Mundadji cut [Kurkutji] open, right down the middle line, took out all of his insides and exchanged them for those of himself, which he placed in the body of Kurkutji. At the same time he put a number of sacred stones in his body. After it was all over, the youngest spirit, Munkaninji, came up and restored him to life, told him that he was now a medicine-man and showed him how to extract bones and other forms of evil magic out of them. Then he took him away up into the sky and brought him down to earth close to his own camp...

- Baldwin Spencer & Francis Gillen, The Northern Tribes of Central Australia (1904)

 

RAAF Base Edinburgh
Adelaide, South Australia
16 April 2015
1142 hrs local (0212 hrs Zulu)

"PO Williams.  Come in.  Sit down."  Major Gary Nichols gestures to the lone unclaimed chair in the dusty gray room.  His voice rasps and his eyes are windows onto sleepless nights and imminent violence.  Despite the room's cool temperature, he's pale and sweating.

The room's other occupant nods politely to Cooper but remains silent.  He's an ambiguously dark man, thin and hawklike, with a pale Heidelburg scar on his left cheek.  His anonymous gray suit might as well be a uniform.

Nichols waits for Cooper to be seated, then roughly clears his throat.  "Williams.  We have an irregular international situation requiring the assignment of a liaison officer to a foreign team that will be operating on our soil.  The, ah, domestic side of the problem involves a case which ASIO has been tracking for some months.  It's recently come to Defence Intelligence attention through our Five Eyes relationships.  ASIO is not aware that we are examining the case.  It has not been widely circulated because of its political sensitivity." He pauses to look down at a single handwritten sheet of notes.

"If we understand the situation correctly, we are looking at the first modern cell of radicalized Aboriginal terrorists."  Nichols grimaces at Cooper's reaction.  "As I said, political sensitivity.  They're receiving operational advice and, possibly, material assistance from foreign Islamists.  Until recently, ASIO believed their connections to be solely with Jemaah Islamiyah.  New data has invalidated that, for reasons which our guest will make clear to you.  Please give him your full cooperation.  While his unit is present in Australian territory, you will be their primary liaison with Defence Intelligence."  Without further elaboration, he stands, nods to the stranger, and exits.

The stranger watches Nichols exit with a mix of resignation and compassion, then extends a hand to Cooper.  "Petty Officer Williams.  I'm Kapitein Bram Maatsen, Royal Netherlands Navy Korps Mariniers.  I'm the executive officer of a NATO joint task force with an unconventional portfolio.  My intelligence chief likes to describe us as 'rocket surgeons with guns' and I can't dispute his turn of phrase."  He smiles humorlessly and withdraws two file folders from a briefcase at his feet.  He arrays them on the table.  Both bear the seals and stamps of high-level classified material.  The thinner is labeled VEHEMENT HARPIST PERIWINKLE; the thicker, TUNGSTEN MEMENTO.

Maatsen flips open the thinner folder and extracts a large glossy surveillance photograph of two Indonesians, two Aboriginal Australians, and a Middle Eastern man.  He indicates the latter with a fingertip.  "This individual goes by the name of Mas'ud Attar.  The actual Mas'ud Attar is, or was, an Iranian Revolutionary Guard officer, subsequently a Da'ish operative.  My unit has previously encountered other hostile forces operating under this identity..."

”Thank you Major,” Cooper Williams said, taking a seat.  The Royal Australian Navy Petty Officer returned as yet unidentified man’s nod.

Cooper’s eyes moved quickly between the man in gray and the Major.  It wasn’t lost on Cooper that Nichols looked like he had seen a ghost.  The officer was sweating like a pregnant nun.  William’s quick read of the room was the Major had either received or was expecting bad news.  Coop had been in the same position once or twice, but paternity tests weren’t matters of national security that required the services of the Special Air Services Regiment.

William’s listened attentively until the Major mentioned the source of the political sensitivity.  Aboriginal terrorists… For fuck sake…  Wasn’t this why they had supported NATO in Iraq and Afghanistan?  Fight them over there so we don’t have to fight them here at home?  Williams calmed himself, took a deep breath, and refocused on the Major.  Still, in the back of his mind, Coop couldn’t help but think, This fundamentalism shit is spreading like wildfire.

…his unit… in Australian territory… liaison… Coopers bullshit meter suddenly jumped from 0 to WTF, with the needle twitching like a sleeping dog.  Was DIO bringing in a foreign unit to handle a domestic terrorism problem?  And hiding it from AISO?

When Nichols finished his part, Cooper watched as the Major got up to leave.  The Petty Officer drilled the officer’s back with a curious, yet pissed-off gaze that conveyed both, where the fuck are you going and what have you gotten me into.

Williams shifted his chair as Maatsen introduced himself.  Williams hadn’t quite decided if he was being given a babysitting assignment or being setup as a fall guy, so he decided to keep his cards close to his chest for now.  ”Sir,” Williams said simply, returning the handshake.

He listened as the RNR Marine spoke… yeah, yeah, rocket surgeons with guns.  That better be literally true if you guys are going to come into our backyard and sideline TAG East and West, Williams thought.  If NATO was just here to share intel, that was one thing.  But of course, they could have done that with a memo.  Williams was starting to have a bad feeling about the whole situation.

The RAN Petty Officer glanced down at the folders.  He had never heard of the code words they were labeled with.  The nightmare scenario was nuclear and that's what his mind went to.  But Cooper had worked with guys from the Special Operations Engineer Regiment on a C-CBRNE exercises before.  The ADF had retooled post 9/11 and had plans and teams for such situations.  Whatever was in those folders, it must be something the ADF hadn't prepared for.

”Mas’ud Attar,” Williams repeated under his breath, looking over the glossy.  The guy looked like a used Paykan dealer.

”And what’s so special about Mr. Attar…” Cooper shook the glossy to indicate he was talking about the individual operating under the assumed identity, ”that requires a deniable NATO operation within Australia?”

Maatsen smiles grimly and meets Cooper's eyes across the table.  "Ah, but your real question, Petty Officer, is why a Dutch Marine flew halfway around the world to tell you his people are about to start fishing in your pond, in violation of both Australian sovereignty and innumerable international accords."  He reaches into his briefcase again and extracts a notebook PC, which flickers to life as he opens the clamshell.

"The efficient answer to both your questions is that Mister Attar is entirely fictitious."  The grim smile widens into a death's-head grin as he tabs to a video window.  The scene is a one-bay garage, probably Middle Eastern from the visible architectural cues, recently disarrayed by volence.  In the foreground, a green haze partially obscures a bullet-riddled body whose distorted face is still recognizable as Attar's.  "He is also," Maatsen continues as he clicks Play, "in no way human..."

”Your words Sir,” Cooper said with a slight smile as Maatsen addressed the elephant in the room.

William leaned forward to see what the Dutchman had on his laptop that would explain his presence.  As Cooper watched the video, he looked at puzzled by the ending, with the Kapitein’s revelation that Attar wasn’t homo sapien leaving him only more confused.

”Wait, say that again…” William asked as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

The Petty Officer moved his face closer to the screen to see more detail.  At this point his mind had settled on an implanted a chemical weapon as the most rational explination.  It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but a lot was happening in middle-east that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.  But that didn't explain everything he was seeing.  And what Maatsen meant by in no way human... he hadn't said no longer human... he said in no way human.

Nothing had really prepared Cooper Williams for this.

The Dutchman waits impassively for Cooper to absorb the video, making no motion to interfere as the Australian replays the scene.  "That was a month ago in Tripoli," he comments, "and my unit's first direct contact with 'Mas'ud Attar.'  The men who killed this one were forced out of the area by the vapor.  It's caustic and an inhalation hazard.  They later returned with the rest of their team and recovered the remains.  The take from their initial examination is in 'field autopsy,' third on the playlist."  He taps a finger on the TUNGSTEN MEMENTO folder.  "This file contains a deeper analysis, but the videos seem to be more effective at conveying the real message."

He slides both folders across the table.  "The fourth playlist item is a composite of helmet camera footage and Global Hawk imagery from the team's last engagement with the Attar entities and their Libyan and Da'esh associates.  We've edited it for brevity and relevance but the raw files are available if you want them.  Familiarize yourself with the material.  I have all day to answer your questions."

Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey
16 April 2015
0903 hrs local (0703 hrs Zulu)

There are new lines around Group Captain Mewes' eyes as he surveys the empty seats at the table.  "Welcome back, Miss Omdahl, gentlemen.  I trust you've absorbed the preliminary analysis of your take from VEHEMENT HARPIST.  I'm told the science will take years to play out in full, but the research facilities fortunate enough to get their hands on this material have been advised of the urgent need for practical applications."  His lips twitch slightly.  "In the meantime, we have another Attar sighting, courtesy of our Five Eyes relationship with the Australian intelligence services."

Mewes sips his coffee, then hands Sébastien a stack of briefing folders labeled ESSENTIAL NOMAD.  "For the past four months, the Australian ASIO has been tracking the growth of a network of radicalized Aboriginal Australians.  Their agenda is a mix of native rights and eco-terrorism.  Specifically, they're advocating the violent expulsion of non-native peoples from the continental interior and coastal sacred sites."  He shakes his head.  "For those of you whose ignorance of the local sociology matches my own, this radicalization is itself highly unusual.  The Australian Aboriginal population has a very limited - practically nonexistent, really - history of violent resistance.

"ASIO rapidly concluded that an outside organization was contributing to the group's radicalization and went looking for the connections.  What they found was Jemaah Islamiyah, the Southeast Asian terror group responsible for the Bali nightclub bombing in '02.  For the moment, ASIO is maintaining surveillance to ensure they fully understand the group's scope and activities.  They've been sharing intelligence with their partners to trace back the JI connections."  He aims a finger at the open folder in front of James and smiles humorlessly.  "Last week, our friend Mas'ud Attar turned up at a meeting between the Aboriginal group and its JI advisors.

"The radicals have several cells and ASIO believes it has yet to identify the full scope of their network.  They're primarily centered on Adelaide, Melbourne, and the states of South Australia and Victoria.  They haven't made an overt move yet but their activities seem to indicate that they're preparing to target resource extraction companies that operate in the Australian interior.  The identified JI representatives include a tradecraft and organizational specialist and a bomber, which points up the skills they're trying to acquire.  I'll remind you that the original Attar's background also included IED construction."

"Sir, do these Aboriginals have an organizational name?" Crewe asks.

"None that ASIO have turned up."  Mewes shakes his head and quirks a corner of his mouth.  "Feel free to assign them one for internal use."  He leans back in his chair.  "Your briefing documents have the full take of ASIO's case file on the radical group and a backgrounder on JI.  The former is painfully thin, so you can expect to develop your own profile while you're on the ground.  For the record, your assignment is reconnaissance and subject matter expertise.  You are to identify the scope of Attar - ah, TUNGSTEN MEMENTO involvement in the radical group.  Any kinetic operations on Australian soil will be handled by your hosts.

His face goes diplomatically blank as he continues.  "Captain Maatsen is already in Adelaide and is currently briefing the Australian military intelligence community and your assigned liaison.  For the time being, ASIO is not cleared for this material.  Because the Australians have only been brought into this task force's compartment in the last forty-eight hours, they have not authorized foreign military personnel to go armed.  Special Agent Choi, you are cleared for your duty sidearm but your Bureau's standard diplomatic restrictions apply.  You'll be flying into Adelaide via commercial carrier."

He sweeps his gaze around the room and gestures, inviting questions.

Williams took advantage of Maatsen’s offer, studying all of the file material in detail and reviewing all the videos.  The most interesting videos he watched twice.  By the end, the Petty Officer had come to grips with the existence of extraterrestrial life on other.  Still, Cooper looked as confused as when he started.

”So what do they want?  I mean, why come all this way to hang out with the worst of us?  Surely they would have more in common with the boys at CSIRO, ESA, and NASA.” Williams asked by way of an Australian centric listing of space agencies.

”Or are these just some diggers sent over to kick off a war?”

Durand's face registers no emotion when Mewes mentions another Attar sighting, this time in Australia. It's a country that lies far outside his area of expertise; he has never visited it and his only previous interactions with its military or intelligence community have been a few brief meetings with operators from the Australian Special Air Service Regiment in and around Kandahar when he'd been in Afghanistan eleven years ago. There's a visible flicker of surprise at the mention of radicalised aboriginals though, for he had been unaware that Australia had such a problem.

The Frenchman sits back, listens carefully, taking the occasional sip of coffee. The table felt different without Dancer there, for the Pole carried with her a presence that was now absent, although hopefully not for long. He had thought of the Polish Capitaine several times since he had returned from Las Vegas. When he had first met her he had been unsure how to take her, but that uncertainty had swiftly changed into a healthy respect. And yes, if she had not been injured perhaps he would have asked her if she wanted to have a drink with him. Or dinner. Or something.

But she was not present. And so the weight of the responsibilities that she had borne rest on his shoulders now. Responsibilities that might at some point in time include taking a decision that may lead to the death or serious injury of one of the other men or the now solitary woman seated around the table. Or himself for that matter. But then it was easier to put yourself into harm's way than tell others to do it wasn't it? And there would also be politics to navigate, for there are always politics. He could have said no when Mewes had asked him to take over of course. But that would have been the easy way out. And so he had said yes, but with the caveat that it was just temporary. Until the Pole was fit enough to return to duty.

An eyebrow raises when the Englishman mentions that any kinetic operations will be taken by the Australians, quickly followed by the news that other than Choi they will be going in unarmed and the FBI agent will only be permitted a sidearm. "They won't allow anyone else to be armed?" While Mewes may be adept at concealing what he thinks of that, Durand's expression makes it clear that he does not like the decision. The politics are something that he may have to work on. Ironic perhaps, given who his father is. "Can't we push back on that? And what about support? Will Amber be deploying as well? I do not wish to state the obvious, but Australia is a long way away. If we need them after we have arrived it may take some time for them to get there."

RAAF Base Edinburgh:

Maatsen exhales through his nostrils in a long hiss of frustration.  "We wish we knew.  If anyone has interrogated one, they are not sharing the take."  He leans forward and steeples his fingers.  "We have some theories but they're unsupported.  The majority opinion is that their demonstrated association with terrorist groups bespeaks an intent to destabilize existing social structures - asymmetrical interstellar warfare, if you will."

He frowns in thought.  "My intel section chief is fond of reminding me that 'aliens are fucking alien,' as he puts it, and that we should avoid drawing too many conclusions on the basis of expected human behavior.  That's the minority opinion.  But it's one all of us attempt to keep in mind."

---

Incirlik Air Base:

Mewes' face blanks.  "Believe me, Monsieur Durand, I'm already pursuing that issue quite aggressively.  As for support, an Amber Cell detachment is on site with Captain Maatsen for commo, intel, and what logistics are permitted us.  Unfortunately," his his eyes cut away for a moment, "Chief Bannon hasn't returned from leave and is out of contact."  His gaze returns to Sébastien.

There was a movie back in the late 90s, early 00s that Michael remembered as uniformly terrible about a cohort of vampire hunters that were laughing their way through blood bath after blood bath.  One of his friends had pointed out to him that one of the problem's with the movie was the a real vampire hunter, that special breed of violence and insanity that would be a prerequisite to hunting an undead monster that could corrupt your mind or rend you limb from limb, would probably not be someone you would actually want to meet.  They would be driven, damaged, and desperate.  Alcoholics.  Zealots.

They would probably mix fairly well with the faces that were being briefed by Group Captain Mewes.  There was a serious and grim atmosphere present now that had replaced the curious and questioning nature of the last mission prep.  Before they knew just what was out there.  And the data that had collected so far was woefully inadequate.  Dacovetti believed deep down that he was responsible for more than a little of that particular shortcoming.  Maybe if he kept looking at the data, a theory would emerge.  One that hadn't showed it's pretty little head quite yet.

"Has there been any change noted in the communication intercepts from this Aboriginal group following our operations in Libya?" Dacovetti asks.  "Any ideological similarities that I'm not connecting on my first read through?"  The airman pauses and drubs his finger on the table for a few moments.

"Ignoring the inanity of withholding our personal weapons in the face of interplanetary invasion for a moment or several," Dacovetti continues, "did you just tell us that Chief Bannon is missing?"
This message was last edited by the player at 18:20, Sun 10 Jan 2016.

The expression on Mewes' face goes even blanker, if that's possible.  "Chief Bannon," he elaborates slowly, "has extended his leave for unspecified personal reasons and is currently out of contact while traveling."

He blinks hard and inhales deeply.  "To continue in reverse order, 'inanity' is milder than my own opinion.  The problem is that the Australians weren't aware of this task force - it's a NATO operation.  So Captain Maatsen has had to establish our bona fides before he could present the evidence of, of alien incursion."  His voice catches on the last phrase in a verbal tic that's all too familiar to the assembled team.  "Unfortunately - and this isn't a criticism - our limited number of samples means we can't afford to send any on tour as proof, so we're restricted to video evidence.  Of which we have a good amount.  So our chain of command has provided the same psychological profiling that was used to recruit most of us," his face professionally blanks again, "to identify Australian representatives who we can approach without being summarily dismissed as lunatics."

"As far as the domestic threat group, the only ideological similarity is the connection to Islamic extremists, but that's tenuous.  JI is an al-Qaida affiliate and has limited contact with Da'ish.  There are some Muslim Aboriginals but none known to be part of this organization.  But I think it's notable that Attar didn't show up in Australia until after the Libyan operation."  He frowns in thought.  "Nor did the specific agenda of targeting resource extraction companies.  According to ASIO, that's developed rapidly over the past few weeks."

"Inscrutable space guerrillas…. Well that’s just bloody great isn’t it,“ Cooper said with a sigh.  Reaching forward, he closed the open folders and arranged them in an orderly fashion.  Glancing up at the clock, Williams realized they had been in the room for several hours.

”Alright Kapitein, full cooperation is what the Major said and that’s what you’ll get.  Barring any pressing liaison duties, I think the first way I might be of service is in recommending a local place for lunch.”

”Apakah Anda berbicara Kapitein Indonesia? Lebih penting lagi, apakah Anda merasa seperti sedikit grub kolonial?” Williams asked the Dutchman.  He figured there was a fair chance Maasten might say yes on both counts, given the lengthy history the Dutch had in Indonesia.  There was one good Indonesian place in town and if they hurried, they might just make it before lunch ended.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Do you speak Indonesian Kapitein? More importantly, do you feel like a bit of colonial grub?

---

Dacovetti eyes Mewes skeptically.  Bannon extending his leave and disappearing might be out of character for the man, or it might not.  The data set isn't big enough to draw a definitive conclusion, although the timing seems off.  He sets the problem aside, for now.  It is probable that Michael wouldn't be able to assist much anyway.  If their organization can't find their man with the resources at their disposal there are only two possibilities:  Bannon is that good and doesn't want to be found.  Or someone has him off the grid.

"Is there a specific threat to resource extraction?  A specific locale or just a general threat?" Dacovetti asks.  "I suppose it could play into a statement of strategy, but what could they need so badly that..."  Michael's voice trails off.  Then he sits up.  "Can you pull up the MILLRIFT GOSLING file?"  While Mewes works, the Airman digs into his iPhone.

"I would consider apologizing for my fascination with outer space, but that would be somewhat out of place," he says with a smile.  "There," he says pointing at the report.  "The blade we recovered is composed of a solid piece of an iridium/carbon alloy with unknown trace metals.  Star metal to borrow the term.  Metal delivered via an asteroid impact with Earth.  And our Aussie friends just reported finding the largest known impact site on the planet.  It's not conclusive, but we should consider getting a satellite or drone overhead to take a look."

He passes his phone around to show the others the article.


OOC:
Link: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-australia-32028173

"Thank you, sir." a slightly more tan Hannah greeted Mewes and his welcome.  Then she listened quietly while the colonel went through the particulars of a potential alien sighting in Australia.

Hannah nodded in agreement with Dealer's assessment.  "Iridium is not naturally occurring on Earth in any way, shape, or form," she drummed the thin fingers of her left hand on the table idly, "the only known sources are purely extra-terrestrial, such as meteor impact sites."  It went without saying - especially after Michael had already reiterated - that the Attar's weapon was yet another extra-terrestrial source of iridium on this planet.  She glanced at the article that Michael was highlighting, but then passed it on, having recalled seeing it some weeks earlier when it first came out; the metallurgical findings had been what had percolated the paper to the top of the newsgroups for her.

She pursed her lips, "We definitely need eyes on that site."  Then Hannah mused under her breath, glancing in the direction of Dealer and then Bullfrog, LK and Painter, "I'm surprised they don't have that already..."

But Hannah didn't dwell on that much more, pushing back to the mission parameters at hand.  "Presumably, it is likely that besides the Attar form we will encounter some of the enemy actually clothed in aboriginal forms?" she ventured, though she seemed to find that level of paranoia distasteful.

Then, she looked thoughtful for a moment, musing aloud, "Don't the native peoples of the Australian continent have a long 'history' of alien intervention?  It's in their creation myths, I believe... Something about being made from star stuff or trained by people that fell from the sky ..."  Which made that population potentially ripe for immediate exploitation by the enemy.  It is possible that Hannah was confusing things - and probably the exact details may not have been right as native rights of early peoples was not her forte.  But, she was pretty sure that she wasn't too far off base on this one.  Though admittedly, almost every early set of peoples on every continent had some sort of divine gods from the sky that helped play a role in their development:  the North American Thunderbird to Egyptian sky chariots.  The list was extensive.

Durand says nothing about Bannon’s absence, and the reasons for it, but Mewes' explanation doesn't sit well with him. After all, he already believes that information had been withheld from the team before, when it came to the true nature of the Attars, so for the Group Captain to not disclose the American’s location or what he’s doing is relatively minor compared to not mentioning the existence of extra terrestrial life.

The Frenchman’s expression doesn’t change when he looks at the link on Dacovetti’s phone, but underneath the surface he is experiencing a certain degree of uneasiness, possibly even uncertainty. The last mission had been straightforward enough as far as he was concerned, at least at the beginning, when it had simply been an operation to infil a familiar area of operation and retrieve a package.  The complications had come later of course.

His first briefing as team leader has hardly begun and already it is going into areas that are far outwith his area of expertise. A new AO, one about which he knew little other than that which your average tourist would know, that was a minor concern, one where he was sure that he could quickly fill any gaps in his professional knowledge, but alien space metals, myths about aliens being involved in aboriginal development, that is another matter. Perhaps it is because they know more about the nature of the threat than they had before, but the Frenchman is rapidly beginning to feel out of his depth in this conversation and that concerns him. Had Kowalska still been in charge he could have perhaps sat in silence, focused on the areas that he does have experience of, but he feels that is not a possibility now. Some commanders that he has served under preferred to let others talk first then weigh in at the end, usually with some substantive comment. But Durand has no substantive comment to offer on alien space metals.  And so he looks at the phone, passes it on around the table. And tries to think of how he can contribute.

