He runs through the drill should the approaching bad guy catch him in the act.

Drop the poncho, side-step away from the doorway/reacquire primary weapon, engage...

-

In a rustle of Gore-Tex, Sébastien slides into the quonset hut.  It's a few degrees warmer than the tropical air outside, but a surprisingly dry heat, and the air feels indefinably off.  A pair of light switches is mounted just beside the door.  The DGSE agent swipes a hand across them as he flips down his NVGs.  In the moment between the descent of darkness and the return of the familiar green-hued view, Sébastien notes a lone emergency light mounted over the door, glowing a dull red EXIT.

The rest of the team slips inside.  James brings up the rear, collapsing the borrowed poncho as he eases the door shut to avoid a betraying slam.  By his mental clock, he had a good thirty seconds to spare.

The room, eight feet deep and about twenty wide, is crowded with five Grey Cell agents and an equal number of reinforcements.  The only furniture is a metal desk, apparently a relic of the 1950s, and a matching swivel chair whose badly-worn leatherette upholstery is patched with duct tape.

Upon the desk is a three-ring binder with a sign-in/sign-out log bearing a variety of signatures in multiple examples of execrable penmanship.  The time/date stamps are in military notation, and recent.  If the log is accurate, two people - a "Mlkc Ffomlm" and a "Fqmn Rjn" - signed in at 2331 and 2348 last night and haven't signed out.

The far wall is heavy-gauge steel, apparently set in the concrete floor.  It doesn't quite go wall-to-wall, nor floor-to-ceiling.  To Hannah's eye, it looks like the steel is one face of a metal box that was set in the slab, with the quonset hut being built atop it afterward.  It's covered in peeling gray paint.

Set in the middle of the wall is a pair of double doors, constructed as heavily as the wall itself.  Scars and discolored paint on the metal to the right side of the doors indicate where older equipment mounts were removed at some point, making way for the current smaller apparatus.  Two state-of-the-art retinal scanners are mounted - one at the usual level, the other at a height fit for a seated adult - or a dwarf.  Beside the lower scanner is a touchscreen panel.

As Michael leans toward the tech, a status display on the panel catches his eye.  Whatever is on the far side of the door is being kept in a positive-pressure environment.

"Christophe, Daimien, watch the door." Durand's left index finger points to the door that they had just entered through as he issues instructions to his countrymen, using English for the benefit of the rest of the team. "Corin, Baldy, you two cover those." The same finger is now indicating the two double doors set into the middle of the steel wall. If the binder on the desk is correct then there are two...whats?...on the other side. People? Attars? The names don't immediately make any sense, and in any event idea of an alien signing in and out seems almost incongruous, but whatever passed through those doors Durand wants to be prepared if they should return.

With security arranged, the barrel of the Frenchman's rifle slowly lowers until it's pointed more or less downwards, his attention turning to the doors that Sauvageot and Baudin are moving to cover. "Anyone have suggestions as to how we get through those doors?" The overt security precautions appear to be obvious, but there could be others as well, designed to raise the alert if an unauthorised access is attempted. Maybe the random jumble of letters in the signing in book have some relevance when it comes to the touchscreen panel. Or maybe not.

"Aye," Cooper said when Durand asked about suggestions to get through the obstacle ahead.  The Australian combatant diver doffed his assault pack and opened it, revealing a plethora of pre configured explosive charges of varying types.  Some were built to down trees, to create adhoc landing zones for helicopters.  Most however were designed to breach doors and obstacles.

"If someone wants to try to hack the Matrix, that might be quieter.  If we fail and kick off an alarm, I can be ready to kick off the breaching charges."

Michael moves to the door locks and lifts up his NVGs, feeling the subtle click that locks them in place above his eyes.  The electronics giving off a feint glow should yield to a determined attack, time being the great limiter.  He kneels down next to the lower retinal scanner and touch pad, peering at the design, thankful for small miracles that a few recessed screws are visible on a panel below the touch pad.

"Five minutes," he says out loud, "within a reasonable degree of certainty. And just to keep everyone appraised of the situation, we're looking at a positive pressure environment on the other side of this door.  Whatever is contained is going to come pouring out at us.  It might be time for gas masks."

A small Mag-Lite emerges from one of his pockets and takes residence clutched between his teeth.  Practiced fingers open a small tool kit and he starts twisting screws out of the panel.  The panel yields, exposing a world of complicated circuit boards and wires.  Instead of trying to figure out how to trick the system into thinking it has received the proper code, he moves to cut the alarm out of the loop entirely, jumping around the circuit so that the system thinks the door is still closed.  Which, to be fair, it still is.

With that done, he starts following the power flow from the wall towards the lock mechanism itself, hidden somewhere in or above the door.  The lock will be sheltered, protected from direct attack.  But a change in the electric flow, in the electrons reaching it, might result in a reversal of the locking mechanism.  When he's got his best guess as to where he needs to futz with the power supply he pauses, preps himself for the assault,* and moves as far to the side as he can to clear the door for the attacking stack.  Which is a difficult task given his hands are located in the wall.

"I'll go on your three," Dacovetti says to Seb.


*If the consensus is for gas masks, he'll be donning one.

"OK, we'll try and hack our way in first. Dealer, you've got the gig. Coop, you're our back up with the charges if that doesn't work."

"James, you take lead in the stack. Martinez, you're next. Hannah and I will be right behind you."

"The rest of you hold position and keep watching the doors."

The decision on how to try and achieve a breach made, Durand considered Dealer's comment about gas masks.  Wearing masks would limit their peripheral vision and, potentially, their situational awareness, but they had no way of knowing what might come out of that vault if they did manage to gain entry. It could be harmless or it could be lethal. The fact that there didn't appear to be any sign of protective equipment in the hut didn't mean anything - anyone entering could already be wearing a bio hazard suit.