For the moment he lets the conversation about iridium – to which he clearly cannot contribute – continue, only interjecting when there is a suitable pause, at which point he looks to Mewes. "Sorry Sir, but you said a moment ago that ASIO is not currently cleared for this material. To be clear, are the Australians being made aware of Attar’s exact nature? That is, the fact that he...it...is an alien?" Years of scepticism about such things mean Durand still finds it difficult to believe he is saying that aloud. "And what they need to know should they have to deal with one?" Or are the Aussies going to be kept in the dark like we were?
This message was last edited by the player at 12:04, Wed 29 Apr 2015.

Crewe glances through the article with a cocked eyebrow and mutters a barely audible "Huh..." under his breath before handing the phone back to Dacovetti.

He sits in his chair, alert, trying to take everything in and doing listening.  At Durand's question to Mewes he perks up and nods

"That's a really good question... if they're not cleared for the information... I mean, what sort of support are they expecting to provide? These things will be pretty self-evidently not human if there's anything resembling a tussle and that would definitely not work to our advantages if the Aussies are playing catch-up in the middle of a firefight."

He bites his lip pensively and glances around the briefing room to see if anyone disagrees.

RAAF Base Edinburgh:

"Hanya cukup untuk memesan bir dan mendengarkan pemandu lokal," Maatsen replies with a genuine smile.  Despite his modesty, his accent is nearly flawless.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Just enough to order a beer and listen to the local guide.

---

---

Incirlik Air Base:

Mewes glances back and forth between Michael and Hannah.  "That is... an interesting item," he says slowly, "and, to state the obvious, one that no one else had flagged.  I'll inquire as to whether any of the targeted companies have interests in that region."  He quirks a corner of his mouth.  "One thing that has been troubling me about your Attars is the reported use of blades.  The iridium is a strange choice and there's been some speculation that it might have cultural significance rather than practical utility.  Special Agent Choi, was the Attar in your prior encounter carrying a blade or any other out-of-place artifact?"

"I'll put in an immediate request for overhead imagery," he continues, making a note on his legal pad.  He studies the BBC article for a moment.  "This is an extensive area, though.  Do you want the search and analysis focused on any particular locale?"

At Hannah's question, he grimaces.  "The Saudi prison break footage had one lizard-man that wasn't wearing the Attar face.  At least one of those you engaged in Libya was also masked as someone else.  It's certain they have additional guises we haven't identified yet.  You'll be deploying with more of the miniature thermal imagers you used in Libya.  Corporal Crewe, you're on point for proposing alternate detection methods in case they start masking their thermal signatures."

He turns toward Sébastien at the interim team leader's question, nodding at Caradoc's amplification.  "To be clear, the Australian military is receiving full disclosure from Captain Maatsen."  He glances at his Breitling and flashes Sébastien a grim smile.  "By now, he's done with his second round of briefings and the future shock should be in full circulation.  The plan - such as it is - calls for you to work with a hand-selected team from SASR and AUSTINT.  You'll have a liaison assigned from the Regiment.  Corporal, it should be like meeting long-lost cousins for you...

"Captain Maatsen will prep your liaison and the involved officers.  I'm certain they'll conduct their own briefings but you're cleared to give the shooters everything we know.  Unfortunately, the Australian law enforcement and civilian intelligence communities are not under that umbrella.  We haven't identified any high-level officials who aren't likely to dismiss us as gaslighters.  If you cross paths with ASIO's investigation, your liaison will be empowered to handle any entanglements."

"No. At least, not that I saw. I accompanied the body to the morgue to establish chain of custody, but it's possible we missed something at the apartment he... it... the Attar was working out of. When my teammate shot it- the first time- the Attar had a cut-down AK in its hands." As he speaks, James can't help but visualize the scene- the sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment, two laptops open on the living/dining room table, a shitload of small arms and ammunition in plain sight, components for home-made bombs scattered around the 1980s-era kitchen. Three bodies, two in the living room, one in the back bedroom, all with multiple 10mm holes center mass, courtesy of the HRT. Flash forward to the morgue. The attendant, head twisted askew on narrow shoulders, lying on the cold linoleum floor. Two local cops, one missing an arm, ripped right out of the socket, the other beaten half to death with it. And the eyes...

"So no knife, but it- the Attar- still managed to do a hell of a lot of damage with its bare hands. Killed two people and nearly killed a third. And it had a different face, one I haven't seen since. Minority still, but hard to pin down- maybe Hispanic, many black, maybe Middle Eastern. It wasn't generic, though, if that makes sense. It looked like somebody- almost a unibrow, acne scars, a hint of a mustache. Very human."


Except for the eyes...

-

The aviator nods.  "Copy that.  I will request that more pressure be placed on the parties holding that case file to see if anything else of interest was logged into evidence."  A frown flickers across his face.  "Do emphasize to SASR that hand-to-hand is discouraged.  Strongly.

"Sergeant Dacovetti.  Make a list of the equipment you'll need to detect and continue to analyze the WILDWOOD GROUSE phenomenon.  I'll ensure it's either provided locally or cleared in your luggage."
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:47, Fri 01 May 2015.

Durand nods his head. Was that a polite way of saying that the Australian civilian intelligence community would think we were crazy if we went to them with stories of spacemen who took on the appearance of Islamist terrorists? To be fair, it was hardly surprising. The Frenchman could imagine his reaction if he'd still been with DGSE and a report had crossed his desk detailing what the team had seen in Libya. He would have thought its author must surely be deluded. But seeing is believing.

"So the blade may be more cultural than practical? Symbolic perhaps?" Durand leans forward, his elbows finding the desk, his fingers forming a steeple that his chin rests on. "That is interesting." he says after several moments, unsteepling his fingers and reaching for the MILLRIFT GOSLING file, opening it, his eyes running over the documents within. "What happened to the knife we recovered?" The one that almost sliced me open. "Do we still have it, or was it destroyed in testing?" His left index finger taps his chin. "If it has significance to them that may be something that we can...exploit. Perhaps. I don't know..." His voice tails off.

Nearly everything is speculation at this point and weaponry is a point James wants to revisit. Durand's last point offers a natural segue.

"Perhaps the blade is both weapon and symbol, like Japanese officers' swords in World War II. To my understanding, they were mostly a symbol of rank- easy to see, both on base and on the battlefield. But from what I've read, they were used a fair bit in combat too.

"And that brings up the question of armaments on our end. How's this going to work?" He glances down at his holstered custom Colt .45. "I'd rather we were all packing something, and something with a little more punch. Do we put in gear requests to Amber Cell and they supply us once we're on site? Or are we gonna have to rely on the locals for guns 'n' ammo?

"Either way, the last fight made it painfully clear that we need some heavy hardware to put these E.T.s down and keep 'em that way. I know that they're not legal but can we get some dum-dum rounds or something similar? I can't speak for all of my colleagues, but I had trouble keeping the Seven-Six-Two rifle on target with rapid fire, and those huge French revolvers seemed a bit hard to handle as well. Five-five-six seemed to penetrate the Attars just fine but didn't do a whole lot of damage. If we had more destructive smaller caliber ammo, we wouldn't have to sacrifice accuracy, rate of fire, and magazine capacity for stopping power."

James is on a roll so he brings the train of thought into the station.

"As for sidearms, a buddy o' mine has an FN Five-seven, let me shoot it a couple times at the range. You heard of it? OK, so those rounds shouldn't have any trouble punching through an Attar's thick hide. My earlier point on deadlier ammo still applies. The Five-seven is easy to fire- less recoil than a nine- and its mag holds 20 rounds standard. The only downside is that's its muzzle flash is pretty big."

He sweeps his teammates with his almond-shaped eyes. "I'm not trying to pick your tools for you, but it's something we might want to think about."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:42, Sat 02 May 2015.

"I've been trying to develop a working theory of why the blades as well," Dacovetti puts in.  "Given the parameters that they have weapons that could obliterate anything Earth could put in front of it, there has to be a greater significance in the choice.  I would tend to agree with Mr. Choi's comparison to a Japanese sword as a status symbol.  Perhaps dispatching an enemy with the blade is a greater honor.  Or possibly it is one of the few weapons of their design that they are currently cleared to use on Earth by their own command.  It's even possible it has some kind of religious connotation.  The difficulty, of course, being that we are trying to wrap our minds around what is literally, a nonhuman intelligence."

"To your question, Sir," he continues to Mewes, "if we could start our recon at the geothermal research site the article mentions, that would probably be our best initial evaluation.  From there, any other existing or exploratory mine sites.  After that it's a needle in a hayfield situation."

Upping the damage quotient on any available firearms is more than appealing to Michael.  After the run-and-gun he was operating in during the Tripoli mess, he felt the lack of an accurate and controllable weapons with stopping power acutely.  "The one problem with custom ammunition and rather uncommon weapons is that ultimately we will be leaving a calling card that may increase our exposure.  That being said...interplanetary invasion, so, minor quibble. At best."

"I feel suitably honoured" Durand mutters when Dacovetti mentions that using a blade to kill an enemy may bestow a greater honour. He then turns towards Choi. "FN also make a Personal Defence Weapon that fires the same calibre. The P90. I've never fired one, but French Special Forces and anti terrorism units of the Police and Gendarmerie use them. As for non legal ammunition, my concern would be the attitudes of the local authorities where we are operating. Obviously in Libya or other failed states that is not an issue -" The Frenchman offers up a shrug "- but somewhere like Australia it could cause problems, particularly if the Australian civilian authorities are unaware of the nature of the threat."

"The knife is at a materials science lab in Germany," Mewes tells Sébastien.  "It's still mostly intact.  Until we have additional specimens, we're reluctant to destroy the one already in hand."  He smiles grimly, perhaps at the assumption that the team will recover more iridium blades.

His eyes flick back and forth as he listens to the ballistics discussion.  "I'm no barrister, but as I understand it, the Hague Convention applies only to declared hostilities between signatory nations.  As long as you're deploying against these creatures or their terrorist associates, load whatever you like."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:25, Mon 04 May 2015.

Hannah looked pensive and listened to discussion about the various weapons intently, though she remained very quiet.  Finally, she seemed compelled to speak up, venturing rather tentatively, "There is another - related - possibility with respect to the knives."  The lithe army aviatrix paused thoughtfully, "Often part of a ritualistic combat is that weapons - or knives, in this case - also have special properties associated with them.  Like improved effectiveness or some such against their opponents.  If we presume that those opponents were originally other Attars..."

She gave a slight shrug and Double Down's voice trailed off, the implication obvious - perhaps the iridium metal was actually effective against the Attars themselves as well.  It was a rather tenuous theory (generated from her rather limited undergraduate studies, which hadn't included anything more than the equivalent of freshmen psychology and sociology classes on the topic), and Hannah knew it.  That was about all that she could offer on the topic - much bigger brains with respect to the actual ballistics and such were already gathered and pondering the problem; she'd go with whatever the group decided to standardize on.

And it wasn't like they had a lot of Iridium-laden alloy (with as-of-yet undetermined other trace elements) just lying around to make more blades or lace ammunition with anyways.

But, she did have questions about other equipment.  "Group Captain," Hannah had to ask, "What type of local surveillance and air assets will we have access to?  Through Amber Cell and otherwise..."  She might as well ask since it was a new venue - and the vehicles and drones would likely be her purview.  And as much as she had gotten to like certain aspects of the Mi-17, the HiP wouldn't necessarily be making the journey with them.  However, she did need to verify, "And Technician Taraki will be deploying with us to Australia, correct?"  As far as she was concerned, Barfight had been be a valuable and reliable resource in that first mission, both in prep and during the op.  And while, US Army warrant officer had learned a fair bit from him about maintaining the Mi-17, she was sure that there was plenty more for her to learn from the squat, jovial Afghani.

Melbourne Airport
Melbourne, Victoria
20 April 2015
2224 hrs local (1224 hrs Zulu)

Grey Cell wearily decants itself from the Airbus A380, collectively stretches and groans, and presses through the customs filter.  The first flight, four hours from Istanbul to Dubai, was trivial.  A six-hour layover in the UAE's glittering crown jewel, stewarded by frequent visitor Michael Dacovetti, offered the opportunity for real food and a few moments of high-end shopping or surreal tourism, according to each agent's taste.  Then came the fourteen-hour marathon leg of the trip aboard Qantas Flight 10 to complete the upending of the team's circadian rhythms.

The main concourse of Melbourne Airport's Terminal 1 is familiar in the way that all such structures are: arranged by a common logic of efficient movement, with a secondary focus on the expedient separation of travelers from their discretionary funds.  The signs over the food kiosks and travel accessory shops are the only real means of discerning this from any other airport in the English-speaking world.  The occasional mutter of thunder makes it through the walls and white noise while thick sheets of rain sluice across the skylights.  Between advertisements, the wall-mounted plasma screens proclaim the outside temperature a cool 9º C and warn that the cold front currently stalled over the city is likely to loiter for a day or three before moving on.

Bram Maatsen's dark face wears a slight sympathetic smile as he leans against the outside rail of a Hudsons Coffee shop.  The stranger next to him - sandy-haired, fashionably unshaven, sleekly athletic in casual attire under an Arc'teryx jacket - scrutinizes the five NATO agents with frank curiosity.  Maatsen tosses his empty cup into a trash receptacle and strides across the concourse, offering his hand to each agent in turn.  "Welcome to Australia," he says, steering the team toward the food court.  "No need to fuss with baggage claim, I've sent Snell to retrieve your luggage.  This is Cooper Williams, Petty Officer, RAN.  He'll be your local liaison in the field.  He is," with a sidelong glance toward Cooper, "fully briefed and has been invaluable in bringing his colleagues in the Regiment up to speed."

The team settles into chairs with a round of introductions and awakens phones from hibernation.  A dissonant flurry of electronic tones sounds as emails and text messages begin emerging from Airplane Mode suspension.  Michael flicks through a missive from his wife, catches Caradoc doing the same with messages from at least two different women.  Hannah's phone continues chirruping as a torrent of photos from Barbrak, on assignment somewhere in Europe, streams in.  The Afghani seems to be checking out a new airframe to add to the task force's small fleet but all Hannah can tell from his teasing hints is that it has parts labeled in Cyrillic script.  Feeling the pressure of excess hydration, she pockets the device and diverts toward the restroom.

With a casual glance for listeners, Maatsen continues, "Per your request, the research site responsible for the meteorite discovery is under Global Hawk surveillance."  He slides a folded notecard toward Michael.  "Access information for the feed, and we're tied into it at the joint operations center we've established with AUSTINT."  Glancing at Cooper, he adds, "We're still working on getting access to ASIO's ongoing surveillance of the target organization without letting them know why we need it.  Their most active cell is is in the city, as is the corporate headquarters of the firm at the top of their target list."  He produces an Ironkey flash drive and his eyes flick to the empty chair at the table before he offers it to Sébastien.  "There's been no additional sighting of Attar since you left Incirlik.  Within the limits imposed by diplomacy, you have free rein.  Where would you care to begin?"

"Which is the polite way to say that we've sent a lot of chicken stranglers into the dunny to have a chunder after looking at your video," Cooper said with a nod toward the Kapitein.  The last four days hadn't all been nasi goreng, satay, and bottles of VB.  Following his own recovery from Maatsen's briefing, Williams had coordinated with the NATO officer and the Australian Special Air Services Regiment, Cooper's current unit, to read-in a platoon of SASR personnel for direct action if required.

Williams offered a hand to each member of the team, introducing himself in turn to everyone.  When finished, he added,  "As you can see, you've arrived on a beautiful autumn night." Petty Officer Williams motioned toward the thunderstorm outside.  ”So if there’s anything you’d like to see unofficially, now is actually a good time,” Cooper said with a mischievous grin.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:46, Thu 07 May 2015.

As a perpetual warrior in professional combat with jet-lag, Michael had made the best of the flight with a little blue bomber named Ambient chased with a glass of wine.  The result of the chemical reaction being what a former coworker referred to as "sleepy time cowboy."  Nine of the fourteen hours were spent asleep, not that sleeping on a plane could in anyway be construed as good sleep.  Not on a government traveler's dime.  The usual incongruity of seasonal inversion when traveling to the southern hemisphere hits the airman between the eyes and elicits a small chuckle.  Ever interesting, this planet.  He shoots his wife a reply text as the group settles into their chairs, a simple plain text: love you, miss you, in the event (or guarantee) that his communications are being monitored.  Better to just be up front and not try to be clever.

Williams appears to be an alright sort, possessing the casual confidence of a dangerous professional.  A sense of humor, too, once Dacovetti's brain runs the Aussie to English translation protocol.  He accepts the network information with a grateful nod, and pockets the paper for later use, noting that Double Down is leaving the table for the requisite post-flight bio-break.  The desire to pull out his laptop at this moment and login to look at the surveillance feed is strong, but not strong enough to break Op-Sec protocols, not that a casual passerby would even understand what he was looking at.

With several open questions hanging in the air, Dacovetti is just about to form a reply when movement catches his eye, a pattern emerging rapidly.  Chief Omdahl is emerging from the restroom when a nearby woman, who had been blending in perfectly to the shell shocked business travelers around them, breaks from the general flow of the airport and starts moving directly towards their slight pilot.  Michael's hand drops for a pistol that this not there, but just when he's about to raise the alarm, he sees that Hannah recognizes the woman coming toward her, and he watches as she accepts a phone from the other woman.

The airman's brain files the interaction under: interesting, hold for further study.

As the pair splits, Dacovetti catches a glimpse of the woman and identifies her: Marie Kohl, one of their Amber Cell support staff, and one who was not on the original roster for deployment. Levels upon levels in this clandestine world, he muses.  For now, he chooses not to mention the exchange, not in front of the newcomers.  If there is something he's supposed to know, Dacovetti figures it will come to fruition soon enough.  And if not, he'll hold on to the exchange until they need it.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:48, Thu 07 May 2015.

Hannah had actually slept all right on the long voyage into Melbourne, commercial planes - though far from comfortable - were much more comfortable than the cargo holds of military transports (and Hannah could sleep in those).  Of course, she usually spent time 'talking shop' with the pilots, which couldn't (and so didn't) happen on this occasion.  She'd spent most of the time sleeping and the rest listening to music on her relatively new iPhone6 with the brushed nickel casing; thankfully, the A380 had plenty of power plugs to ensure that her batteries remained fully charged.

Once she'd cleared customs and rejoined the others, Hannah had to stretch for a moment and couldn't quite stifle a yawn.  A gesture which she regretted once she spotted Maatsen and their new Aussie liaison.   Double Down eyed the trim newcomer with a rather critical eye, and she liked what she saw.  Hannah herself was wearing a set of flared black jeans and a flatteringly cut, blue-blouse.  A sling satchel - a Sherpani Esprit sling, to be precise - was carried casually over her shoulder and covered by her jacket, a light-brown, leather faux-riding affair with a bolero-style cut.  Her custom Oakleys were pushed up over the crown of her head.

Glancing down at her phone, Hannah felt a pang of disappointment that Barfight wasn't with them.  But, she thrust that aside and studied more of the detail of the pictures sent.  Pursing her lips at labeling, she responded with a curt ++Can't you find something made outside of the Easter Bloc? :D++  Double Down made a mental note to brush up on her Cyrillic.  Then added quickly, ++Good Find++  She trusted that the Afghani mechanic wouldn't (and actually couldn't) procure anything that she couldn't fly.

Cooper's presence for some reason made Hannah feel a touch self-conscious, even though she'd preened properly right before the flight landed, actually fussing over her make-up and attire, which she never really did when dressed in her standard issue BDUs.  Previously, Hannah had always made sure that everything was properly pressed and such, but color coordinating and accessorizing was never that much of an issue - especially in arabic lands often.  The lithe army aviatrix had to avert her gaze and feign casually looking around the airport and at the sheets of water cascading down the windows to stop herself from staring at the man.  Get a grip, Omdahl. Hannah mentally chided herself, it wasn't as if Williams was any more hunky that Seb or a number of other DSGE operatives or Italian pilots that she'd been hanging around with for the past few weeks.

It must be the flight. she reminded herself, That's it.  I'm punchy.  The jet lag's getting to me.  And she let it go at that.  She fanned herself idly for a moment and even though she was a touch warm, started to shrug off her slingpack and shrug on her jacket.

It didn't help that she had to go pee, which the falling rain outside continued to remind her.  Murmurring a quick, "Excuse me." Hannah pushed away from the group and made a beeline to the rest room.  Once the perfunctory errand was completely, she started on the real errand.  Hannah splashed her face with cool water for a moment and then reapplied her lipstick.  Nothing could be done about any mascara or such.  Oakleys held in her teeth, she ran her fingers through her auburn hair and reset her ponytail before taking a deep breath.  Or two.  And slowly exhaling.

When she reemerged from the restroom, Double Down felt much more composed.  More centered.  More focused.

Which is why the situation with the blonde woman caught her by surprise; her reverie was immediately broken by the appearance of the woman next to her.  Hannah's brow furrowed for a moment and it took a second for the blonde's words to register.  Something gnawed at the back of her mind, but she just couldn't place it.  Having an object thrust towards her, Hannah initially started to reach out and then paused for a split second.  It obviously wasn't hers, but she forced her hand to move and took the yellow and black jacketed cased phone anyways.  She nodded curtly, "Ah... Thank you.  Wouldn't want to be without it..."

Pocketing the portable electronic and walking away from woman and the restroom, Hannah rejoined the others straight away.  She wasn't sure about who had seen what, but she tried not to make a big deal out of it.

When the conversation turned to what to do next, Hannah looked thoughtful for a moment.  "Probably should try to sleep..." she suggested tentatively, but then readily noted, "even if it feel only like the middle of the afternoon."  Her gaze shifted between Maatsen and Williams and back, "Where are we staying?  There's a pool, right?"

"Quay West Suites," Maatsen tells Hannah with an amused crinkle around his eyes.  "It's a cut above our usual accommodations but it's centrally located and five minutes from the JOC at Victoria Barracks.  The pool's more of an art fixture than an exercise facility, I think.  Michael," he adds, turning to Dacovetti, "your balcony has clear sightlines for SATCOM."

Durand takes Williams' offered hand, shakes it, a firm grip, his eyes meeting the Australian's for a fleeting moment, a subtle nod given, a recognition of a man much like himself, one who appeared to be no stranger to violence, but who knew how to wield it with the precision of a scalpel. "Sébastien Durand. A pleasure to meet you."

After shaking the Australian's hand and introducing himself Durand sits back, crosses one leg over the other, extracts his Sony Experia from his jacket pocket, switches it on. The Frenchman was casually dressed in loose clothing, a pair of khaki cargo trousers, a black fleece worn over a t shirt of the same colour, desert boots. He tries to stifle a yawn as the phone scans the Australian networks.  His watch tells him it's after 10pm, his brain is telling him something completely different. The Frenchman hates flying east. Flying west the jet lag never seemed quite so bad, the hours were gained, not lost. It's compounded by the fact that he hadn't slept much on the aircraft, a couple of hours after the first meal had been served, an hour midflight. The rest of the time he'd spent watching movies, listening to music on his iPod. Or thinking. When the phone picks up a network it remains mute, unlike those of his colleagues. Not that he'd been expecting a text from anyone.

The Frenchman replaces the silent phone in his pocket, sees Maatsen's eyes glance towards  the empty chair. Yes, she's not here. Durand takes the offered drive, nods a thanks. He hears Double Down mention getting their heads down, thinks that's probably a good idea, even if the likelihood is that sleep will be hard to come by. "I think it is probably best that we all try and get some rest if possible, but as the JOC is so close I'll stop by there first and PO Williams can introduce me to the people we'll be working with. If anyone wants to come with me then I'm good with that but if you'd rather go straight to the Hotel and get your heads down that works too." Tired though he was, Durand doubted that he would be able to sleep, so thought he may as well put the time to good use, but if any of his people wanted to take the opportunity to head directly to the Hotel he had no issue with that.

"Tomorrow we'll need to bed in at the JOC and sort out our comms and logistics." He shot a meaningful glance at Painter as he said that. "Once that's taken care of we can see what the situation is about getting access to the ASIO surveillance operation, nut I would rather our logistics were in place first. In the meantime I think it would be helpful if we could try and find out what the company that has managed to get themselves onto the top of the target list are up to. PO Williams, do you think it would be possible for your people to arrange for Agent Choi to pay them a visit, perhaps on the grounds that he's pursuing related cases in the United States? It might be a good idea to take one of our technical experts with you as well." The Frenchman pauses, looks over at Double Down and Dealer. "Mike, we'll probably need you at the JOC to set up our comms and what not. Hannah, how does a little undercover work with PO Williams and James sound?"

"I have been known to swim for both relaxation and exercise."  Hannah notes simply with a genuine, if slightly weary smile and a shrug in response to the news about their accommodations.  She'd make do, as she always did.

She listened quietly and attentively to Sébastien's orders, he'd been given command with the Kapitan out of commission for the time being.  "I'd be up for that." Hannah nodded when Durand proposed that she be tapped for potential undercover work.  The auburn-haired pilot - now-turned 'scientific expert' - rubbed her chin thoughtfully, "Perhaps we should all stop by the JOC before turning in." she posited, "I should probably read up on just how 'resource extraction companies' operate in this part of the world."

She glanced in the direction of Cooper and James.  Hannah didn't know about the others, but she definitely needed brush up on some of the technical details of the situation.  And it was probably the perfect set of bedside reading.

Of course, before they got to JOC, Hannah would have to show the others her new phone...  But that would have to be done, somewhere less public.

"MSAC... sorry, the Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Club, isn't too far away from VB.  They have a nice indoor 50 meter pool that I've done a few times.  It opens at zero five thirty, if I recall correctly,” Cooper offered.  The combatant diver’s tone and body language suggested that he hadn’t read into anything and was simply trying to offer a solution to a problem.  If Williams had picked up on any of Hannah’s furtive glances, he wasn’t showing it.

”Assuming we don’t spend all night looking at screens in the JOC, I’d be up for an early morning jog to MASC come rain or shine, along with a few laps if anyone would care to join,” Cooper added.  His lead-off comment suggested that the Petty Officer preferred field work, or at least a good session of physical training, to being stuck in an operations center all night.

As the team sat down for an adhoc meeting, Williams watched the established group work through assignment and issues.  Maatsen’s briefing on the composition of “Grey Cell” had lacked a number of substantive details.  Choi was FBI and the American Embassy had declared him to DFAT in Canberra as a LEGAT just yesterday.  Durand, the team leader, seemed to be doing all the right things – offering options and listening to his team.  Cooper knew that Dacovetti was the comms guy and Crewe was the medic, both of which were pretty standard roles on any special operations team, but he didn’t know anything more about either solider.

The team’s lone Sheila was interesting.  He’d never seen or heard of a pilot directly assigned to an ops team before.  Sure they got you in or out, but you wouldn’t see them in the team room between missions and certainly not in the field, unless of course they pranged the helo.  Cooper recalled a humorous article he had read once about fixed wing pilots being open, clear-eyed, buoyant, extraverts and helo pilots being brooding, introspective anticipators of trouble.  He glanced over at Omdahl and smiled as he thought about the cartoon that accompanied the short, funny write-up and how it seemed to be in stark contrast to the composed, attractive woman across from him.



Cooper nodded when Sebastien mentioned stopping by the JOC for introductions, but otherwise remained silent while observing.  When Durand mentioned arranging for the Choi meet and great, Williams broke his silence.

”Yes, I think we can make that happen,” the Petty Officer said with a confident nod as he briefly leaned forward.  ”And please feel free to call me Coop or Cooper,” he added before leaning back.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:07, Sat 09 May 2015.

James felt nearly as fresh as a daisy. He could fall asleep almost at will, and sleep almost anywhere, in almost any position, a legacy of his frenetic, yet carefully micro-managed childhood schedules. He'd slept more over the Pacific than he had on any single night of his leave since returning from North Africa. The proximity of his teammates probably had a lot to do with that. Self-imposed solitude, he'd learned, wasn't so good for the nerves.

Sipping from a small black coffee, James scans the airport's food and commerce stoa, quickly spotting at least three probable cons: one novice drug mule pacing the concourse, nervous sweat darkening the seat of his khakis just over his butt crack, a mid-rent working girl casing the bar for businessmen thoughtful enough to remove their wedding rings, and a mob muscle type pretending to read the sports section of a local newspaper in front of a duty-free boutique. James is back on the job, so when Omdahl takes the phone from a woman James hadn't seen before, he makes a note of it.

His business casual attire is a little rumpled, and he'd like to shower and take his duty weapon out of his checked bag, but otherwise he's good to go.

At the mention of plying his investigations field craft, James lowers the cup from his lips and says, "I'm game."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:53, Sat 09 May 2015.

Durand nods. "Coop it is then." Until we give you a handle Bullfrog thinks wryly. "I'm Seb. You may as well put me down for the early morning swim club. It might cure the jet lag. Provided I can escape from the JOC of course." He grins as he says it, his tone echoing the Australian's. His new colleague would find a kindred spirit in the Frenchman. Durand has spent long periods out in the field, watched suspected war criminals from cold, wet observation posts in the former Yugoslavia, fought terrorists in the scrub of the Algerian Maghreb, negotiated with self proclaimed warlords in the mess that was Mogadishu. It's where he feels comfortable, not stuck behind a desk or surrounded by state of the art technology in a darkened Ops Centre.

Turning to Hannah and James, he grins. "OK, sounds like we have a plan. I'll leave you guys to work out the details with Coop." It's not like any of them need him to micro manage them.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:38, Fri 08 May 2015.

Victoria Barracks
Melbourne, Victoria
20 April 2015
2310 hrs local (1310 hrs Zulu)

Security lights gleam on wet ivy as Cooper steers the unmarked Holden Commodore through the main gate and into a parking space at the south end of A Block.  Inside the elderly brick structure, troopers wearing the insignia of 2nd Commando Regiment scrutinize Cooper's, Sébastien's, and Maatsen's identification beneath the overwatch of a newly-installed FLIR security camera.

The JOC comprises three hastily-cleared file rooms in a basement that must have been dank and musty within hours of its construction in the 1860s.  Two of Maatsen's Amber Cell detachment are present, running cables and wrangling technical minutiae with a technician from 152 Signal Squadron.  At the trio's entrance, a knot of uniformed men swings toward them.  Maatsen steps up.  "Gentlemen, may I present Sébastien Durand, team leader of Grey Cell.  Monsieur Durand, this is Lieutenant Colonel Quentin Wortham, AUSTINT.  He'll be running this op.  Captain Mike Bellamy of SASR heads the troop that's been assembled for kinetic operations."

Wortham's seamed face wears a mask of faint disapproval, but something tells Sébastien it's a permanent expression.  The officer offers his hand and cranks his mouth into a semblance of a smile.  "Mister Durand.  Thank you for stopping by," he drawls.  "Captain Maatsen tells me you're the expert on our," his eye twitches, "ah, new enemy."

"Yeh, you're the one who the lizard-men tried to fillet, right?"" Bellamy half-asks, half-states.  "Be nice to get a blow-by-blow on that before we engage."  He nods to Cooper.  "Nice seeing you again, Coop.  I should have known you'd have had a hand in sucking me into this."

Wortham's eye twitches again but he refrains from comment.  "Ah.  Yes.  Staff call is zero-nine-hundred tomorrow.  If you and your team could brief, I'm certain it would go a long way toward dispelling some... skepticism."  He cocks his head.  "Everyone's seen the video but it's still a, ah, a hard thing for some to accept."  Something about his inflection conveys the impression that he's among the skeptics.  "In the meantime, is there anything your people need?"

---

Quay West Suites

The hotel is nothing if not conveniently-placed.  From his and Michael's 12th-floor suite overlooking the Yarra River, James can see the rain-smeared lights of the building which houses OZ Minerals' corporate headquarters, barely 500 meters away.  By unspoken agreement, the team (less Sébastien) has gathered in the suite's common area after checking out - rather, marveling over - their own accommodations.  Everything has come through customs unscathed, including a few barely-legal blades in Caradoc's inventory.  The keys to a second Holden Commodore and a ubiquitous Toyota Hilux lie atop the bar next to a well-stocked medical bag, the latter delivered by Master Corporal Snell on his way to his own bed.

Hannah's newly-acquired LG G3 is, as far as Michael can determine, unmodified and in its factory default configuration.  Its GPS memory contains a single waypoint, a self-storage facility a few miles away, along with the notation "Unit 202 / code 4570."  The address book likewise has one entry: NEMESIS.

Melbourne Airport

Hannah's expression went from pensive to less pensive, and she gave Cooper a smile when the man offered to escort her to the MSAC in the morning.  "That is an offer that I can't really refuse." the auburn-haired aviatrix responded, then after a moment ventured, "Meet at the Suites at oh-six-hundred?  Or would you prefer to hit the MSAC right when it opens?"

---

Quay West Suites

"Okay..." Hannah ventured tentatively, when her new phone was analyzed.  She was pretty sure that everyone else had seen her pocket the thing.  And even if they hadn't she wasn't going to hide the fact from the rest of her team.

Her fingers drummed on the table for a moment, the light staccato tapping was extremely reminiscent of the 'whup-whup-whup' timing of the Mi-17's main rotors.  How Double Down had found the time to practice that was anyone's guess.

"So," Hannah started again, "Chief Bannon was here.  But, only in an unofficial capacity.  And he left us something..."  She glanced in the direction of the phone sitting on the table, but made no move to pick the thing up again, "When should we go look at whatever it is?"

There's the usual round of handshakes and introductions at the Joint Operations Centre, Durand grinning wryly at Bellamy's reference to filleting, a nod when Wortham mentions dispelling scepticism. And the Frenchman suspects that the Colonel is one of those who has doubts. Well, who could blame him? Only a few months ago Durand would have been equally sceptical.

He turns towards the Colonel first. "Of course, Sir." The Sir comes automatically in this environment, for surrounded by these people it feels like he's back in the Commandos Marine. "I understand how it may seem hard to believe - before I joined Grey Cell if someone had shown me that video or told me stories about alien lizard men being in alliance with Daesh or other terrorists I would not have believed it either. I mean, who would? The whole thing sounds like a bad US movie. But I assure you, it is true." Durand knew that there were those in Task Force 47 who had always believed. But the Frenchman had not been one of them. Even after they had killed the first Attar in the garage in Tripoli he had looked for some sort of rational explanation, something that could explain away what had happened after he had put two bullets into its head at close range, unwittingly causing it to release its noxious cloud, his sense of satisfaction at executing a known terrorist replaced with mystery. A mystery that was itself dispelled as he was forced to rule out every explanation until only one remained. And so yes, Sébastien Durand could well understand the Australians' disbelief.

The DGSE Officer turns his gaze towards the SAR Captain, nods. "That was me, Sir. Of course, we did not know at the time what we were dealing with." At least their hosts would not suffer under that particular disadvantage. "We can give your people the full rundown on them. Their strong points, their weaknesses, how to identify them. Just let me know how you want to handle it, whether you want me to brief your whole team together or split into smaller groups? We can do it tomorrow after the morning meeting. The important thing to remember is that they are not invulnerable. They can be killed. My team have killed several of them. It's just a matter of knowing how to do it."

And on that note...Durand turns back to the Colonel, addressing his question as to whether there is anything Grey Cell need. "There is one thing. Most of my people have been required to enter your country unarmed. Is there any way that you can source us weapons? Just for self defence of course." The Frenchman smiles. Wonder if they would class a Sako TRG 42 as a self defence weapon?

It is, all things being equal, one of the nicest hotels Dacovetti has found himself staying in.  At least in his official capacity as a governmental employee.  Some of the places his wife's credit card gives them access to are about equally nice, but he's not going to equivocate.  The digs, as they say, are swank and he plans to enjoy them.  The view out the window is everything one could wish for, especially when what the resident in question really wants is unfettered access to the satellites in orbit above them.  The physical view is attractive, too.

Michael sets Omdahl's new phone on the table, satisfied that it doesn't contain any more surprises and eyes it.  It is reassuring to know that Bannon has deployed ahead of them, even if unofficially, but the contact still indicates a certain level of bureaucracy that the team will be competing against.

"My vote is to recover whatever items are in the storage unit immediately," Dacovetti tells the group.  "Being fully mission capable should the situation deteriorate can only benefit us." With Seb gone, they don't have an official second in command, the chain cracks into too many branches for rank to have any overt meaning.  How do you rate an FBI agent vs a warrant officer?  The reality of it clicks into the Airman's mind as a problem that will need to be addressed in the morning.  "Perhaps Chief Omdahl and Agent Choi could pay the site a visit.  I can get our comms set up here and Crewe can make sure our medical needs are taken care of."

Without being asked, he picks up the phone and punches a quick text for the only address in the device:  Checked into the hotel, we'll let you know when we've picked up our luggage.  Looking forward to hearing from you. Our long distance should be working in an hour or so. DLR

Melbourne Airport



”Six is perfect,” Williams said with nod to Omdahl and Durand.

---

Victoria Barracks



"Well Sir, I figured if we were playing Space Invaders, we should bring in someone with some video game experience," Williams said, with a grin and a wink as he made a gun using his hand, pointing his index finger at Bellamy and snapping his thumb as if a shot had just been fired.  It was Bellamy who, during preparations for Operation Anaconda, had championed the use of virtual reality software to prepare the SASR operators to infiltrate the Shah-i-kot valley prior to the assault.  The 'video game' that Cooper referred to, contributed significantly to the SASR team's situational awareness, allowing them to operate effectively in darkness and poor weather conditions.  It was a first for a combat mission and allowed SASR to effectively defend and rescue the chalk and crew of a downed MH-47.  Despite Cooper's somewhat casual tone with the officer, he and every other SASR operator had incredible respect for Bellamy.  The officer was one of a handful of men in the Regiment whose dress uniform bore well-deserved Australian and US valor awards for that action.

”Captain, when we are done here, I’d like to confirm contact information for you and your NCOs,” Williams said, his casual tone replaced by a more professional demeanor.  Williams had a smartphone and a Falcon III^(R) with a covert headset that he wanted to confirm numbers, frequencies, and crypto loads for.  Of course the technology was sexy, but more importantly, Coop had a new bespoke nailhead sport coat he wanted to wear.  It had been cut and lined to prevent both his sidearm and the radio from printing.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 00:44, Mon 11 May 2015.

Victoria Barracks

Wortham perfunctorily chuckles at Sébastien's comparison of the Libyan operation to bad American cinema.  "I'll admit we had top people picking apart your videos for any signs of tampering.  With respect," he cocks his head toward Maatsen, "it was an, ah, unlikely set of revelations."

Bellamy flashes Sébastien and Cooper a grin.  "Easiest to brief everyone at once.  I'm only running a twenty-man troop.  If you can, I'd like your whole team there for introductions and Q&A."  He nods to Cooper.  "I'll get you hooked in on comms before you turn in tonight."

At the mention of arming Grey Cell, Wortham's face twitches; Sébastien catches a micro-expression of disapproval.  "We do appreciate the intelligence you've shared but, legally, this needs to remain an Australian counter-terror operation," he states.  "We'll need to discuss ROE and just how active your team will be in the field before we can authorize defensive armament."

---

Later - Quay West Suites

As Caradoc inventories his aid bag and updates his maps to local trauma centers, Michael sets to unpacking the trio of Pelican cases that protect a six-figure investment in electronics.  The first item on the checklist is comms.  The portable SATCOM terminal, old friend that it is, is up in a matter of minutes, and comm checks with the watch officer at Incirlik are complete a few minutes after that.  Next are the WILDWOOD GROUSE spectrum analyzers, thankfully quiescent at the moment.

As Michael's breaking down the last spectrum analyzer, there's a soft rap at the door.  Caradoc stands up, palming a nasty-looking punch dagger, and checks the door.  As he relaxes and steps back to throw the bolt, he announces, "It's the boss and our liaison."

---

Meanwhile - Elsewhere

From the outside, Unit 202 at Melbourne Self Storage is the size of a two-bay garage: ubiquitous climate-controlled warehousing for rich Melburnians' boats and other toys.  While James casually maintains overwatch under an overhang a few meters away, Hannah trepidatiously keys the code into the steel security door door next to the roll-up.  The lock beeps and flashes green and she eases into the darkened room.  She waits until James moves in behind her and closes the door, then flicks the light switch.

Fluorescent tubes flicker into life, revealing the storage bay's contents.  Nearest the two agents stands a mismatched pair of motorcycles: a red-and-white Suzuki DRZ400E off-road bike and a black Ducati Mutistrada 1200 S tourer.  Behind them lurks a battered olive drab Land Rover Defender, expedition-rigged and clearly used hard for that purpose.  On its far side crouches an electric blue Ford FPV F6 ute.

A cursory inspection reveals that all the vehicles are roadworthy.  Keys are in ignitions, fuel tanks are full - and, in the case of the Land Rover, so are the spare jerry cans and the toolkit.

Both trucks' cargo areas are stuffed with felonies clad in sports bags.  The topmost reveals an esoteric collection of pistols, obviously selected for muzzle velocity: two Colt M1911A1s chambered in .38 Super, a well-worn Czech vz.52, an even older and less-reputable Tokarev, and a Glock 31.  Beneath the handguns and five soft armor vests are a pair of FN P90s and an H&K MP5SD6 with Indonesian military markings, a lever-action Marlin 336, and a scoped Weatherby Mk. V in .460 Weatherby Magnum.

Durand nods to Crewe when the Welshman opens the door, admits him and Coop into the suite. He pauses a moment to look around at their new home, nods approvingly. ”Not bad.” Spotting the suite’s kitchen area, he walks over, opens the fridge, notes that amongst other things it has been stocked with a supply of local beers. "Guys, you met Coop." He nods towards the Australian who has entered the room with him, then indicates the two men present, first Dacovetti, then Crewe. "Coop, Mike Dacovetti, also known as Dealer. To say Mike is our comms and tech expert doesn't even begin to describe what he brings to the team. And Caradoc Crewe, also known as Painter, our resident ditch Doctor. He's Welsh, but other than that he's OK." Durand looks around, notices the others are missing. ”Have Hannah and James already gone to bed?” He wouldn't have blamed them, for it had been a long flight.

”Right,” the Frenchman says, pulling several bottles of VB from the fridge, placing them down on the bar and looking for a bottle opener. ”Who wants a beer?” Finding the implement in question, he removes the tops from as many bottles as are required and distributes them amongst the others then leans back against the bar, addresses Painter and Dealer, bringing them up to speed with what had been discussed at the JOC. ”There's going to be a full briefing at the JOC tomorrow morning, zero nine hundred hours, all of us, so that we can brief our hosts. I’ll handle the presentation, but Mike, if you can cover any technical questions that may arise, Painter, can you and James take anything relating to the autopsy."He pauses, takes a sip of his beer. ”It appears that we may have a few unbelievers that require convincing as to the true nature of our enemy. The guy in charge is a Lieutenant Colonel Wortham. I would say that he may well be one of the unbelievers.” Durand shrugs. ”I suppose one can hardly blame them. I am afraid they also turned down my request for us to be armed.” His expression makes it clear what he thinks of that, but it’s the same conversation that has been going on since Incirlik. Politics. "After the briefing is over we'll start working on getting James, Hannah, and Coop into Oz Minerals."

He takes a long pull of his beer. He'd avoided alcohol on the flight, so it was going down quite well. "Any questions guys?"

Not sure what to expect, Hannah opened the door to the storage facility slowly.  She half expected an alien corpse.  Or Chief Bannon's corpse - something far too macabre to imagine.  But, thankfully, that was not to be.  Reality, in this case, was so much better than the imagination.

Hannah let out a tuneless whistles as her eyes adjusted to the overhead lights and the contents of the storage area became more apparent.  "Whoa..." she breathed out and then added to no one in particular after a brief pause, "Christmas in April."

Once she got to the guns, Hannah let James take the lead on that stock.  The army aviatrix simply concentrated on the very basics of the vehicles and their physical statuses; she didn't start anything, but noted relevant details about stock performance capabilities and any modifications that appeared to have been done on them.  Everything was purely visual for the moment.  It was late and wouldn't due to be caught poking around at this time of night.

Still, the others would need an accurate assessment of all of the resources present.

"Aw, Chief..." the US Army warrant officer breathed out as she started to inventory the vehicles, opening and closing doors and trunks to check contents and interiors.  She lingered overly long on the Ducati touring bike (with light off-road capabilities).  "I didn't get you anything." Hannah chuckled slightly as she ran her fingers over lines of the black motorcycle and the kit accessories that had been incorporated.  She noted the wear on the tires and then finally moved on to the other vehicles.