"Everyone mask up." The Frenchman announced, letting his rifle hang from its sling as he reached into the pouch at his hip for his own gas mask so that he could pull it on. Only when the entire team had done so did he nod to Dealer, raise his left hand, his fist clenched. His right was back around the trigger guard of his rifle.

"One." One finger extends from clenched fist.

"Two." Two fingers extended

"Three..."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:28, Sun 10 Dec 2017.

James removes his foil-lined helmet and sets it on the desk. He hates wearing the respirator- the loss of hearing and peripheral vision just makes CQB that much more difficult- but it most likely beats a lungful of alien atmosphere, or whatever ick waits on the other side of the doors. Come to think of it, it probably isn't E.T. air- if it was, there'd likely be some sort of airlock, and that doesn't appear to be the case here. But, better safe than sorry and all that.

Respirator adjusted, he puts his helmet back on and sets the stack, standing offset left of the door, Mk.18 up and ready.

"Lizard King ready." he reports, his voice sounding strange in the echo chamber of the sealed rubber headgear.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:06, Sun 10 Dec 2017.

"Hey, one thing," Martinez points out as he dons his own mask.  "Positive pressure.  They're keeping outside air from getting in.  So they're not worried about contaminating us - they're worried about us contaminating them."  He grasps his own rifle again.  "Immunocompromised patients.  Clean room.  Something."

James, first in the stack, glances down at the touchscreen.  Something drags a fingertip across his intuition.  He gives Michael a "hold" sign, then taps one of the icons on the screen.

The screen changes to reveal a number pad.  It's a two-factor identification system - first an ID number, then a retinal scan.

Michael eases back from the power supply he was about to violate and pulls another toolkit from his pack.  There are only a certain number of data cable ports for systems like this.  He carries adapters most of them; the rest are too simple to bother cracking.

The team waits, tense, to the rattle of keys.  James sees the touchscreen flicker, blank, flicker again, then sputter a series of lines of diagnostics.  Then the number pad reappears.  Michael reaches up and taps "0" seven times.

Then he flips the power.

The doors unseal in a puff of air, swinging outward on hydraulic pistons.  Within is a safety rail, yellow-striped, surrounding an eight-foot square of rubber matting.  A double gate in the side of the rail is secured with a worn carabiner.  On one corner of the rail, a simple control box is mounted; its mate hangs on the wall just inside the door.

Whatever is buried beneath the island, this is the way to it.

Powerful fans kick on with a snap and hum, driving airflow through vents in the floor to maintain pressure in the chamber.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:37, Tue 12 Dec 2017.

“Second Floor. Hardware. Children’s wear. Ladies' Lingerie... Oh! Good morning, Mr. Choi. Going... down?"*

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
*The opening voice-over to Aerosmith's 1989 hit, "Love in an Elevator".

---

It's odd, the random things that pop, unbidden, into one's head at the most inappropriate times, James muses, wondering for a moment if others experience this phenomenon too.

Back to business. Grey Cell is at a proverbial crossroads.

"Do we really want to go down there with the topside guards still behind us? They might be able to keep us from coming back up." It's CQB 101. You clear each and every room so that the bad guys can't hit you from behind. Leaving the sentries alive means ceding the high ground to the enemy and, unless there's another way out [highly unlikely], increasing the possibility of being trapped underground. On the other hand, dealing with the sentries now very likely means losing the element of surprise, and the door might not stay open indefinitely. It's not a decision James is comfortable with making unilaterally.

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This message was last edited by the player at 00:50, Fri 15 Dec 2017.

Durand nods in agreement. The Frenchman is working on the theory that there's a red light flashing on a console somewhere right now indicating that that door has just opened. Whether it will be noticed or not is another matter but his assumption is that sooner or later someone is going to come and investigate. It's the glass half empty approach, but in their profession it's better to plan for the worst case scenario.

"Agreed." The DGSE Operator nods. His features are obscured by the gas mask and NOD's, the alien circlet worn above them, then his helmet above that. Anyone catching a fleeting glimpse of him might think that he is the ET.  "We'll leave Vidry and the air commandos stay here to secure the way out. The rest of us will go take a look at what's down there."

He pauses for a moment. "I'm going to call in the QRF before we go down. We've seen enough to justify it in my opinion." The Frenchman supposes it's still possible that there's a non alien related explanation for all of this but it's extremely unlikely. Maybe the whole thing belongs to some old American dude who's obsessed about the threat of nuclear war and has built his own fallout bunker. What was it the Americans called people like that? Preppies? Something like that. But Durand thinks it is unlikely that they have just discovered a Preppy redoubt.

"The QRF can secure the rest of what's above ground. It will take them around ten minutes to get here so that will give us a head start. When they do arrive it might distract whoever is down there, which will work in our favour."

"Any signs that there's anything toxic in the air?" The question is primarily addressed to Dacovetti and Martinez. Unless there's clear evidence to the contrary Durand plans to have everyone stay masked up for now. The benefits of improved vision do not outweigh the risks posed by a threat that can be neither seen nor, perhaps, smelled. He's acutely conscious that it's also a threat that their sensors may not be able to detect.

There's a faint rattle of equipment as Martinez checks a couple of somethings attached to his armor.  "Well... oxygen is normal.  I'm not reading any carbon monoxide, hydrogen sulfide, or flammable gas."  He pauses.  "Huh.  There is a trace of VOCs but not any higher than you'd see from painting your bathroom.  And I'm not getting any chemical weapons.  So nothing I can detect is going to kill us immediately, for whatever that's worth."
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:38, Sun 17 Dec 2017.