She stopped at the land rover, which had had obvious use.  Hannah gave that vehicle more than a cursory glance, trying to divine where it might have been.  But not knowing the local geography, she simple tried to mentally record what she could see, what color dust and dirt was present and in what amount on the treads and undercarriage.  "Where, oh, where..." she picked off a bit of mud with her fingernail, "Have you been, young lady?"  With expedition rigging and extra the jerry cans ... that could be fairly far out - 400 maybe 500 kilometers out and back without refueling.  Something to pick Mr. Williams brain about on the morning run.

So, once she was done with the vehicles, Hannah moved over to the confer with James about his findings and then made ready to head back to the Quay West Suites.  Apparently, they had plenty of import to share the others.

Liaison or not, Dacovetti closes the Pelican case before Coop can get a good look at what is inside.  The airman isn't impolite about it, he even offers a polite nod at the reintroduction, he's just careful when it comes to his toys.  Especially ones that required several multiples of hours and the judicious application of a soldering iron.  He takes an offered beer from Seb to replace the one that stands empty on a table next to the desk.  Never a beer next to the computer.  And never waste an opportunity to have one on the government's tab.

"Nice to see you again, Williams," Dacovetti says.  The  white cotton linen button up shirt he was traveling in has been untucked his Levi's and the sleeves pushed back up to his elbows into what serves as casual attire.  Shaking off the mental fog of travel felt good.  The spectrum analyzers had survived the trip intact and the relief he felt when they turned up nothing unusual in the EM spectrum was palpable.  If they were working correctly.

"Our comms are up and operational," he continues to Seb.  "Amdahl and Choi stepped out to go for a walk and do a little recon of the area.  Jet lag being the nemesis that it is."  Maybe there is a hint of emphasis on the word Nemesis, or maybe not.  Michael wants Seb to have a plausible explanation should the missing duo suddenly produce themselves while Petty Officer Williams is standing in the room.  Having them reappear from "sleep" could only raise questions that the team would loath to answer.

"I'm more than willing to brief on whatever it is you need me to.  They may be doubters for now, but circumstances will take care of that shortly."

Durand nods when Dealer replies. For a moment he genuinely thinks that Double Down and the Lizard King have gone out for a walk, but the mention of Nemesis alerts him to the fact that there is more to it than that. He's a professional Intelligence officer however, so he's careful to ensure that his face does not betray any trace of a reaction, simply nods, moves back to the subject of non believers. "I don't doubt that." he says, before taking another sip of beer.

Durand had been a non believer, and the Frenchman still had moments where he struggled to reconcile what he had learned in the last month or so with what he had taken to be absolute and unshakeable fact for the previous forty years, so he did not begrudge the likes of Wortham their cynicism. If circumstances had gone in different directions, if Durand had never been recruited to Task Force 47, had still been in Paris and had been being briefed on the existence of extra terrestrial life he doubted if he would have been able to hide his disbelief the way the Australian Colonel had.

"Looks like a bunch of hand-me-downs. Who'd have thunk that we'd have better gear in Libya."

James gives each firearm the once-over, dropping mags, checking functions, and such, the corners of his mouth turned down during most of the process.

"Well, they're not pretty, but they should do the trick. Take your pick."

He writes down the make an model of each remaining weapon in his pocket-sized spiral-bound notepad, grateful he'd brought along his own sidearm, even one he wasn't all that familiar with. The PDWs also offered ammo commonality.

"Checked and catalogued." he reported. "I'm ready when you are."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 18:19, Sat 16 May 2015.

Hannah shrugged slightly as she wasn't nearly the firearm specialist that James or the others were.  She hefted the Glock 31 in her hand, feeling the weight and checking the slide.  "Probably should let the others get first pick..." she noted.

"You sure that we should take that stuff now?" Hannah glanced about the garage warily, "we can't take everything anyways.  If we get stopped on the way back, without Williams, we don't even have plausible deniability..."

"Or are we just going to grab the portable stuff..." meaning the guns and vests primarily, the auburn-haired army aviatrix prompted her FBI cohort, "and one of the vehicles... say. the Rover... and not plan to come back?"  That would, she noted to herself with a touch of chagrin, mean leaving the Ducati behind.  Easy come, Hannah thought to herself with a slightly plaintive sigh, Easy go.

"No need. I've written down particulars on the weapons here." He hands Omhdahl the little notebook. James didn't know the model names of all of the vehicles. He appreciates a fine automobile just as much as the next guy, but he's never been what one would call a "gear head"- that seems like it could be Omdahl's thing. "You can add specifics for the wheels, if you like."

-

Victoria Barracks
Melbourne, Victoria
21 April 2015
0943 hrs local (2343 hrs Zulu)

Outside, last night's thunderstorm has settled down into a sullen grey downpour.  It seems to have set the mood for Lieutenant Colonel Wortham's morning meeting, a half-hour of death by PowerPoint covering items that everyone in the room already should know by heart.  For Grey Cell - to say nothing of the SASR operators assembled for the NATO team's briefing - the mission clock is ticking away with every slide transition.

At length, Wortham yields the floor to Maatsen, who immediately turns it over to Sébastien.  After introducing the rest of the team, the DGSE agent launches into a recap of Libya.

About half of the audience listens with disbelief, politely hidden to varying degrees.  Most of the other half wears the "I have a headache and my eyes can't focus" expression that Caradoc has begun diagnosing as "alien surprise syndrome:" professionals trying to make sense of an abruptly-altered reality.  A few of their number make eye contact with Cooper, eyebrows raised in mute pleas for confirmation.  A handful, including Captain Bellamy, have worked through the cognitive dissonance and are hungrily focused.

When Sébastien finishes, silence reigns for a full minute.  Bellamy breaks it with a lift of his chin.  "Thanks for the brief, Mister Durand.  Just to confirm something: other than the knife and what may have been an incendiary device, you've seen these things using conventional small arms.  No other sign of, uh, advanced weaponry?  Other technology?"

One of his shooters, a thickset Indonesian, adds, "Or flying saucers."  He spreads his hands, displaying elaborately-tattooed forearms.  "I'm assumin' they din't just walk here."

An operations NCO, one of the apparent skeptics, clears his throat.  "You said there was some kind of radio interference.  Did you rule out natural causes?"

The question serves as an indicator that Dacovetti should handle the moment.  At least, that is what the eyes of Grey Cell tracking in his direction are telling him.  Sitting through the briefing had been alternating periods of frustrated boredom and focused attention.  Watching the operators sitting around the room had been an education in and of itself, a visual indication of how those responsible for combating the threat would have to process the information.  Michael had had the advantage, if you could call it an advantage, of meeting the adversary face to face.  And he had been studying the various arguments surrounding the Fermi Paradox for years.

"I cannot categorically deny that the radio interference we detected may have had a natural source.  But that is because I have spent too much time deep inside the theories of science to make any statements definitively."  Dacovetti starts as an answer to the question.  "This is what we know:  during the operation in Libya, we had communication problems with local TOC.  This interference was recorded and a source of emission was localized, a signal that receded as the target package was removed from the AO with a level flight plan and a massive rate of speed and acceleration."

Dacovetti takes a drink of water from the plastic bottle he is passing back and forth in his hands.  "While I agree that correlation is not necessarily causation, I am confident in stating that the object detected was the origin of the interference.  Whether that interference is a byproduct of some sort of other effect on the craft or an active attack on our communications spectrum has not yet been determined.  But now that we know what to look for, I hope that we can utilize the signal as a method to detect the hostile presence before they take an openly hostile course of action."

There is silence in the room when Dacovetti stops speaking.  A silence that grows as bemused glances are exchanged, shrugs are made in attempt to shuffle off the intellectual brain dump they were just subjected to, and Michael gets pigeon-holed as a geek.  Which is, of course, an accurate assessment.

The NCO that posed the question clears his throat again.  "Right, mate.  That might have been English, but it wasn't Aussie English."  There is a general low grade chorus of affirming chuckles.

Dacovetti shrugs and tries again dumping twenty five points off his IQ.  "It's not a natural source.  It's an indication of alien technology."

"There now, that wasn't so hard, right?"  There are a few more scattered chuckles around the room join in.  "The next time we need an analyst opinion, just try to keep it simple." The NCO crosses his arms and leans back in his chair satisfied.  Michael is somewhat less satisfied, anger seeping into his brain, but decorum keeps him contained.  For now.

Durand takes a sip of water whilst Dealer handles the question about the signals interference. This is not going well the former Sergeant thinks to himself as the Australian questions Dacovetti. The briefing for his countrymen in Libya had seemed much more straightforward. Maybe they needed to start taking the alien corpse with them. What was it the Americans called it? Show and tell? However, scepticism is one thing, the attitude that the Australian NCO has just displayed to Dacovetti quite another. If it had been aimed in his direction Durand would have been less troubled. As Team Leader stuff like that goes with the territory. But the fact that it's directed towards one of his people makes it a different matter.

On one hand he'd like to fire back with a retort, tell the arsehole who had problems with understanding big words to go fuck himself. Maybe he'd understand that. But on the other hand he knows he'll be doing neither himself - nor, more importantly, his team - any favours by getting himself declared persona non grata by the Australians. Grey Cell needed their support. So he stays professional, turns towards Bellamy, tries to give no outward sign of his annoyance as he shakes his head. "No, we saw no advanced weaponry other than what is in the report. We recovered one item from the corpse but its purpose is not known. It was implanted in its jaw. Again, it is in the report." He shoots a look in the direction of the NCO who had spoken to Dealer. No ray guns. That simple enough for you, mate?

His attention shifts to the man who had made the comment about flying saucers. He's fairly sure it was intended as another smart arsed wisecrack. "We do not know how they got here. Or why they are here. But I doubt if they are in Australia to take a photo in front of your Sydney Opera House. Look, believe me, I know this is difficult to get your head around. But when my team and I first encountered the aliens -" he doesn't hesitate when he says that word out loud, not any more "- we knew nothing about them, went in blind. I assure you man, they are fucking fast and they are fucking lethal.  I was in French Special Forces for ten years -" he throws that in as a way of attempting to establish his bona fides. "- one of those things got the jump on me." The Frenchman points to Dealer. Durand is starting to get pissed off. He's not going to let the analyst remark stand. "Sergeant Dacovetti  is also a combat veteran. He saved my life. Maybe the information in our briefing may save your life."

It feels as though he's been repeating the same mantra since he arrived in Australia less than twelve hours ago. Last night it had been to the leadership, this morning it was to the troops.  He points at the arsehole. "Or it may save his life."

Williams catches the eye of a few folks who seem to be looking at him for reassurances.  He defers to NATO team to field the questions for the first few minutes.  Looking on from the sidelines, Cooper watched as the boys asked Grey Cell the hard questions.

The team seemed to be holding their own against a group of doorkickers who wouldn't think twice about launching into Sir Peter Cosgrove himself if he tried to brief weak tea.

”Right.  You've seen the videos and you've heard the good oil from fellow diggers.  If you wanna believe, you’ll believe.  If you wanna doubt, you can do that as well.  I’ll just say for my own part, I've seen and heard enough to know these blokes aren't here on a gammon job,” Cooper said in a serious tone.

”Everyone knows I’m not a betting man…” Williams started.  At least not anymore, being the unspoken finish to that sentence.  Most of the SASR troops had heard tale of the Huron incident and the fallout for Williams.  It had become the stuff of legend.  Many in the battalion knew that Cooper’s gut instincts could be trusted.  It was those instincts that told Williams that the Sebastian and his team were on the level about this threat.

”…but I wouldn't a lay a card against the existence of these aliens.  Not one hand nor nine,” Cooper said, finishing with the most powerful endorsement he could make.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:09, Mon 18 May 2015.

The tattooed Indonesian lifts his eyebrows at Cooper's disclaimer and splays his hands.  "No, seriously.  Aliens and flyin' saucers go together like clubs and baby seals, yeh?  So where's the UFOs?  Evidence says one was out there when you lot were in Libya.  I skipped the particle physics but I savvy airspeed just fine and we've got nothin' that'll catch your interference source."  He focuses on Dacovetti.  "Your opinion, Tech Sergeant, not what the lab coats say: was that their exhaust or was it an EW package like the Growlers we're buyin'? And either way, can we put a brace of Hornets on standby at Woomera with missiles that'll track on it?" 

Bellamy blinks.  "It's a good question.  We should have a look at air support in case this escalates."  He inhales deeply.  "For the sake of argument, Coop: what convinced you?  I know what's got my attention but I'm wondering why you're all-in."

"Maaf , saya mengambil pertanyaan Anda karena kurangnya mudah percaya . Mungkin seperti Vietnam , mereka tidak ingin mengambil risiko meningkatnya situasi ? Mereka tahu mereka tidak bisa mengalahkan Uni Soviet , jadi mungkin mereka tahu bahwa mereka akan kehilangan di udara . Hanya menebak meskipun . Saya juga tertarik pada jawaban ini," Williams said to  Agung Wira in Indonesian.

When Bellamy put Cooper on the spot, he responded without hesitation.

"The per-diem.  I'm based out of Adelaide Captain," Coop said with a smile and a wink.  ADF regs meant that Williams was drawing good money for meals along with hotel expenses.

Besides, what was the alternative explanation... My gut and this morning's run with their Sheila and their Team Leader told me to trust them?  Williams knew that wouldn't hold up to this crowd.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Sorry, I took your question for a lack of credulity.  Perhaps like Vietnam, they don't want to risk escalating the situation?  They knew they couldn't defeat the Soviet Union, so maybe they know they will lose in the air.  Just a guess though.  I too am interested in their answer.

---

This message was last edited by the player at 23:07, Tue 19 May 2015.

"My current best guess is 'alien exhaust,'" Dacovetti says to the direct question.  "The interference was not effective enough to be a blanket countermeasure suite.  We were still able to maintain contact with the offshore Rivet-Joint asset as well as our own comms. The CAS missions were unaffected and the drone providing overwatch was not hindered in anyway."  It was quite possibly more information than the assembled soldiers wanted, but Michael was on a roll, ideas clicking into place almost like pieces in a puzzle.  "I'm assuming that an intelligence that can move across space to attack Earth has an impressive command of the electronic spectrum.  One that could quite easily prohibit all of our comms.  For all I know, they could reach out through my radio and seize control of my...god fucking dammit."  The slip into profanity is all the more noticeable for the break in control that the TACP suddenly demonstrates.

"It's not jamming.  They need the spectrum as well," he says quietly.  Dacovetti's face has taken on a particular distant look that his wife refers to as his "Mike is no longer home, his brain is computing," face.  When his eyes refocus, he drops his voice again and leans into the rest of Grey Cell.  "That nodule in the jaw.  Is it possible that it is a receiver?  I'm wondering if we haven't been looking at this situation all wrong.  I assumed that the craft left because we had successfully exfilled our targets.  Maybe it left because we shut off all the receivers in the form of bullets in the brain pan.  What if they're drones?" He pauses again then shakes his head.  "Speculation.  But I'd be curious to see what the fluid we took out of that bead does in the presence of an EM signal similar to the one we detected.

"Or it's fucking alien exhaust," he deadpans.

The Airman turns his attention back to the audience who is sitting there still staring at him like he's putting on some vaguely disturbing performance art piece.  "My apologies," he tells them.  "You should see what my wife has to put up with..."  It wins him a couple of smiles at least.  "To answer the other part of your question, we have a set of detectors that we can deploy to hopefully detect and triangulate the source of the disturbance should it return.  I'm not comfortable saying that we can jam a Sparrow up its ass quite yet, but hopefully with enough data it would be possible to destroy the emitter with an Anti-Radiation Missile."

"Boys," the lone Sheila in the group intoned softly, "you can debate all you want.  Perhaps all of the Attars are rogue soviet clones or strange surgical alterations or remnant castoffs of some long-buried super soldier program."  Hannah made sure that the other 'plausible' explanations she offered were not very plausible, but she avoided any pretense that this was a hoax or a farce.  For her, as with Dealer and Bullfrog, this was deadly serious business.  She rubbed the palm of her right hand with her left them, then reflexively flexed both hands, "All I know is they have advanced materials and technology as well.  I was able to cut through half-inch rebar like it was butter with their filleting knife ..."

She watched the gears turn in Michael's head, knowing that he knew his comms theory better than he knew his wife.  And he had been spot on with pretty much all of his predictions in Libya.  Hannah leaned over and whispered, "But remember, they didn't have the right heat signatures."  So, while there command of the EM spectrum might have been great; the enemy was still fallible - or humans were just too simplistic for them.  She nodded to the second part though, readily concurring, "The drone theory is a good one."  As she said, Dealer's comms theory was outstanding; the man had an excellent head on his shoulders.  But, they'd have to run that hypothesis to ground later.

The US Army warrant officer turned her attention back to the briefing, she didn't need to talk (or even to bother) about unit cohesion or any of that; these men were professionals.  All she needed to do was for them to take the job (and their job) seriously - before anyone bought the farm.  For while death was an incredible motivator for the survivors, Hannah and the rest of Grey Cell needed every human resource they could muster alive; so, letting anyone in the room die as an example was not an option.  She took a deep breath and offered to the rather obviously testosterone driven machismo that was wafting through the room, "Now, I am not your mother." and she paused for effect, "But, I do want us all to come home safe.  I will fly you out of there in one piece, my decade behind the stick in places like Mosul, Fallujah, and Kandahar will attest to that."

"But, the fact still remains: you need to be ready for them when they come at you." the auburn-colored ponytail bobbed slightly as she turned her head to and fro as Hannah looked over her companions once more, "Head shots, double tap.  Don't be a hero, just be ready to do your job."

"Oh," and she added with smirk as she leaned back, "And no grappling.  You don't want to get any of that 'alien exhaust' in your face either..."  It was said in levity, but Hannah knew what had happened to Bullfrog in that first fight and what Painter and Lizard King had seen during the autopsy.  It didn't seem that the alien's physiology was all that compatible with humans.  Just one more reason that it was looking more and more like either 'Us or Them' in mentality ...

Bellamy smiles at Michael's digression.  It's a faint expression but seemingly genuine.  "Copy that.  I guess we'll just have to pick one apart to be sure.  Crit," he stabs a stubby finger at a hulking blond in the back of the room, "when we break, link up with Sergeant Dacovetti and get yourself read into his black magic.  See if there's a way to pass the take to the blue suiters.  And make sure the sergeant has their digits, too."

Lieutenant Colonel Wortham twitches, about to interject something, but he's outside Hannah's field of view and the pilot unknowingly rolls right over him.  Laughter ripples around the room at her "alien exhaust" comment.  Bellamy shoots a glance at Wortham, then steps forward when the senior officer doesn't immediately speak.

"And Warrant Omdahl raises an excellent reminder, gentlemen.  Plainclothes teams, keep your masks handy.  Doorkickers, mount your helmet visors and hang your masks and gloves on your kit."  He turns to Sébastien.  "Mister Durand, per our discussion last night, you're thinking of sending Coop, the warrant, and Agent Choi to probe OZ Minerals."  He checks his watch.  "They should be open by now. If that's still on, I'll give you a four-man plainclothes team for backup, and we'll proceed on that basis.  With the colonel's approval."

Wortham nods.  "Approved, Captain.  Mister Durand.  We'll monitor from here, assess the take, and proceed accordingly."
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:55, Sun 31 May 2015.

Durand nods as the briefing begin to break up. While things could have gone more smoothly they could have been worse the Frenchman thinks as he nods to Bellamy. "That's correct, Captain. The plan is for Agent Choi to claim to be investigating a link to related incidents in the United States. Warrant Officer Omdahl will supply the scientific expertise, while PO Williams is the local liaison. It's really a fishing trip, to try and find out what has put Oz Minerals on Attar's radar, whether they are doing anything new, any new sites that they are developing. Why them specifically. "

While that's getting organised, Durand gathers the rest of Grey Cell and their local liaison officer for a quick follow up. "OK, Jim and Hannah, you're with Coop. See what you can find out about Oz Minerals." He looks at the three of them. "Jim will be using his FBI credentials. Would the FBI use a civilian consultant for something like this Jim, or can we get some sort of official ID for Hannah?" He looks at Coop. "Could we pass her off as Australian Federal Police, something like that?" His gaze then switches to Dealer. "Mike, if you can get together with their tech guy -" he nods towards the big guy that Bellamy had referred to as 'Crit' "- Painter, as they still won't let us have weapons you stick with me for the moment. Extra pair of eyes and all that."

The Frenchman pauses, looks at the faces gathered around him. "That was a good job during the briefing guys, well done. Anyone got any questions? If not let's get to work."

"It's SOP for Bureau agents on assignment overseas to be accompanied by local law enforcement, especially during investigations involving non-American entities. Lawyer could work too. We've just got to hope the folks at Oz minerals don't start asking too many questions of their own. How's that Aussie accent coming, Omdahl?"

-

Dacovetti moves away from the assembled members of Grey Cell, plotting a course through the crowded briefing room that minimizes the number of direction changes he has to make but keeps the distance and number of obstacles in his patch under some set variable in his mind.  The blond Australian, Crit, sees his approach and pulls out a chair at the table that he's occupying before standing up to shake Michael's hand.  At the airman's approach, there is the standard half second size up as each man takes the other's measure, then they exchange physical contact.

"Crit," the giant says, "nice to meet you."  His accent is heavily present, but not so thick that Dacovetti has trouble pulling the actual English out of it, not the way a Kiwi's might be.

"Michael," he returns.  "Nice to meet you."  Michael's voice is level, not impolite, but not eager, not after the comments his briefing provoked.

"You too, Michael," Crit, who in another life would have walked out of central casting and into a surf god role, answers with a surprisingly shy grin. It is clear that he understands two things: one, men who introduce themselves as Michael prefer Michael to Mike, and two, what it's like to be heaped upon by the less intellectually inclined.  Not that any soldier in this crowd is unintelligent.  They wouldn't be here if they were.  "Can you key me in on how we find these guys?"

Dacovetti smiles, appreciative of the open nature of Crit's communication.  "I have some theories," he says. "I've got a package of EM spectrum analyzers, four, that are set to triangulate the source of the emissions that we detected in Tripoli.  They communicate via cell network, or hardline if we can manage it, to a central location.  This does depend on the nature of the emissions being very similar to those that we detected before."

The giant takes in the information and mentally chews on it. "Comfortable giving me the specs to build a few of my own?"

Dacovetti blinks.  "Not a problem," he replies.

"I was wondering," Crit continues, "the electromagentic disturbance your team detected in the middle of the desert, did you try to tie in to the global database on lightening strikes?  They might have picked the signal up.  Even if they didn't know they had it, the data might have been recorded.  It would be something we could try and track through process of elimination, cross referencing with storm systems."

"I should have considered that," Dacovetti says. "I got caught up in the data we had already acquired.  Should have looked for more.  Perhaps spent a little less time editing my GoPro footage," he admits, before shaking his head to dismiss the line of thought. "If we can get a fairly static signal, something we can ID as target profile, I think we should be able to pass a target profile to a HARM.  The trick will be updating the software package of the missile while it on the plane."

"I've got some ideas for that," Crit answers.  "We might be able to tip the flash memory.  Or maybe just lie to the missile and tell it one signal is actually another."  The two men stare at each other again, reappraising.  "MIT?" Crit finally asks.

"Cal Tech Poly," Dacovetti answers.  "Oxford?"

"Camrbidge."

Satisfied with each other's geek credentials, they pair get down to work.

"Copy that," Caradoc agrees to Sébastien's assignment.  "If you've nothing else for me at the moment, I'll look up their medics.  I've a couple of thoughts on treatment if someone gets slimed..."

Durand nods to Crewe. "Sure, go for it." The Frenchman then turns to Choi. "I guess the key thing is that Double Down's going to concentrate on the scientific aspects, so her cover should reflect that. A technical consultant maybe? Or we could wing it and say she is with the United States Government. The Department of Energy maybe? That's what you call it, yes? Or its Australian counterpart? I guess she would have no ID to back that up, but if you and Coop go in with official ID and introduce her as a consultant that may work?"

"I probably could pass as expertise." Chief Omdahl stated with some confidence and a slight shrug, "I do have an engineering degree in material science focusing on metallurgy.  And a minor in civil engineering."  Which she knew that Durand already knew, since he had access to her file; and Hannah was pretty sure that the others at least suspected it was so.

Hannah blew a lock of auburn-colored hair from her face.  "But... Uh," she noted rather skeptically in with her Norwegian-tainted Minnesotan lilt, "my 'strine' is pretty piss poor."  The army aviatrix glanced in Cooper's direction for confirmation and then back at Sebestian.  "There is no way that I can pass for 'local'..." she noted with rather certain finality.  It wasn't the best news, but facts were facts.

"Technical consultant would probably be best." she posited, "I might be able to flash my Military ID to pass as US DoD, though it won't hold up under any scrutiny."  The latter statement once again found her in less certain territory.  And her tone betrayed that fact.

The Frenchman nods. "In my experience the best way to lie is to stick to as close to the truth as you can." He grins at Omdahl, for it's a tacit admission that he is familiar with the art of lying, and that is not always a wise thing to say to a woman. But in the circles that Durand is used to moving in lies come naturally. The same face can appear on half a dozen different passports, each a different name, a different nationality.

"So, this is what I suggest Hannah. You are an American military aviator who got wounded in Afghanistan. The Australians are fully on board with the fight against the jihadists, they will respect a wounded veteran. However your wounds meant that you could not return to flight status. So you left the military, sought work in the private sector, have been engaged by the FBI as a technical consultant on account of your academic qualifications.  Your ID is your passport and the fact that you are with James and Coop, both of whom will have impeccable law enforcement ID, James quite legitimately, Coop as his AFP liaison. By the time they have seen their badges they'll be satisfied. And if they do have any questions the guys will take care of them."

The Frenchman sits back, addresses the group, Omdahl, Choi, Cooper. "Right guys?" His manner is confident, assured, the demeanour of a man who knows what he is doing, what he is talking about. That's not entirely the case. If this had been a DGSE operation they would have taken hours going through her cover story, she'd have documents to back it all up. But it wasn't DGSE running the show, so he is winging this to a point. But you do not get a degree in psychology without being able to recognise different behaviours, and the aviatrix is conveying an air of uncertainty, so he's trying to reassure her, pass his air of confidence on to her, asking the others a rhetorical question to reinforce that, so that she knows the two of them have this covered, have her back. The way she'd had the team's back in Tripoli.

He pauses, smiles at Double Down. "You just have to be yourself. Do that and you'll do great."

"Right," Cooper said with a nod.  He turned to the officers in the briefing.

"I'd like to pull up a list of the corporate officers and directors of Oz Minerals.  If any of them are on the reserve list, my suggestion would be to have Provost Marshal add me to the official ADFIS register.  That may preserve the government's ability to prosecute Oz Minerals later on if it becomes necessary," Williams offered.  Having Hannah impersonate an Australian law enforcement official would close off that avenue but if she were instead serving as a consultant, that was another matter.  Not that Coop wanted to get involved in litigation, but he didn't want to limit other options later on.  For all he knew, Oz Minerals was somehow in bed with a very ugly enemy.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:42, Wed 03 June 2015.

"Roger that, Mr. Durand." Hannah acknowledged Sébastien's orders with respect to her cover story.  She felt pretty confident that she could pull that off.  It was close enough to the truth for her that she would probably have a hard time screwing it up.

Or at least that was the theory.  Plenty could still go wrong, of course.  And it was likely this troubling thought was what played on her face for a moment and what Durand had keyed on when he made his next set of statements.  Once the reassurances were made, the auburn-haired aviatrix turned geologist gave Bullfrog a light, self-deprecating smile, "Thanks.  I'll do my best."  She hoped that her voice didn't betray the nervousness she felt inside.  Unlike the others in the group like Lizard King and Bullfrog, Double Down had absolutely no experience with any sort of undercover work.  She was just a small town kid from upper Minnesota who had joined the army.

And now here she was chasing aliens all over the world.  She shook her head slightly, it was hard for her to believe it.

She nodded approvingly at Cooper's request, "Good thinking, Mr. Williams."  A multi-pronged threat would likely keep the opposition off balance.  Which was probably a good thing in this case.  They'd need any advantage and all the luck they could find.

OZ Minerals
Melbourne, Victoria
21 April 2015
1108 hrs local (0108 hrs Zulu)

The rain has briefly subsided during the drive, leaving a cool mist in the air.  Tires hiss on wet pavement as Hannah tucks the unmarked Holden neatly against the curb.  It's been a few years since her last right-hand drive experience during a deployment to England but the reversed automotive controls have never bothered her.  After all, it's the same side a helicopter command pilot uses.

As she crosses the street with James and Cooper, something plucks at her intuition.  She pauses to check her hair in a storefront's reflection and scans behind herself.  Two cars down from her parking space, a white electrician's van catches her attention - or, rather, the extra antennas sprouting through its roof-mounted ladder rack do.

James, no stranger to counter-surveillance work, steps up beside her and ostentatiously hands her a comb, then turns to eye the street with a well-acted huff of impatience.  Cued by Hannah's awareness, he spots the same van a moment later, and notes that the street beneath it is dry.  It's been in place since the last break in the rain during pre-dawn hours.

Cooper turns back at the double doors to the building when he notices his companions' pause.  He slides a hand into his coat pocket, running a fingertip over the still-warm ADFIS credentials in the new leather badge wallet.  For him, the street feels like the unformed danger of an incipient ambush zone: not yet lethal, but heavy with potential.  A scuffed Ford Transit down the block, emblazoned with the familiar winged roo of TransOz Shipping, tugs at his attention, but he can't see anything justifiably wrong with it.

The trio enters the lobby and steps away from the doors to take their bearings.  To the right is a small lounge with sectional seating in trendy aluminum curves; to the left, a small coffee and pastry kiosk.  Directly ahead, a pair of elevators flanks the building directory.  OZ Minerals appears to be the sixth floor's sole tenant.

---

Victoria Barracks
Meanwhile

Captain Bellamy hunches over a radio, coordinating the movement of the two fire teams - one plainclothes, one decidedly not - backing up the investigators.  On the big screen, two clusters of blue icons move on the GIS plot, orbiting the green triangle over OZ Minerals.  In the hall, a hushed conversation punctuated by occasional blasphemy tracks the progress of Caradoc's review of the alien autopsy video for his SASR colleagues.

Michael and Crit enter, dripping from a brief expedition to the roof to emplace one of Michael's spectrum analyzers.  Michael strips off his jacket and gratefully drops into a dusty green leather swivel chair.  With a few keystrokes and an electronic chitter, the sensor comes online - and, with the addition of a second data stream to the one quietly humming to itself in Michael's hotel room, the control software immediately throws a warning flag.  The bearing points north-northwest, toward the town of Mildura and, beyond it, the trackless expanses of South Australia and the Northern Territory.

"Tell me that's just a calibration artifact," Crit says in a quiet, resigned tone.

Michael seems almost oblivious to Crit's first words.  He's too engrossed in the data.  Then, as if a replay has occurred in his mind, Dacovetti looks up at the Australian and shakes his head slowly.  "It is possible," he allows, "but not likely."  The airman's pulse is climbing and he takes a few steadying breaths.  There exists a point in a deployment where personnel are in place and data is being collected where contact with the enemy or quarry becomes a possibility.  Or it at least takes on the veneer of reality.  It has become immediately apparent to Michael that until this moment, detecting the Attar in Australia presence hadn't yet registered in his mind as an actual possibility. Not this soon.  Some part of him had believed that it was still in the future.  It looks like the future might be now.

The signal is familiar, burned into Michael's memory after staring at it for hours in Turkey.

"Still..." he says to Crit.  "I'm going to run the diagnostic.  Right after I record this and acquire a bearing."  Michael hits the record function on his laptop, ensuring that all the data the two systems are providing is being stored for further study.  When he is convinced that he has a stable bearing from each analyzer, he cycles the two systems through a remote systems check and reset.  Two arrows isn't enough for much more than a rough idea of where the signal is originating.  Especially if it is coming from a long distance, but it is better than nothing.

Crit, for his part, seems content to wait, even if he is rocking side to side on his feet.  Dacovetti looks up again while the system comes back online.  "We need to get a third analyzer installed.  Preferably at a larger distance than our current interval.  Call it 30 kilometers."  The system beeps once, indicating the reboot is complete and all systems are operating normally.  The signal is still there.  "Can you update Captain Bellamy and see what kind of assets we have over the confluence?  Then you and I have a signal to trace," Dacovetti says politely before picking up his phone and ensuring the encryption settings are engaged.

"Foundation, we have possible signal contact."

The lobby is about 5 years out of date, the colors of its hard plastic furnishings washed out and hard to name under the fluorescent lights. A secretary, a young South Asian woman clearly no longer in love with her work, sits behind a semi-circular desk that arcs out from the back wall. The Oz Minerals logo in cut metal is bolted decoratively behind her.

"May I help you?" she asks, dispensing with all pleasantries.

"Yes, I'm Special Agent James Choi, U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigations. We're here to see Mr. Papoudopolis."

"Just one moment." She picks up the handset of a corded office phone, turning her shoulder and cupping the mouthpiece behind her hand. A few curt, half-whispered words pass between her and the person on the other hand before she sets the receiver down.

"Mr Papoudopolis will be right out."

Nearly five minutes pass. The automatic, faux-wood twin doors leading into the office proper swing slowly outward and Mr. Papoudopolis, a swarthy man in his mid-to-late thirties steps through the doorway, looking somewhat put out in his lavender shirt and eggplant tie. James hold up his agency badge and extends his free hand,

"Special Agent James Choi, Federal Bureau of Investigations. These are my colleagues, Cooper Williams, ADF, and Hannah Omdahl, U.S. Department of Energy."


"And what is this unexpected visit in regards to, Agent Choi?"

"We'd just like to ask you a few questions. Your company's not under investigation, Mr. Papoudopolis, but you may be able to help us with one. If we could have a few minutes of your time..."
"I'm afraid that you'll have to address any and all enquiries to our legal department, Mr. Choi. Now, if you'll please excuse me..." Papoudopolis is about to turn on his heel.

"Mr. Papoudopolis." James says firmly, authoritatively, relaxing his tone once it becomes clear that he's got the executive's attention, "We're just here to talk, strictly off-the-record. If you want to lawyer up, that's your right. But then we'll have to do the same thing- an army of lawyers from our State Department, DOJ, your justice ministry. That's when the press usually catches wind of this sort of thing, start sniffing around, digging, asking lots of questions. Your name gets mentioned in the papers, no details yet, but stockholders start to get a little nervous, jumpy even- where there's smoke, there's fire, right? It's up to you, how you want to do this. I can come back with all of the writs and warrants you could ever ask for, or we can just sit down in your office and have a little chat. Your call."


Papoudopolis pauses, breaking eye contact as he quickly weighs his options. He nods to his secretary and offers a weak little smile.

"I see. Well then, please come in."

-

Cooper put his hands up to cough, keying his mic at the end of the feigned hack to say ”Ford Transit,” into his covert set.  He returned his arms to his side, as the trio moved into the lobby.  It would hopefully be enough for the JOC at VB to start running plates and surveillance on the vehicle.

In the lobby, Williams presented his credential to the Oz Minerals executive, but otherwise kept mum.  Instead of talking, he furtively studied the lobby, elevators, and the other spaces the moved through for cameras and other occupants.  Surrounding and intimidating Papoudopolis didn’t interest Coop at this point.  Instead, he stood near Choi and their target, facing both, but his stance was oriented to outward, not inward.

OCC: To the extent possible and without becoming an contortionist, William's stance will be toward any third parties in the area, or any likely avenue of approach.  Starting a gunfight with your back to your enemy sucks.

Durand stands rather than sits, his arms folded across his chest, alternating between watching the big screen and staring at Bellamy's back as the Australian Captain works the radio. Dealer has found someone that speaks the same language that he does, one that the Frenchman doesn't fully comprehend. His area of expertise is the working of the human mind, not spectrums and wavebands.

Melbourne is clearly not Mogadishu but the current situation has evoked bad memories for the Frenchman, memories of standing in the DGSE's ops centre in the Mog watching a hostage rescue going horribly fucking wrong whilst he'd stood there, powerless to act.

Impotent.

And he'd supplied the intel. Had the whole fucking thing been a set up? He'd had to watch the video afterwards, watch as the parents  were murdered. One commando was dead as well, another would never walk again. Durand had gone to the funeral of the first, although he'd sat quietly at the back, not made himself known to the family, visited the second in hospital. The man had told him that it wasn't his, Durand's, fault. But his wife's eyes had said something different.

And as for the kids...their faces are seared into the DGSE operative's brain. He doesn't need a photo, he knows he would recognise them if he ever saw them. It's the kids that get to him more than anything, the kids that occasionally haunt his dreams, or cause sleep not to come at all in the dark hours before dawn, or make him reach for a bottle of vodka. Not often. But it happens. For to this day their fate is still unknown, their grandparents tormented by not knowing whether they are dead or alive. And if alive then what? Held hostage still? Or had they perhaps succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome? Had their minds been twisted, torn, tormented, until, finally, they had been turned?

Durand unfolds his arms. Almost by instinct his right hand moves to where his sidearm would rest in a drop leg holster. It's an instinctive reaction. Only there is nothing there. The Frenchman shakes his head, quickly, a barely perceptible movement, banishes those thoughts to the dark corner of his mind that they dwell in, brings himself back to the present. He has people on the ground. His people. He sent them in there. And one of them has no experience of undercover work.

But this isn't the Mog he tells himself again. They are visiting a legitimate corporate HQ in the heart of one of Australia's biggest Cities. They have support.  What is the worst that could happen? They get asked to leave?

It's all good.

Isn't it?

"Roger," Bellamy responds immediately to Cooper's discreet heads-up.  "Shovel Two-One, make a pass south on Queen Street."  He catches Sébastien's eye across the room and nods toward the screen that's displaying a quad-split feed from the undercover team.  "Primary item is a Ford Transit but sweep the foot traffic too.  Visual and thermal, boys."

A chitter of encryption synchronization signals Michael's phone connecting to the ops cave in Incirlik.  The night duty officer comes back immediately.  "Empire Three, we copy possible WILDWOOD GROUSE contact.  Standing by."

Crit leans in and clears his throat.  "We have a Black Hawk on standby at the airport.  I know you brought your own rotor-head but..."  He gestures toward the radios.  "I can take a couple more twidgets and be in Edinburgh in about three hours.  That'll tie us into the JORN and the Orion wing and I can site another analyzer there."

---

As the three agents follow the COO toward his office, Cooper catches Papoudopolis' secretary giving him a thorough assessment.  She arches an eyebrow and offers a cryptic smile until the closing door cuts off the view.

Beyond the lobby, the corridor bears the marks of hard-used office space.  A series of framed photos traces the company's history through successive excavation sites.  From the cubicle farm to the left comes a surf-hiss of hushed conversation that cuts off abruptly as Papoudopolis rounds the corner.

Papoudopolis leads the trio to a glass-walled office with an east-facing view of the dripping trees along Queen Street.  Opposite the window, a wall-mounted flatscreen is tuned to ABC News 24.  Photos of a younger Papoudopolis in miner's PPE flank it along with heavy equipment operator and mine safety inspector certifications and an MBA diploma.

The executive drops into a scuffed Aeron chair and stabs the mute button on the television's remote, cutting off a story on the wild dog population.  He sweeps the scattering of papers on his desk into an untidy pile and weights it down with a chunk of petrified wood.  "All right," he says to James, settling his shoulders, "what's your interest in our operations?"  He narrows his eyes.  "I'm glad to help you, of course... but you're a long way outside American jurisdiction.  And the Department of Defence doesn't usually engage directly with industry," he adds, flicking a glance at Cooper.

Hannah had kept conspicuously quiet once the strange van was spotted.  Actually, that was not entirely true, she'd been pretty quiet on the way over as well.  While it could have been the navigating, the weather, and the switching of the rules of the road, her companions - or James, at least - would have known that the auburn-haired aviatrix was fairly chat when she piloted usually.  Her team was never at a loss as to her thoughts in the air.

She did seems less certain about her role here, though hadn't voiced much more than a token reservation back at HQ.  Hannah had studied up, reading (or at worst, skimming as time was a factor) and rereading everything she could about OZ, the aboriginal situation, and then what the official report on the Attars ... er... the Tungsten Mementos and their confounded knives ... er ... the Millrift Goslings.

A person could go crazy with all of the indirection and double speak.  But, Sébastien had said to focus on tell as much truth as possible.  So, she'd concentrated on her education and the facts.  Hannah knew that she could lend enough credence to the engineering side of the investigation.  At least, the material and constructions sides.

The edges of her lips curled up slightly as James took the lead and started to try and pull rank.  Hannah couldn't help, but be bemused at both the audacity of the Lizard King and the COO's ostensibly flustered - or at least conciliatory - reaction.

Of course, like them, men like Papoudopolis probably had several layers to them; nothing was ever as simple as it might seem on the surface.  And not having certain things brought to light in public seemed to be one of his goals.  As the discussion in the privacy of his office appeared to bear out.  She arched an eyebrow as the man they came to interrogateinterview was rather direct.  So, Hannah decided to be direct as well, "Please forgive the intrusion, Mr. Papoudopolis.  But, the DoD has plenty of interest when a holding that was only recently ..." Then she asked rather pointedly, "It has been only, what, three months hasn't it?"  Before returning to the original thread, "transferred to OZ from the government suddenly becomes front page news."  She held her briefcase with the various non-classified reference materials she'd brought with her in front of her and smiled sweetly before continuing, "It makes them - and their allies" by which, she naturally seemed to imply herself and Choi as representative American government interests, "wary.  And makes them question whether the decision to license the grant to the private sector was the proper thing to do ..."

James watches Papoudopolis' face, his posture, his hands, looking for tells as Omdahl embarks on a new line of questioning. James wants to give him even more to think about- information overload- and then see which thread he picks up first.

"Our interest, sir, is national security, our own as well as yours. Your company recently appeared at the top of a target list, a target list compiled by a radical Australian Aboriginal group with ties to Islamic extremists in Southeast Asia. Terrorists, Mr. Papoudopolis- terrorists with global connections, a very long reach, and a track record of conducting attacks against American interests worldwide. That makes this our business. In essence, Mr. Papoudopolis, we're all on the same team here."

Now let's see where he goes first...

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:22, Mon 08 June 2015.

"That is correct," Williams said when COO mentioned ADF engagement with private industry.  "It would make this an unusual situation," Cooper said politely, pulling out a small note pad and pen, before sitting down.  He could sense the Chief Operating Officer's anxiousness.  "But let me allay any concerns you may have Mr. Papadoupolis.  I'm from the government and I'm here to help."

As Choi and Hannah started in, Williams started taking some preliminary notes.

"Damn it!" he says seconds later.  The first few fingers of his right hand were coated in blue ink.  "Excuse me, I'll be right back," the Navy Petty Officer says.  He steps up, containing the ink on the pad until he makes it to a trash can.  Pena and pad both get tossed unceremoniously.  With his left hand, Coop opens the door and steps out, shutting it behind him.

"You would think it's Monday wouldn't you?" the lanky Navy Clearance Diver said to the secretary.  He held up his hand.  "Could you point me to the Gents?" Coop asked, looking for the men's restroom.  After washing his hands quickly, Cooper returned to the COO's gatekeeper.

"This is so embarrassing.  Especially when I'm trying to jot down Mr. P's schedule for the last two weeks."  Phillips offered sheepishly.

Coop leaned in a bit close and whispered, "I'm probably not suppose to tell you this, but we are worried radicals might have been following him for some time now.  We are here to keep our people safe."

Williams looked up from the desk and into the secretary's eyes.  "By the way, what's your name luv?"

OOC: Yes, Coop is fishing for a copy P's schedule for the last two weeks.  Yes, he's willing to do anything for Queen and Country that might be required for it.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:16, Mon 08 June 2015.

Durand has crossed the floor, studies the screen, leaning forward, one hand coming to rest on the back of an empty chair that sits in front of the array of monitors. His index finger lightly taps the green leather, a beat that is as constant as it is aimless, his mind subconsciously seeking an outlet for the restless energy that is building up within him. He'd rather be out there, with Bellamy's back up team, close to his own people, where he can make a contribution if he's needed.

He straightens up, turns to Bellamy. "What do we know about TransOz Shipping Captain? Are they on the level? Do the plates check out?" He can't shake that feeling of unease. The memories of the Mog are flooding back as he awaits the results of the thermal and visual scans.

"Do it," Dacovetti says to Crit, nodding at the other man's suggestion.  The more analyzers they can get set up, the better the data will be.  And as long as he has one to field a little closer to the action, he will be satisfied.  "Take two," he continues, "and deploy them where you believe it would be to our advantage."  Working with the large Australian for the last several hours has given him enough confidence in the man's abilities to do the necessary work without needing to be micro-managed.  Cambridge is good for that.

"Here is my cell number," Michael finishes.  "Call me if you need help.  Or if you have any other theories that we might be able to implement."

With that section of his work moved to the in progress file, the TACP turns his attention back to the secure connection he has with Foundation, providing them with the rough bearings and signal strengths that the WILDWOOD GROUSE detector is giving him and promises to update the team as soon as he knows more.  Finally, he tracks down Seb.

"It appears that when it rains it pours," Dacovetti says when he finds the Frenchman peering into a bank of monitors that are overlooking what Michael presumes is the TranzOz building.  "Our spectrum analyzer has pinged a possible contact, somewhere to the northwest of our location.  Crit is taking a few of the modules to Edinburgh for better triangulation. Foundation has been advised."

A few moments of glancing at the monitors tells Michael that the situation in the city is tense, at least as Seb and Bellamy see it. "Anything I can do to assist?"

"Understood. Well done picking them up." Durand nods when Dacovetti announces the possible Attar contact. The Frenchman's expression is grim. And so, it begins again he thinks as he turns to his Australian counterpart.

"Captain, you need to make your people on the ground aware of the potential danger. If you have more people on stand by I'd suggest moving them into the area. Just in case. As you know Sergeant Dacovetti and I both have first hand experience of dealing with them. If you would like us to accompany any of your people we can do."

Durand looks over to Dealer. "Unless you think you would be of more use here, Michael?" The Frenchman's eyes move back to the screen. "And do we have a way to get a heads up to the Lizard King and Double Down? Even if it's just sending them a text message? I don't want to pull them out, but it would be better if they knew that we have a possible Attar contact."

Papoudopolis blinks at Cooper's non sequitur, then visibly grinds his mental gears as the Australian investigator's pen explodes.  He manages to get a desk drawer open and extend a handful of paper take-away napkins before Cooper is out of his seat, but it isn't enough to impede the diver's departure.

As the door shuts behind Cooper, he blinks and returns his attention to the Americans.  "Ah.  Miss Omdahl, we've been conducting mineral exploration in that region for quite some time.  The ANU team's findings are certainly fortunate but our own prior efforts are well-documented.  And," his face hardens, "considering today's circumstances, I hardly feel it's appropriate to be suggesting they might have been involved in any impropriety."

---

The secretary darts a startled glance toward the door at the mention of radicals - probably not an uncommon reaction only a few months after Sydney's cafe siege.  As Cooper leans in, she rallies and extends a smile.  "I'm Susan Lim, Mister Williams.  And I'd love to help you but I'm afraid I'll need you to show me your warrant.  Just as your ASIO colleagues did yesterday."

---

"They're a middling-size freight and parcel firm," one of the ops staff absently responds to Sébastien's question about TransOz.  "Mainly north shore, they just started down here a bit ago.  I'll run the plates as soon as the boys give me a camera angle... she leans into her monitor.

Michael, Sébastien, and Bellamy converge on the screens as Shovel Two - the undercover car - rolls around the corner.  A pair of camera images jitters as the operator in the back seat pans past the back of the driver's headrest, then stabilizes on the area around the Ford Transit that Cooper indicated earlier.   "There we go," the tech murmurs, and aggressively hammers her keyboard.

In the normal image, the small delivery van is unremarkable.  The thermal imager feed is another story entirely.  The cargo box is radiating heat, the seams around the doors glowing a good thirty degrees above the rain-cooled ambient temperature of the other cars on the street.  There are no visible hot-spots pressed against the shell - the temperature appears uniform.

"Now that's damned unusual," Bellamy remarks, reaching for the radio again.

Possible Bird Sighting, NW of city.  Range currently unknown.

Dacovetti releases a text message to Chief Omdahl into the electronic either, one that if intercepted still only indicates so much.  With their phones running encryption software, it shouldn't be a problem.  "Double Down has been notified, Seb," Michael informs his acting commander.

The video feed displayed on the screen catches Michael's attention before he has the chance to hear the Frenchman's reply.  A container truck radiating heat near where a detachment of their team is working.  It stretches beyond his capacity for coincidence.

"Captain," Michael interrupts before Bellamy can make his radio call.  "If you have the capability for overhead surveillance, I strongly recommend that you have your ground team slowly move away from that truck.  Quietly.  Very quietly.  I don't know what is creating that heat signature, but let us assume for the moment that it is extremely hostile."

The TACP turns to his commander with a slight grimace, as if he knows he shouldn't be asking the next question. "I would like to head down there with one of my analyzers and a Geiger counter.  A level A haz-mat suit and some bolt cutters would probably helpful as well.  And if we have an electronic counter measure system, cell phone jammer, that sort of thing, let's throw that in the trunk, too." The presentation of self control breaks for a moment.  "Because fuck it.  Why not?"     I

"Thanks Dealer." Durand nods briefly in response to Dacovetti's confirmation that DD has been alerted, but the attention of both men has already moved on beyond that to the next challenge, the abnormal thermal readings coming from the van.

The Frenchman doesn't say anything while his colleague talks to the Australian Captain, hears Dealer say that he doesn't know what might be causing it. Durand knows the airman well enough by now to know that if he doesn't know for sure about something he usually has a theory. For him to say he doesn't know is unusual. Sufficiently unusual to seriously worry the Frenchman.

When the American turns back to him he nods his head without hesitation. "Agreed. And I think Painter and I should come with you, in case you need support unless you need one of us to stay here?" The DGSE operator's head swivels round as he addresses the Australian officer again. "Captain Bellamy, can your logistics people help provide us with everything that we need?"

Durand pauses a moment before continuing, his voice low, his eyes locked on Bellamy's, hoping to address the Australian as a peer, another member of the small community of Special Forces operators, one on the same side, fighting the same enemy. "And Captain, I know there have been discussions at a higher level than ours about rules of engagement for my team whilst we are here, but is there any possibility that we can at least draw handguns? I assure you, we are here to help and our intention is not to go looking for trouble, but we need to be able to defend ourselves if we are attacked. "

Hannah felt the phone in her breast pocket vibrate for a moment, but made no move to try and retrieve it immediately.

"Mr. Papoudopolis," Hannah sought to correct him subtly in an easy and open manner, "I suggested no such impropriety.  In fact, I'm sure that your firm is guiltless in this matter."  Or, at least, she hoped.  "It is simply a matter of doing our due diligence." she readily acknowledged, hoping to play on the common trope that every government agency required its 'i's dotted and its 't's crossed, "Surely, you can understand that?"

Her phone repeated its silent alert once more.  And this time, Hannah decided to heed the call in the slight pause.  Double Down pulled the device out for a moment and glanced down at the message from Dealer.  Her head tilted for a moment, causing a lock of auburn hair to jump free.  Placing the phone back inside her jacket, Hannah then pushed the errant strands of hair back behind her ear.

"Besides, I am merely here as a technical consultant." the auburn-haired woman readily admitted.  And especially as the man had already broached the subject of documentation.  "Speaking of which," she noted with a twinkle in her eye, "You did mention that everything was in order, correct?  With the proper documentation?"  She opened her briefcase and retrieved a notepad a clean sheet on top.  Retrieving a pen as well, Hannah started to apply pen to paper.  But then she stopped for a moment, giving Papoudopolis a wan smile.  Tapping the pen on the page twice, Hannah asked rather apologetically, "You don't mind if I take a few notes, do you?" then adding quietly with a furtive glance in James' direction, "My memory is notorious."

But then it seemed to dawn upon her that this wasn't an 'official' fact-finding mission yet.  Hannah glanced in James' direction and then asked rather sheepishly, "Agent Choi, have I jumped the gun here?"  Perhaps physical notes were not really the highest priority yet, there were likely other questions that needed to be resolved first and writs (that they didn't currently have) that might be needed.  "I mean," she noted off-hand, "that it is not as though we need to rush things here."  She emphasized the single word ever so slightly, in the hopes that James would catch her meaning that something else external might be amiss.  It wasn't necessarily a rush, per se, but given that she was pretty much unarmed, Hannah didn't like the idea that they might be at the epicenter of something more than what it seemed.  And something potentially violent.

To keep up the charade, the edges of her mouth quirked upwards, "I get paid an hourly rate."  Ah, more government tropes...

"I can't think of any reason for you to stay, and frankly," Dacovetti says to Durand, "I would rest easier knowing you two have my back."

"I'm a day late it would seem.  Honestly, they are better with the paperwork, but we have cooler toys,” Williams said with a grin.  He stepped back from the desk and pulled out his cell phone.

”Hey, it’s Coop.  Just calling to check in and see if our paperwork was ready,” Williams said after dialing the VB ops number.  He didn’t wait for a response before adding.  ”I thought I spotted a delivery vehicle out front on the way in.  What can you tell me about that?” Of course finding out about the Ford Transit in front of the building was the true purpose of William’s call.

Papoudopolis, easing back onto familiar ground, gives Hannah a thin, bland smile.  "You're welcome to take notes, of course.  And we'll be happy to open our files to the appropriate agencies.  And once we receive the appropriate warrants."  His smile broadens into something more genuine.  "I realize your DoE is likely to be a major export customer if our extraction methods pay off, but we still have trade secrets to protect."  He blinks as if remembering something.  His forehead wrinkles slightly as he glances over his guests' shoulders at the television.  "In fact, I'm surprised ASIO hasn't returned by now."

---

Bellamy freezes with his finger on the mic key, then completes the motion of raising the handset to his lips.  "All Shovel elements, this is Pitchfork Actual.  Push your patrol radius out one block and avoid Queen Street.  The subject vehicle is a possible contact.  Report any more thermal anomalies immediately.  Acknowledge."

He releases the transmit key and turns to Sébastien.  "My EOD det should have all the kit you need.  Jamison!"  He snaps his fingers and one of the lurking NCOs stops pretending not to eavesdrop.  "You're on him."  He points to Michael.  "Make all his Christmases come.  I want your lot on the road in five mikes.  Not you, Crit, you're my backup for him.  Get your arse to Edinburgh."

Scanning the room, he grabs Crit's shoulder, pulls him in, and steps in close to Sébastien.  "I appreciate your plight but I'm on a very short leash here and I'm already at the end of it.  Sidearms only.  Crit, handle it, and shoot through before someone comes back who can countermand that."

---

Lim arches an eyebrow and a smile.  "And here I was hoping for a phone in your shoe..."

"I'm looking at it now, Coop," murmurs the ops staffer in his ear.  "The cargo box is rather warm, thirty degrees above everything else in the area.  The rest of our guests are headed your way with the technical team, ten minutes out.  Captain's pushed your overwatch teams to a wider orbit until they're on scene."

---

Papoudopolis' glance at the television is longer and more intense than an ostentatious time-check.  James turns slightly in his seat, as if to address Hannah, and flicks his own look at the screen.  The image is an aerial shot of a dirt road, red-orange earth and scrubby vegetation placing it somewhere in the Outback, and the crumpled form of an upended 4x4 surrounded by emergency vehicles.  ANU geologists killed in hit-and-run... proclaims the crawl.

Misinterpreting James' expression, Papoudopolis winces and lapses into working-class diction.  "Right, fine, of course we knew 'em.  There's only so many in this field what know arseholes from elbows and no money at all in university.  You know the act, right?  Go on sabbatical, consult to knock out a living, then go back to teaching?"  He lifts his chin at Hannah, then turns back to James.  "Andrew came out of ANU, was he supposed to forget everyone in his department the day he started here?  Our crews run across theirs out there, of course everyone talks shop.  But we've sunk shafts all over that patch of fuck-all and we've years of survey logs to prove it."  He seems to deflate as he runs down.  "Christ.  Andrew's out with the families, there's men he's known for twenty years stomped flat in that Landie."  He gestures to the screen.  "Now's not the time to be pissing on their memory."

---

Sergeant Jamison, the team leader of the EOD detachment and its security element, hustles Michael upstairs, pulling Sébastien and Caradoc along in his wake.  Michael - and, after a moment's hesitation, Caradoc - are ushered into the back of an unmarked panel van stuffed with equipment.  Jamison and Sébastien slide into a similarly anonymous Land Rover.  The driver already has the engine turning over and drops the gear lever into Drive before the doors shut.

As the panel van begins to roll, someone thumps the rear doors.  Caradoc opens up to receive a satchel from Crit, who flashes a nod to Michael before the doors close again.  The medic extracts a Glock 19 and concealment holster from the bag and passes it to Michael.  Looking inside, the airman sees two similar rigs and a double handful of spare magazines.

Things are happening. Durand's adrenaline is starting to kick in, his feet are pounding on the stairs as he follows Jamison, the adrenaline kicking in, the familiar rush that he has experienced so many times before as he makes the transition from spectator in the Ops Centre to participant. He's taking the stairs two at a time, keeping pace with the Australian EOD chief. As his booted feet strike every second step a thought goes through the Frenchman's mind, a poem that he had read, in English.

I am the master of my fate.
I am the captain of my soul

Sébastien Durand knows that he will never sit in one of the offices on the top floor of la piscine, DGSE's headquarters in the 20th arrondissement of Paris, knows he has no desire to, for he finds it so much easier to be a participant, to place his fate in his own hands, to be able to take action. The spectator can only watch, unable to influence events that they may themselves have set in motion, and that does not sit well with Durand. He wishes to be the master of his own fate.

They are through the doors now, sprinting towards a Land Rover. The Australian is probably around ten years younger than him but Durand keeps himself in shape, as evidenced by his morning work out with Omdahl and Williams. He's matching him stride for stride as they reach the Land Rover, his hand closing around the left side rear passenger door as Jamison goes for the front. A heartbeat later the vehicle is moving, even before the doors are closed.

For a split second after the pull into the traffic there's that momentary confusion that always comes as the brain adjusts to the fact that they are on what he thinks of as the wrong side of the road, but that subsides almost immediately as the driver begins to cut a path through the mid morning traffic with deft skill. Durand looks over his shoulder for a moment, checks that the van is following them, then leans forward. He's eschewed a seat belt, so his head is between the front two seats as he speaks to Jamison. "I'm Seb."

"G'day Seb. Call me Jamie." Comes the reply from the front seat as they head north towards the river.

"Good to meet you Jamie. The guys in the van are Michael and Caradoc. Caradoc is our ditch doctor and Michael is our tech guy. They're good. Real good. But so we're clear, it's your show. We're just here to help where we can, OK? " He wants to establish the framework with the Australian, make sure everyone is on the same team, make sure he knows that Grey Cell don't intend to walk all over the Australian contingent.

Durand pauses a moment before continuing. "I've got two of my guys and one of yours in the Oz Minerals building. They're close to the suspect vehicle." There's an unspoken implication. Close translates as if the package is an IED of some sort they may be within the blast zone. Their own people are in harm's way. A split second later Durand can feel the Land Rover pick up speed as they take a left turn.

Well, Dacovetti hears the echo of one of his instructors from the schoolhouse, as he accepts the satchel of weapons, you're in the shit now. Granted, at the time he had been stuck to his waist in a swamp with the time limit on his night land navigation leg running out and not f driving towards an unknown device of possibly alien origin, but the emotions still feel the same.  He takes one of the pistols and two of the magazines before setting the bag aside for Seb.

The back of the panel van is Christmas come early.  Michael confronts the odds and ends having Crewe stock the items he needs on a seat by the door.  Geiger counter, signal jammer, and all the rest.  He checks to ensure that the jammer is set on wide spectrum.  It will wipe out a sizable portion of EM spectrum in the local, but better limited comms on the good guys side than letting something creep in that causes the TACP to get vaporized in a ball of green super-heated flame. A spectrum analyzer, the last, is added to the pile after coming out of his bag.  A roll of duct tape is placed on the seat opposite.

This is either overkill or pointless, the logical part of his brain makes its judgment.  It could be a thermal heater keeping people warm.  It could be a tactical plasma weapon.  Or he could get a face full of bioweaponary and be glad the plastic is there.

Body armor is out. As nice as it would be to have between his body and any bits of traveling kinetic energy, he's going to cook as soon as he ensconces himself in the green haz-mat suit.  Dacovetti kicks his boots off and steps into the legs of the suit, pulling it up to his waist.

"Open the second cabinet," he tells Crewe.  "Hand me one of the SCBAs inside."  It's standard firefighter wear, an airbottle in pack attached to a face mask.  The harness slides over his body and is tightened into place.  The system turns on with a twist of a valve and a series of beeps.  The whole thing will be sealed into the suit with the airman.  "I've done this twice.  If something looks fucked up, please let me know."

Crewe gives him a half grin.  "Like watching an chairborne ranger zip himself into a giant condom?"  It helps break the tension.

"I loathe you," Dacovetti says with his own grin, one that covers the growing unease his is experiencing.  He takes the duct tape and attaches the pistol to the right hip of his suit, the spare magazines to the left.  Before his hands are rendered useless to the touch screen of his phone, he fires off one last text, then continues to dress.

Love you, that is all.

Keeping his building frustration carefully cloaked, James lets Papoudopolis talk. The Oz Min COO's choice of subjects is curious. He chose business over personal safety, legalities over security. Is he just your stereotypical corporate leech, hyper-focused on the bottom line to the detriment of all other concerns, or is there another reason for his seeming insouciance towards terroristic threats? Since Papoudopolis seems more comfortable speaking with Omdahl, James drops his gaze from the exec's face to his phone. The text waiting there is somewhat troubling. Without dropping the thread of the conversation, James' mind starts mapping the two rooms of the office that he's seen, charting angles, potential cover, blind spots, bullet traps, etc.

-

Cooper turned away from Lin and cupped his cellphone and spoke.  "Copy.  I'm going to see about locking down the building.  I don't want to evacuate until the overwatch team can vouch for the permitter in case a secondary attack is in the works.  I'll come up on radio when I hang up."

Hitting the call end button, Coop slid the phone back in his pocket.  He then fished the ear piece for his rover out from his collar as he turned to face the secretary.

"If the building has a security office, please call them now.  I need to speak with whomever's on duty."

When the call was connected, the RAN Clearance Diver took the receiver and spoke.

"This is Petty Officer Cooper Williams of the Special Air Services Regiment.  We have reports of a suspicious device outside of this building.  I need to you lock this facility down until our EOD team arrives and clears us to evacuate.  Please repeat back my instructions."

Hannah returned Papoudopolis' distant and rather patronizing smile.  He'd said enough - that his demeanor and body language were such that the man was obviously in his bureaucratic element.  Her remark of about the 'i' dotting and the 't' crossing hit home - the documentation he'd give them would be impeccable.  She simply nodded when it came to warrants and paperwork. there was not stretching the truth when it was said that the army aviatrix wasn't fond of administrative red tape; so, the wan smile that she gave the OZ COO was nothing short of genuine at the prospect of potentially filling out even more forms.  Perhaps the only theoretical compensation was that it was likely that either James or Cooper were actually the ones that would have to fill our such paperwork - if they had actually been who they said they were.

And Papoudopolis had said that ASIO was already on the case.  Which, of course, they would have to follow up on.  But then who knew where that would lead...

And then the man's focus shifted to the screen and the news scrolling across it.  Her own gaze shifted from Papoudopolis, then to James when the OZ exec began to address him.  And then her attention shifted to the information on the screen.  She saw the masque crack for a moment, and Hannah felt some sympathy for the man.  It wasn't likely he was an alien.  And so all of this violence must have seemed a touch senseless.  The auburn-haired veteran could identify with that.  But she remained silent on the matter, simply pursing her lips in chagrin over the loss of human life involved.

Susan Lim goes slightly gray at Cooper's request but swivels in her seat and punches a three-digit extension.  "Jason?  This is Susan up on six.  I have a Defence official here who needs to speak to you."  She extends the handset to Cooper.

The voice on the other end of the line is a gravelly, businesslike bass.  "Is this--?  No, it can wait.  Suspicious device on the street, aye.  Lockdown, aye.  Wait for EOD, aye.  Any further, PO?"

---

"Encouraged" by James' mien and the coverage of the hit-and-run, Papoudopolis continues running at the mouth.  Any lingering uncertainty James and Hannah may have had vanishes at his confirmation that the wreck's victims - the two who've been identified, at least - are senior members of the same ANU team that discovered the asteroid impact.  Nothing in Grey Cell's briefing indicated that the Aboriginal group was targeting academics... but the research team's personal connections to OZ executives go back decades.

The rain starts up again, driving hard against the windows.  James and Hannah both glance toward the street - the former cueing on motion outside the normal traffic pattern, the latter with a veteran pilot's well-honed attunement to the weather.  Through the tossing branches of trees below, both catch a glimpse of two suited men exiting the surveillance van Hannah sighted on the way in and dashing toward OZ's building. 

---

Jamison nods sharply.  "Roger that, Seb.  Can you get a message to them?  Tell them to hunker down and clear civilians away from the street side?"

He works his jaw before continuing.  "So you know.  We're inside the law right now, barely, but we're stretching the bounds of our ROE.  We're supposed to liaise with civil powers before we deploy.  The word's probably going out to the heelers right now.  Good news, we'll have a perimeter.  Bad news... shit."  He hammers the dashboard with a fist as two patrol cars blast past the Land Rover, lights flickering and sirens wailing.  "And we're no longer covert."  He turns in his seat to meet Sébastien's gaze.  "Hand me that green folder.  I'll find the commander and try to keep them from completely rooting us."

---

The team's phones variously chirp or buzz with a group text from Maatsen:

W. in contact w/ police, ASIO. Am in dmg ctrl mode. Dealer: your cohort reports no signal change.

---

Caradoc silently holds his phone up to Michael's faceplate as the panel van rocks through a hard right turn.  The two Australians in the cargo compartment with them exchange quizzical looks.  The one who's halfway into his own Level As continues dressing out.  The other grabs an overhead rail and swings over to Michael.

"Looks like you've got it all hooked in right," he admits after checking the airman's gear.  His voice has a dissonant echo, coming through both the suit and Michael's radio earpiece with a split-second offset.  "Right.  I'm Sergei, this here's Liam."  The suited tech vaguely waves a hand, then lurches to his feet as the van comes to a halt.  "How d'ye wanna do this?  I've never seen a hot IED like this and the van's not on fire.  Whatever this is, I think it's in your lane."

---

Several blocks northward, Andrey Vasilyev's anonymous Toyota Corolla splashes through late-morning downtown traffic.  The wail of police sirens heralds someone else's exciting day.  The Russian checks the GPS again; it's showing Maha as more or less south of his current position.

As he brakes to a stop at a traffic light, a police cruiser blows through the intersection, followed moments later by an ambulance.  His Hoffman-burner phone buzzes:

Police cordoning Queen St.  Possible terrorist bomb threat.  Not public yet.  Shall I keep digging?

---

Map updated:

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing

"Yes.  The vehicle in question is the Ford Transit, parked down the street to the right, on our side, and marked TransOz Shipping.  Can you check your cameras for an angle on it?  If possible, compare the photos of anyone getting in or out of it against your lobby cams.  I need to know if whoever parked it there is in the building.  You can reach me at Lin's number if you find anything."  Coop said.  He handed the phone back.  "I'll be right back," Williams said.  He walked back in to Papoudopolis's office.

"That TransOz vehicle out front," Williams said, breaking into the conversation,"the cargo box is thirty degrees above ambient.  The rest of your folks are on the way with some of our EOD guys." Coop's last sentence was addressed to Choi and Omdahl.  "I just spoke with security and they are locking the building down."

"Is there anything you can tell us about that Ford Transit?" Williams asked Papoudopolis.  He stepped over to the window to see if he could point it out to the executive.  In doing so, Coop tried hard to ignore the electrician's van.  He suppressed the urge to give the AISO a one-fingered salute from the window of Chief Operating Officer's office.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:13, Wed 17 June 2015.

Perhaps surviving one "campaign" against the Attar threat made Dacovetti an expert.  He certainly didn't feel like one.  His expertise felt more like sitting in class after passing his first course in Electrical Engineering, that moment where he realized that although the first filter had been passed, the real work was just beginning and there was so much more to learn.  The EOD techs were looking to him for the plan and he would have to provide.

"I advocate an aggressive approach," Dacovetti starts.  "We don't know what we are dealing with, but I suspect that if we give our adversary the opportunity to dictate the situation, we are going to end up hosed."  He lets the radio chirp as his transmission ends, assuming that Seb is on the channel as well.

"Liam and I will exit this vehicle with the spectrum analyzer and Geiger counter.  Liam, take the chem-sniffer as well, but keep is slung, we'll get to it later.  Approach will be armed, any hostile target will be dealt with immediately.  As soon as I get a read on the analyzer, I will give the call to initiate broad spectrum jamming.  We will take the forcible entry tools you need for the van with us, breaching with explosives as a last resort.

"Should you need our attention after jamming, one long horn blast sends us running for cover, two for attention to you, three for controlled withdrawl.  Standard hand signals from that point."

"Questions?"

Michael has about a million question on his own, but the tempo of the operation has taken over.  If this is a trap, he will probably never know.  At least what he is doing is important, taking the fight back to something other than human.  Something with an agenda they might not understand.  The engineer portion of his brain wants the equation to make sense, that there could be a human answer for what the Attars are doing, but the soldier portion understands only that the threat needs to be stopped.  The father to be understands something else entirely.

"I'm on it." Durand replies to Jamison as the Land Rover swerves through the morning traffic. Reaching into the pocket of his khaki cargo pants he extracts his iPhone, Grey Cell issue, it having replaced the more basic Sony Experia that he had arrived at Incirlik with in January, punches out a text as quickly as any other forty year old man would, taking probably three times as long as the average teenager to send a message to the Lizard King, Double Down, and Williams.

EOD team en route with support. Keep civilians away from Queen Street side of building. Even as he hits send he knows that to an extent that may be like - what was it the Americans said - herding cats? Human nature was a strange thing the man with a degree on psychology reflected ruefully. Tell people that something is dangerous and there will inevitably be those who want to go and look at it. Or film it on their cellphone.

The message sent he slips the phone back into his pocket, reaches into the pocket in the back of the driver's seat, extracts a green folder. "There you go Jamie. I've given the team a heads up." As he passed the folder forward Jamie passed something else back in return, a tac radio and a covert headset. Durand takes the radio in both hands, clips it on to his belt, adjusting his clothing to conceal it and fixing the earpiece in place in time to listen to Dealer run through his plan. The Frenchman stays off the airwaves, knowing that his colleague has everything under control and the last thing he will need at the moment is his team leader's voice in his ear trying to micromanage things.

Coop made reference to trading contact details in Msg 41 so have presumed him and Seb swapped numbers off camera at some point

"That's disturbing..." Hannah stated simply, her tone slightly plaintive and more than a touch rueful as more of the details concerning the death of the ANU team scroll by on the screen.

Her attention snapped to the Australian member of the team when he reentered the room and announced a possible 'situation' brewing.  She glanced down at her phone to she that Cooper's assertions were well founded, it seemed.  "And that..." the army aviatrix noted rather deadpan, "is even more disturbing."

The auburn-haired warrant officer followed Cooper and Papoudopolis to the window, craning her neck to see the truck that pointed out.  Hannah nodded grimly though she didn't remember seeing the truck out there before.  "What's the play, Mr. Williams?" she prompted the RAN petty officer, before turning to address their host, "Mr. Papoudopolis can we get your people away from that side of the building and out of Harm's way?"  She was pretty sure that the man wouldn't hinder such an effort, but it never hurt to ask and make that explicit.

James decides that Papoudopolis could use a little reality therapy. Perhaps the hint of imminent mortal danger might jog his memory and loosen his tongue. Something subtle, though- James doesn't go in for histrionics. Like the practiced vet that we is, he reaches down and smoothly brushes his sports jacket up, over, and behind the pistol holstered on his right hip, resting his hand on the comforting, cool butt of the FNH.

"You don't happen to have a safe room nearby, do you Mr. Papoudopolis?" he asks, stepping to the side of the door to the lobby. "You'd better call your secretary in here." he added before the executive could reply.

-

Andrey frowned and checked his GPS trying to figure the best route to Bond Street without putting him on Queen. Shaking his head and realizing that the proximity of the one to the other was very likely not coincidence he fired back to Hoffman "Yeah. keep digging and let me know which cross streets are already blocked if you can figure it".

Knowing that the police were likely just stopping auto traffic he considered leaving the Toyata again and attempting a foot approach but not knowing what the situation was and the very probable volatile nature made him hesitant.  He ran his hand through his dark hair and settled his wide-brimmed hat back onto his head and turned down Queen Street - if he could at least see the cordon, he could get an idea of how to navigate around it if necessary.

"Make sure she forwards the phone though.  I'm waiting for a call," Williams said flatly.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:52, Fri 19 June 2015.

Papoudopolis rises from behind his desk and, without bothering to look out the window, stabs a button on his phone.  "All employees, assemble in Conference Room A immediately."  Distantly, his voice echoes from every desk phone in the office.  In the hall, the rustle of people in motion rises.  "No safe room," he replies to James, "but that's the farthest room from the street.  And no glass walls."  He pokes at his phone again while rummaging in a desk drawer.  "Susan?  On your way back, forward your phone to A."

His right hand sets down the handset; his left emerges from his desk with a well-used rock hammer, which he slides into the back of his belt beneath his blazer.  "This way," he adds, nodding toward the door.  "I'm assuming we don't want to stand about watching your demo team either."

---

Following Hoffman's rapid-fire interogation of Twitter and public traffic camera feeds, Andrey cuts over a block to Elizabeth Street and swings south toward Maha, the restaurant implicated by the sat-phone's call history.  The police cordon appears to be restricted to one block of Queen Street - just on the other side of the block from Maha.  Leaving his Toyota in a garage under a nearby bank, Andrew turns up his coat collar against the rain and takes to the sidewalks again.  From the corner of Flinders Lane and Bond Street, he can see the police checkpoint waving traffic away from the turn onto Queen.  Down Bond, Maha is a swirl of neon light.  A knot of patrons stands under its awning, hunching over their phones.

---

With a brief word to his second, Jamison jogs toward the police command post which is congealing like a crystal in cop-saturated solution.  Sergei remains in the panel van, seating himself at the comms bench.  As the rest of the EOD team dismounts, Caradoc eases up alongside Sébastien and passes him a canvas satchel with a heavy weight in it.

Michael, Caradoc, Sébastien, and SASR troopers move up to the corner of Flinders Street and Queen Street.  The three-man security element takes up position behind the trio of police cars, M4s pointing down the deserted street toward the suspect vehicle.  "Hey.  If we havta shoot, go left inta the shops," one of them advises.  "They all got glass fronts, you shouldna have trouble gettin' in."

"And the Gumby suit's a lotta fuckin' help for that,"  Liam retorts.  "Mike, ya ready ta go downrange?"  He waggles the Geiger counter in the general direction of the suspect vehicle.

As Sébastien and Caradoc watch, Michael and Liam advance up Queen Street.  It's the slowest rendition of bounding overwatch in the history of tactical movement.  The HAZMAT suits and the array of sensor equipment - and, in Liam's case, a slung Mk.18 with the trigger guard folded down - make easing between parked cars an adventure by itself.

Two vehicles away, Michael pauses to check the spectrum analyzer.  It's jittery, acting as if it's not quite calibrated, but it's reading something unusual coming from the parcel van.  The waveform isn't an exact match for the WILDWOOD GROUSE signal but it's close enough to be more than a coincidence.  As Michael watches, the signal begins ramping up from a ghost to merely faint.

---

As the trio of agents in OZ Minerals follows Papoudopolis toward the conference room, the doors at the far end of the hall swing open.  Susan Lim strides through, followed closely by two men in rain-sodden dark suits.  "Oh, Mister Williams," she calls, "your ASIO colleagues are here to share their warrant."

Her brittle smile dissolves into shock and indignation as one of the ASIO agents shoulders her out of the way.  In unison - really, in choreographed synchronicity - both men's left hands rise to present badge wallets while their right hands sweep back their sport coats.  For James, it's like watching a pair of funhouse mirrors.  "Please come with.  With us.  We have questions.  For you," the taller one addresses James, Hannah, and Cooper.  His speech is oddly halting, his face strained, as if he's having trouble with his script.

Both the ASIO agents are showing signs of profound illness or distress.  Their faces glisten with moisture - sweat, not rain.  Their mouths twitch as if they've unexpectedly bitten something distasteful.  Their eyes are wide, pupils dilated.  A tear rolls from the corner of the speaker's eye.  "Please do.  Not.  Resist!" he gasps.

---

Behind the police cars, Sébastien watches the street.  Shoppers and businesspeople press against the glass in every building, watching the drama unfold, oblivious to the potential for an IED to turn that same glass into a million razors.  Many of them are holding up cell phones.

A sudden thrill of recognition jolts up Sébastien's spine.  A familiar dark face watches Michael and Liam intently from across the street.  It's one among a crowd of perhaps twenty but Sébastien will never fail to recognize Mas'ud Attar.  Beside Sébastien, Caradoc hisses; there's a rasp as he draws his newly-acquired Glock, keeping it at a low ready below the car's beltline.  "Alien goatfucker, one o'clock... Seb, he's got a long gun in that bag," he murmurs.

---

Map updated: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing

Coop could immediately see that there was something wrong with the two agents, but he didn't know what it was.  In any event, this wasn't the time or place for a discussion about it.  Williams extended both of his arms in front of him, as if waiting for handcuffs to be applied.  He walked calmly and directly toward the two pair of AISO agents.

"Come with you?  Absolutely mate.  Not resisting at all," Williams said as he moved to close the distance.

Cooper Williams
Quickly approaching the two AISO agents
詠春 & มวยไทย
Aimed attack - strike at the head of first agent to produce a weapon.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:59, Fri 19 June 2015.

It's a face that is etched into the darkest parts of his subconscious. A face that he first saw staring at him from a photograph in a folder in Incirlik, a face that shortly afterwards stared at him with murder in its eyes. Its. Not his. Its. For it is a face that is a mask, and behind the mask there is a creature from another World. Perhaps one of the ones that they had encountered in Libya, perhaps not. For how many of them were there really? A handful? A dozen? Hundreds? How many more faces did they wear? How many of them were hidden in plain view, masquerading as humans going about their day to day business, all the time waiting for the moment to strike. An abstract thought crosses his mind, namely whether they only took the form of men. Or was there a female of the species out there as well?

The hairs have risen on the back of the Frenchman's neck, on his arms. The Glock is in his hands now, his stance mimicking Painter's. It gives him some comfort to be holding the weapon, although right now he wishes he was in overwatch with the big Sako. Not that taking a shot was a good option, for the bastard had surrounded itself with civilians, rubberneckers out to see what was going on, apparently blissfully ignorant of the danger they were exposing themselves to from the potential IED.

Durand nods in response to Painter's softly spoken warning, looks again at the throng of people that the Attar is sheltering amongst. What would they think, he wondered, if they knew that an alien stood in their midst? Options go through his mind, different things to consider. Rules of engagement. The situation was vastly different here to it had been in Libya of course. Doing nothing is not an option. They have to do something. But call it wrongly and there could be civilian casualties.

And cameras built into cell phones are recording every move they make, footage could be uploaded to the internet within seconds. If they take the Attar down and it releases its acid it's going to be put up there for the whole World to see. And to question. Even if it doesn't, the breaking news tape is going to read 'police shoot unarmed man'. Something clicks in the back of his mind, an incident in London years ago, a report he'd read. Metropolitan Police officers had shot an unarmed man. It makes him wonder just how long these things have been here for.

And it's his call. His career has recovered - more or less - from one 'incident'. It won't recover from a second. But right now Sébastien Durand couldn't give a fuck about his career. His only priority is to make sure that no one gets hurt. Not his people, not any of Bellamy's, not the civilians. He can feel the weight of command bearing down heavily on his shoulders. Whatever he does will be pulled apart in debriefs, studied in minute detail, analysed over and over. But he doesn't have the benefit of time to make his decision.

"Jamie." His tone is low as he catches the attention of the Australian. "We have a target at one o'clock. One of the aliens we briefed on." Yes, he knows it's probably the most bizarre sitrep the Australian will ever have received. But it's real, and it's happening now, in the heart of Melbourne. "He is covertly carrying a long gun. You see him?"

The Frenchman pauses whilst the Australian scans the small knot of people. Jamie's done this often enough to look for someone in a crowd without being obvious. "Got him Seb."

Durand nods almost imperceptibly. "It may be here to make sure no one interferes with the IED." They didn't know for sure it was an IED of course, but it was easier to call it that than 'the thing that might or might not be an IED'. And of course, Dacovetti and one of the Aussies are about to do just that. And then he has an even darker thought. "Or it may have a command detonator." Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"We have no shot." He says in the same quiet tone. It's a statement, not a question. There are too many people in the way. Crewe and Jamie both nod, the Welshman adding a terse. "Agreed."

"OK, we need to get those people away. If we send the cops over to clear them it can just blend in. Here's the plan. Jamie, you give the cops and your shooters the heads up. We've got three M4's. I want tow of them ready to engage the Attar. Leave one on the IED team just in case. Painter, keep your eyes on that thing. Do not let it out of your sight." He pauses. "I'm going to cross the street. It ought to know what I  look like. If not it fucking well should. I killed one of its mates. I'm hoping that may encourage it to make a move. If it draws its weapon that may scatter the crowd. At which point you guys take the shot. Maximum force gentlemen, take that fucker down the second you have a line on it." There's another pause. Longer.

"If you see any indication that it is about to trigger a detonation - take the shot. Even if civilians are at risk. It's my call. Jamie, give me your notepad so I can put that in writing."

"Any questions?" he asks as he scribbles down a written summary of his last sentence and signs it. We should have brought that fucking knife.

In summary, Seb is going to make his presence known to the Attar by stepping out and crossing the street, hoping that sparks some sort of reaction to try and get it out of the crowd of people, at which point Painter and the SAS shooters try to take it down.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:19, Fri 19 June 2015.

Curiosity tended to kill the cat but this tended to be closely linked with Andrey's intuition... That same intuition that has kept him vertical and breathing these past several years since his "dismissal" with the GRU and allowed him to make it out of Jakarta... more or less intact. Whatever was happening behind that cordon piqued his curiosity and pinged his intuition.

Vasliyev went through the motions of realizing he'd forgotten something, patting at his pockets and wearing a concerned look before turning back down the street in an effort to peek the events unfolding on Queen.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:30, Fri 19 June 2015.

James has seen a lot of drugged-out wasteoids in his career. Sadly, drugs were endemic on the rez- meth mostly, but some crack, PCP, and a little cocaine and heroin would occasionally make the rounds as well- James has pretty much seen it all. He knows the indicators, what to look for physically and behaviorally. These guys aren't on any drugs that James knows of. Aliens, he thinks, or alien mind control at least. Shit, am I really thinking this?, James wonders. There's no time for such musings, though, and he crams them deep in the back of his head. Boiled down, the scenario that's playing out is one James has trained for dozens of times. Trusting in Cooper's ruse- for James recognized it almost immediately- to distract both of the odd "agents" at least momentarily, James draws his FNH*, sidesteps away from Cooper to clear his lines, and centers the sights on the nearest target, shouting "Get your hands up! Hands up now!", using his voice as a weapon.

If either of the men attempts to draw his weapon, James intends to light them up, starting with the one nearest to him (not Cooper's target).

James Choi
Office, out of LOS of door
FNH (20/20)
Drawing down on nearest "agent", aiming center mass- if he has to fire, two to the body, one to the dome; he won't fire at Cooper's target if Coop successfully grapples him

*James is already in position- physically and mentally- to draw his pistol, as per his last post.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:42, Fri 19 June 2015.

Hannah stood stock still for a moment when the others started barking orders.  The ASIO agents that stood before her were subtly wrong.  They hit that 'uncanny valley' where the way they moved was just ... so wrong.  She wasn't sure what it was that had a hold of these guys, but they didn't seem completely in control; which was just really disturbing to her.  And then she blinked.  Hard.  "Wha-..." escaped her lips, "what is wrong with their heads..."  There was something that she couldn't put her finger on.

And it took her a moment to process that.  A moment that she didn't necessarily have.  Of course, Hannah didn't have a weapon either, she knew.  So, physically backing James and Cooper's play wasn't really an option.  But it didn't mean that she'd be useless either; so, the army aviatrix did the next best thing.  The auburn-haired warrant officer shifted her position to shield and shepherd the OZ COO away out of the crossfire.  "Down, sir." she urged - well, actually ordered, Papoudopolis.  They couldn't go too far - as that would be counterproductive, but they needed some sort of cover and quick.  Or given that it was a hallway, get up against the sideboards and make like a wallflower or the floor.

Her primary regret is that there isn't anyone there to try and protect Susan, but at least she has been partially push out of harm's way ...

Hannah 'Double Down' Omdahl
Hallway
Try to protect Papoudopolis and get as 2-D as possible

The urge comes, then passes, to give the spectrum analyzer the "Han Solo Treatment" and whack it on the side of a car a few time to see if that settles the problem, but Michael is confident that it will more likely crack the plastic case that fix the software.  When the signal starts to become stronger, he shifts the device to his left hand and continues to advance on the target vehicle.   It's a simple van, but also not.  If he wasn't aware of the threat it contained, it wouldn't look out of place on this busy city street, but as it is, the vehicle seems to call out that it is something else.  It seems that the people standing around on the street should be able to see that it doesn't fit, that it is somehow unique.  Maybe even the universe should recognize it, somehow, but that isn't the way the world works, and Dacovetti has been to enough bad places to know that it is the innocuous that can prove the most dangerous.

"Dealer, Signal profile match confirmed," Dacovetti says into his radio.  "Signal strength increasing.  Liam, prepare for breach, I will cover.  Start electronic countermeasures."

It would have to be wide spectrum jamming.  Even then, Dacovetti wasn't sure they would capture whatever wavelength the system they were advancing on was operating under, but at least they might interfere with any nasty surprises that had been cooked up using terrestrial technology. Welcome to true isolation, he thinks.  The world outside is coming to him through two plastic face pieces, sound has become muted, and the heat is creeping steadily.

As the final distance to the target vehicle is close, Michael carefully removes his pistol, making sure not to tear his suit in the process, and sweeps the crowd with his eyes.  Then he moves to cover Liam as the other tech begins to work on the door, careful to stay out of the man's way, but still close enough to give support should it be necessary.


Michael Dacovetti
Standing, covering Liam
Glock at the ready (15/15)
3 Mags remaining

Cooper steps forward, arms raised for invisible handcuffs, and both ASIO agents focus on him.  As he draws closer, his sense of otherness grows.  In a situation like this, the agents should be moving apart to clear each other's lines of fire, one moving toward him to cuff him while the other covers his companions.  Yet they're just standing there holding their badge cases, watching him unblinkingly, vibrating like racing greyhounds.

It's more than enough of a diversion for James.  The G-man slides smoothly to one side and brings the bulky FN pistol online in a single smooth motion, shouting commands at his Australian counterparts.

That's Hannah's cue to move.  Unarmed for the moment, the aviatrix grabs Papoudopolis - who's already recoiling reflexively - and steers his reflexive evasion into a lunge back toward the door of his office.  The glass walls are no real cover but it's the best immediate move out of the line of fire.

The man closer to Cooper snaps a hand to his own sidearm but the diver is on him before he can clear leather.  Cooper yanks the agent's jacket down, trapping his shooting hand, and pulls his head into a flurry of fist and elbow strikes.  The final shove against the wall is unnecessary - the man's unconscious before his badge case hits the floor - but it clears Cooper's maneuvering room. 

The second agent emits a high-pitched whimper punctuated by a crack like a dry branch snapping.  James, watching the man over a perfect sight picture, sees his jaw spasm and realizes that he's clenching so hard he just shattered a molar.

A single drop of blood rolls from the corner of his eye.

The man whirls away as James takes up the last millimeter of slack in his trigger.  He drives the heels of both hands hard against his brows, fingernails digging furrows in his forehead.  "Get out!  Get out!  Getoutgetoutgetout!" he cries, spitting blood and tooth fragments with each word, and lunges forward to slam the crown of his head into the wall.

From the street comes a sudden rattle of gunfire...

---

Andrey deploys his well-honed impression of am absentminded businessman and turns down Flinders Lane toward the bystanders clustered at the corner.  A single Victoria Police officer tries to keep order but his aura of authority is spoiled by his frequent glances over his shoulder.  If the truck does contain an IED, he's two meters closer than any of the civilians he's trying to protect.

As Andrey works his way to the front of the crowd, a lone man in civilian garb separates from the knot of armed men at the far end of the block.  The stride is familiar but the distance is too great for immediate recognition.  Gambling that no one around him is interested in his actions, Andrey fishes in his pocket, retrieves his surveillance camera, and cranks it to maximum magnification.  In the image it shares with his smartphone, the man's face generates a trickle of familiarity.  Andrey flicks through his mental file... yes.  2010.  That business with the sweaty Egyptian.  That's the Frenchman... Alain.

---

Sébastien locks in his orders and steps forward toward the possible grave of his career.  And his own as well, as he leaves cover and walks toward an armed alien with the possible trigger to a car bomb.  It's the widest street he's ever crossed.

A score of phones swing toward him but the Attar spares him no more than a casual glance before returning intently to the pair of HAZMAT-suited men at the van.  Do their disguises extend to their facial expressions?  Can they mask their emotions?  Do they even have emotions as humans reckon such things?  All Sébastien can tell is that there's no discernible flicker of recognition in return --

-- but the spider between his shoulder blades tells him someone else is interested in him.

Sébastien scans for the source of his disquiet.  Up the block, an unassuming dark man in an unassuming dark hat is at the front of the crowd.  A fragment of a reflected glare catches the lens of something small concealed in his hand, pointed directly at Sébastien.  Something about the profile - Five years ago, the Gulf.  The freelancer... Mikhail.

---

"Copy breach, standing by for jamming" confirms Liam.  He eases his slung carbine further behind his back and reaches into his toolkit.

"Copy breach," echoes Sergei from the van.  "Jammer online in five, four, three, two, one..."  His voice is replaced by a gentle surf-hiss punctuated by occasional popcorn.

Sweat rolls down Michael's back as he scans the crowd.  Many are poking their phones, wearing quizzical expressions that confirm the ECM package is working as designed.  He's turning back to check Liam's progress when a flash of motion against the pattern catches his eye.  In the clothier's shop behind him, two men with South Asian features shove their way through the crowd at the front doors.  As they break through the wall of irate fellow shoppers and hit the doors' crashbars, the bags in their hands fall away --

-- to reveal a stubby submachine gun in the hands of one, and a pistol and long knife in the other's.

"Contact left!" yells one of the SASR operators at the southern barricade.  His M4 comes up, tracking as the two men burst onto the street and accelerate toward Michael and Liam, but his shots spatter cement from the sidewalk.

Once again, Michael Dacovetti finds himself in the center of a street while an opponent with a gray-gleaming blade charges toward him.   The Glock is a distant mass in his gloved hands and rain sluices down his visor.  He turns, brings the front sight on target, exhales half a breath of dry SCBA air, and wills the bullet away.

The round goes low, clipping the ankle of the man with the knife.  His leg buckles, failing to support his weight, and he rolls forward into the cover of a car with a shriek like a teakettle.

---

Dacovetti -1 round

Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:01, Sat 20 June 2015.

Cooper closed another gap, grabbing the second agent by his shirt as the AISO investigator recoiled from hitting his head against the wall.  Williams looked the man briefly in the eyes before massively overstimulating his trigeminal nerve with a Hung Fa Yi punch.  It might have been excessive, but Williams didn't want to take any chances.  It was better that the agent was out cold, than having the man continue to ram his head into a wall or draw down on them.  With the immediate threat dealt with, Cooper took a step back and inhaled deeply.

"There's something there," Cooper said, verbalizing a feeling more than any specific observation.  He didn't dwell on the emotion though.  Instead Cooper reached down and disarmed both AISO agents.  He carried a sidearm over to Hannah, tucking the second pistol into the waistband of his slacks.

"Good work," he said, noting that she had protected the principal.  "Just remember, do unto others..." Williams said, handing Omdahl one of the AISO weapons.  He hoped she would understand his meaning of his message.  While whatever happened to those AISO agents was certainly both dangerous and bizarre, it was worth remembering that they had been trained Australian intelligence officers, committed to protecting the citizens of his country before they were 'co-opted'.

But for the grace of God go I, Williams thought to himself as he considered the enemy they were up against.  He hoped that if the table were turned, he'd take one in the chin instead of two in the chest.

Petty Officer Cooper Williams
Melee w/remaining AISO Agent
9 levels of Unarmed MA
Knocking out last agent.  Disarming both.  One weapon to Hannah, retaining one for now.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:37, Sat 20 June 2015.

Mikhail. Durand's mouth has gone dry. For a split second he forgets about the Attar, forgets about everything else. Just for a mere fraction of a second, the time it takes to blink an eye. His arm is lifting to his sleeve, a reflex action, to tell Jamie to get the Aussie cops to grab him, to hold him, to find out what the fuck he is doing here, but the sound of gunfire from further up the street causes his head to turn instinctively, losing his visual on the Russian as he reorients on the two gunmen who have just stepped out from the crowd.

Merde! Gunmen. Attar. Mikhail. There's no time to make a conscious decision. He can't cover the Attar and the gunmen. The shooters are active now, that makes them the immediate priority as far as Durand is concerned. The Frenchman is already going down to one knee, bringing his Glock up, both hands on the pistol. There's no time to get on the radio. Hopefully someone will keep eyes on the Attar.

The pistol is up. He's on one knee in the middle of a fucking street. Exposed. Civilians everywhere, some of them scattering at the sound of the gunfire, running. Screaming. Durand aims carefully, trying to get a bead on the gunmen. If he can get a clear shot without risking hitting any of the civvies he'll take it. If he can't he'll try and manoeuvre to a position where he can, keeping low. It's leaving him exposed to the Attar, but the gunmen are the immediate danger. It appears that the Attar is just watching. Command and control? Possibly. Are the gunmen a diversion? Perhaps.

As for Mikhail, well, that wasn't really anything to do with this. Or was it? Was it coincidence that he was here?

Durand doesn't believe in coincidence.

Bullfrog
Going to one knee in street
Aiming at unidentified gunmen. Will engage with 2 x double tap (4 shots) if no civvies in line of fire
If no clear shot will attempt to shift position to get a shot
Glock 19 (15/15)

The feeling of exposure in familiar.  As is the spike of adrenaline rushing into his blood stream at the sight of heavy blade in alien hands.  There isn't much cover to speak of. Cars of course, but his mobility is limited and his visibility  might be worse.  A myriad of factors spiral through Dacovetti's brain: the background hazard, lines of fire from friendlies, weapon effects, movement limitations, just what that knife can do if it were to connect with human flesh.

The street becomes a math problem.  Liam and the security forces need time to bring their long arms to bear.  The 9mm that Dacovetti is carrying will only be useful in slowing the creatures down.  Distance to Liam divided by rate of closure times hostile firepower raised to the power of doing nothing to stop whatever is occurring inside the van.

"Shit," he says quietly.  At least his first round hit.

Decision made, Dacovetti side steps, hoping to pull the eyes of his adversary off Liam with movement.  Relying on muscle memory more than an accurate sight picture, Michael begins firing rounds at the attacker still visible, trying his best to focus on landing the rounds instead of imagining the consequences of a miss on crowded streets.  Letting the Attars complete their task carries a heavy unknown risk, one that calls for a cruel calculus.


Michael Dacovetti
Firing, two handed at the standing Attar, shifting fire as necessary to tie up their advance
Glock 19 (14/15)
3 Mags remaining

Hannah hit the floor with Papoudopolis and lay there for a moment, while she waited for the apocalypse to arrive.  After a heartbeat or two, when the glass wall didn't shatter into a shower of million shards, the auburn-haired warrant officer blew a stray lock of hair from her face and started to get up.  She looked the OZ COO straight in the eye.  "Stay down, sir." Hannah ordered using her 'command voice', a curt, clipped tone that brooked little argument.

She winched herself upwards to look around for a moment, noting that Cooper had efficiently and effectively dealt with the two ASIO agents.  And hadn't had to kill them in process; he was good.  Only then, did she motion to Papoudopolis that it was probably okay to get up.  "Honestly, you might want to stay here though, sir ..." Hannah noted off-hand, motioning him to remain with a low profile.  There wasn't a necessity to expose him to more than danger (physically or psychologically) then absolutely necessary right now.

She nodded at Cooper's grim and efficient, if disarming, abilities and then to his offer of a side arm and warning about its use.  "They were not themselves," Hannah readily agreed, "the second agent confirmed it..."  She paused and leaned in towards Cooper and the Lizard King, her eyes not leaving the two unconscious men, "h-there was something else... a purple halo or corona around their heads, like they weren't themselves...  i-it's gone now..."  She checked the slide and the load status on her new weapon, clicking off the safety only once she was satisfied with its state.

Hannah looked worried for a moment, but then regained her composure by taking in a deep breath and letting out slowly - the adrenaline edges was receding, but she could still feel the residual speeding of the heart and the tension in her neck and back.  "We," the auburn-haired warrant officer posited tentatively, "should likely detain them if possible.  See under what circumstances they might have been compromised..."  She tucked the weapon in her waist band for the moment and then started to search the prone bodies for handcuffs or other restraining devices; it would also serve to keep them from hurting themselves.

One eye on the door to the lobby, James keeps his pistol trained on the agent not currently being searched and/or cuffed by Omdahl. His mind's eye flashes an image of a red-brown, insectoid creature gripped between forceps, and then a Troma-like closeup of the creature burrowing into the ear canal of Ensign Chekov. Fast forward to Chekov freaking out, the creature sliding out of his ear in a trickle of blood. Focus, Choi!

"I've got cuffs if you need 'em." James reports, off hand reaching towards his left hip. In full field agent mode, he was dressed the part.

The sound of gunfire outside indicates that the other team is in even worse shape, pops of pistol fire and the crack of a carbine carried through the plate glass of the office.

"Shelter in place or dynamic exfil?" James asks the room, preferring the latter. If his teammates on the street below are neck deep in a gunfight, that's where James wants to be.

-
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 21:47, Sun 21 June 2015.

"Yeah, I saw it too," Cooper said with a nod.  He didn't know what it meant, but he was certain that it had something to do with the two agent's behavior.



"Good idea."

Cooper moved to assist.  As he did so, he fished the warrant out of one of the AISO agent's suit pockets, along with a pen.  Williams wrote his number on the back.  Standing up, he keyed his radio as he walked over to where Papoudopolis and Lim were.

"Black Sheep to Shepherd.  I've got civilians here on the sixth floor.  I need an exit and law enforcement escort for them once we are out of the building, over."  As he listend for a response, Cooper offered a hand to Susan Lim.

"Mu ren zhuang beats shoe phone every time," Williams said, refering to their earlier quips about 'cooler toys'.  What Coop was really saying was that gadgets were no substitue for effective training and plenty of it.  Not that she was likley to know the name of the wooden dummy that featured prominately in Wing Chun drill.

"Oh and here's that warrant you were looking for earlier," he added after helping her to her feet.  It was still folded so the contents couldn't be read, but William's phone number was clearly visible.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:41, Mon 22 June 2015.

"Well this op just keeps getting more and more interesting... Alain. What the fuck is the Frenchman doing in Australia? It couldn't possibly have anything to do with my business could it?  Well, he is about to throw down on on of Tri Budi's subordinates so... Maybe he's working the Terrorist angle as well - or he got caught up in it pursuing his own thing."

All of these thoughts flew through Andrey's mind when he locked eyes with Alain over the several meters and several years of their sordid history.  Had he spotted him? Of course he had. The Frenchman never forgot a face and it's not like he was wearing the most cunning of disguises... Vasilyev wasn't prepared to answer the questions that Alaine likely had and if he got picked up he'd have to explain the contents of his pockets.

"Time to pull a fade and see if I can observe from a distance. It's not like I'm armed anyway and the last thing I need to do is catch a stray bullet."

The ASIO agents' weapons are a Beretta 96 and a Tanfoglio CZ 75 clone, both heavily-worn.  The pistols are simply tucked into the men's pants without holsters.  Their belts are also bereft of the other equipment of plainclothes agents: no magazine carriers, handcuffs, or other kit.  A check of pockets reveals a single spare magazine for each gun.  As Cooper hands over the Beretta to Hannah, he locks eyes with James for a second.  The delayed realization hits both men simultaneously: ASIO agents aren't legally allowed to go armed in the course of their duties.  It's only tangentially relevant now but it's another item in the file of today's unexpected details.

James' bracelets go on with a ratcheting click-click, securing both ASIO agents' hands behind their backs.  The simple mechanical precision helps him refocus on the job at hand.  A quick check of the agents' credentials reveals nothing irregular here - they look legitimate, at least to James' hastily-crammed knowledge of Australian government IDs.  Both men are still breathing though probably concussed, and the second man has a nasty pressure cut on his head from his attempt at self-destruction.  They feel feverish and the moisture soaking their clothes is as much perspiration as rain.

Papoudopolis nods to Hannah and rolls to his knees with a grunt.  The rock hammer is in his hand again and he takes in the scene for a long moment before sliding it back into his belt.  "I'd better look in on the rest of my people," he responds, "and you to yours."  He jerks his chin toward the street for emphasis.  "Susan, can you walk?"  He assists Lim to her feet and begins steering her toward the conference room where the rest of the staff is gathered.  The executive assistant's eyes are glassy with shock from the sudden brief violence and she takes the annotated warrant from Cooper with barely a glance at it.

"Troops in contact outside your location," Cooper's radio advises him.  "Be advised, police are involved and do not have your description."

Moving from interview mode to action, James and Hannah switch on their portable radios and unspool their earpieces in time to catch an anguished grunt from Michael...

---

Sébastien drops to a knee behind the scant cover of a cement planter.  He tracks the man with the submachine gun, double-taps, sees his rounds dimple a parked car's door as he leads just a bit too much (Durand -2 rounds).  The gunman swivels with an Attar's liquid speed and sprinkles Sébastien's general area with poorly-aimed automatic fire.

The other man leans out from behind cover, takes Michael's bait, and thrusts out his pistol.  The airman's head snaps back in a cloud of glittering fragments as a round punches through his HAZMAT suit's faceplate and out the back of the hood, creasing the left side of his scalp in the process (Dacovetti scratch wound to the head).

Michael reels back, half-blinded from debris in his eyes.  His finger keeps moving because his brain doesn't have time to tell it to stop (Dacovetti -5 rounds).  The man with the submachine gun, padlocked on Sébastien, walks straight into Michael's fire and folds over, still firing, as a round tears into his abdomen and another shatters his right femur.  The tearing shriek he emits could not have come from a human throat.

Caradoc shouts something to the SASR security detail and bounds forward to cover, then pops up and looses a volley at Michael and Sébastien's target.  His rounds crater the sidewalk around the man but fail to connect.  The Australians' M4s open up as he clears their line of fire but the downed gunman makes an acrobatic twist and squirms out of the way.

Michael feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him down and back toward the van and cover.  Another rifle opens up at his side as Liam, firing one-handed, suppresses the man with the pistol and the cars between which he's hiding.

As Andrey turns away to vanish, a screech-hiss of tires on wet pavement snaps his head around.  Running the wrong way on Flinders Lane, a grey sedan - possibly the same one from the warehouse - fishtails onto Queen Street and bumps to a stop at the north end of the median.  The doors slam open and two Aboriginal men emerge.  As the police officer turns from his crowd control and steps forward, hand dropping toward his holstered pistol, a pipe bomb arcs out from the new arrivals toward the crowd.

---

Minor map updates: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing

Summary of positioning:

• Sébastien has cover from the gunmen but is partially exposed to the Attar's last known location.

• Michael and Liam are at the front right corner of the suspect delivery van with good cover from the gunmen, but they're exposed to the Attar's last known location and their backs are to the new arrivals.

• Andrey has good 360º meat-shield cover from the lone cop and the crowd of about 20 bystanders.

• Hannah, James, and Cooper are on the sixth floor with no current LOS to any of the street-level action.  If they descend the nearest fire stairs (elevators are locked down), they will emerge at the building's northeast corner.  There's another set of fire stairs, only slightly less convenient, which lets out in the building's lobby, in the middle of its east (Queen Street) facing.

Actions?
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:26, Sat 27 June 2015.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" The statement is a reflex, the result of live fire training, like teaching children playing sports that when they fall down, the first thing they are supposed to do is shout: I'm okay!  The thought that he might actually be okay is somewhat surprising given the amount of high velocity, low mass matter that has just interacted with his face and scalp.  The left side of his head is burning and he's rapdily blinking plastic and blood out of his eyes, but he doesn't think he has sustained permanent damage to anything critical.  Yet.  The urge to wipe his eyes clean is almost overpowering, restrained only because his hands are encased in one rubber environment and his face in another, now somewhat less hermetically sealed.  The airman is profoundly grateful to his new Aussie comrade for dragging him into cover.

"I'm good," Dacovetti repeats, flexing loose of Liam.  It's hard to hear if there is an answer between the constant gunfire and the air free flowing out of the hazmat suit.  This is going to reduce my suit time, he thinks out of the blue, dramatically.  Statistically, the furball erupting in the street will be over before his air is.  Statistically.

Instead of playing along with the basic rules of the firefight established so far: namely fire, duck, and exchange roles, Michael drops to the ground and rolls partially under the van, picking up a little bit of cover and more importantly, spotting the other hostile's legs.

"Eat a dick."  He blinks once, and fires.


TSgt Michael Dacovetti
Prone, Firing at exposed body parts
Glock 19 (9/15)
3 Mags remaining

Durand flinches subconsciously as bullets fly in the area around him but when the fusillade ends he's still unscathed. He knows that he can't keep awareness of the entire situation, can't keep eyes on everything and everyone that he needs to. He can hear a cacophony of sound through the earpiece lodged in his right ear, different disembodied voices, sometimes talking over each other.

And then he hears Dealer cry out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There's a momentary feeling of helplessness. One of his people is hurt and what is he doing? Fuck all, that's what it feels like. He's in the middle of a fucking street and he's doing fuck all. Fuck this.

His nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath, looks out from around the oversize cement plant pot that he's taken shelter behind, tries to get an eyeball on the shooters. He can see that one of them has taken hits, but Durand knows from bitter experience that may not be enough to keep it down. The Attar is still out there somewhere as well. And then there was Mikhail.

Five years since the Frenchman had hunted high and low for that fucking bastard, because Mikhail owed him. Durand had turned the Gulf upside down, the souks, the back streets, the luxury Hotels. He'd tried persuasion to locate him, bribery, on some occasions sheer outright brutality. But Mikhail had vanished off the face of the Earth. Until now. And Durand was not about to let that bastard vanish again.

But first he needs to deal with the immediate threat. He doesn't have the time to analyse the anger that is building within him, to determine what is fuelling it, whether it's the fact that one of his men has taken a hit or the fact that Mikhail is close and these alien fuckers are getting in the way of unfinished business. But whatever its source it's clearly there as he rises slightly to try and get a clear shot at the target that is still standing, the one that is firing at Dealer and Liam with a handgun.

Durand tries to get a line on it, holds his Glock in both hands, squeezes the trigger, again and again, spent cartridge cases flying as he unleashes multiple rounds at the alien gunman. He'll keep firing until the action clicks on an empty magazine or the target goes down and stays down, whichever happens first. If the latter, he'll switch targets to the other gunman.

Bullfrog
In crouch behind cement planter, firing 1 x aimed shot followed by multiple quick shots at gunman armed with pistol
Firing until weapon empty, target(s) down, or turn ends (whichever comes first!)
Glock 19 (13/15)

Once the two captives were secured, Hannah checked the chamber on the Beretta and the presence of the .40 caliber rounds and felt the heft of the gun for a moment.  She nodded to Cooper in thanks for the handgun, knowing that the unconcious ASIO agents wouldn't be needing it.  Placing the 96 in her waistband at the small of her back and slipping the extra magazine into her suit pants pocket, the auburn-haired warrant officer caught a glimpse of the look that Coop had given the Lizard King.

But before addressing that, she first acknowledged Papoudopolis.  "Thank you, sir." she noted, giving him a curt nod.  It was good that the man still had the wherewithal and the desire to help his subordinates and staff of his own accord.  She fully expected that the actions would probably save lives.

Which got them to the other half of that business about saving lives.  Particularly human ones.  And even more particularly, Grey Cell ones.  She pushed her earbud into her right ear for the tactical communicator that she'd pulled from the briefcase she'd been carrying.  Pulling her custom Oakleys (with their yellow tinted lenses for enhancing color contrast in daylight conditions) from the briefcase as well, and then tossing the leather-stitched accessory aside, she stood ready to move out.

"Okay." she prompted her two companions, "What's the play?"  Hannah trusted their tactical ground sense a bit more than her own.  She wasn't exactly eager to go barreling into a crossfire - so the Queen's Street side stairs wasn't necessarily her first choice, even if it was the most expedient.  But the yelp of Michael over their commlink made her reconsider that opinion.  A look of worry crossed her face, even as (or perhaps because of) the less-than-reassuring reassurances came from Dealer.  Her weight shifted nervously for a moment, her basic black pumps scuffing softly on the carpeted floor.

Hannah 'Double Down' Omdahl
Gettin' combat ready
Beretta 96 (11/11), 1 spare mag

Cooper relayed the information he had gotten from the Victoria Barracks JOC, then added, "I'm not sure taking them out of the frying pan and into the fire is such a good idea."

The 'troops in contact' response to Cooper's 'I need an exit' request gave Williams serious reservations about moving non-combatants down to ground level.  Having dealt with the most immediate hazard, the Oz staff were relatively safe here.  Whatever was in the Transit was a concern, but hadn't been confirmed as a threat yet.  The risk of getting someone killed in the crossfire of a firefight was certainly real as this point however.

"I can shelter in place here if you two want to link up with your team and deal with whatever is out there.  It's probably best for Choi to lead with his credentials in hand instead of his pistol.  I can relay to the JOC that you are coming, but there's a good chance that most of the Police won't get the message in time.  Make sure they know you are not a hostile before you engage or you could be taking fire from them as well."

Williams keyed his radio again.  "Copy. I'll shelter in place with the civilians until the backup team and Police establish control.  Notify all units that the two American specialists with me are heading down to link up with the rest of their team, over."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:56, Sun 28 June 2015.

Shit, really? Ok. "You with me, Ohmdahl?" Receiving a curt nod of confirmation, James heads for the stairwell to the main lobby. If the baddies currently shooting it up on the street below are on their way to Oz Minerals, they're likely headed for the fastest way in and up, and that would be the lobby. The last thing he wants to do is miss them on the way up by taking the side stairs. Cooper seems like he can handle himself, but Mr. P.'s not going to be much help with just that hammer of his. On the way down the stairs his keys his throat mic. "All units, Lizard King. Two friendlies, exiting the main stairs to the lobby. If you can, let the locals know we're coming, a man and a woman, wearing business casual and carrying sidearms. Lizard King, out."

Two against nature.

At the bottom of the stairwell, James turns to Omdahl to make sure she's ready. "Here we go." As he leans into the push par to the lobby door, he's got his Bureau ID in his left hand, and the FNH in his right, resting on top of his left wrist (as if he were holding a tac light in his off hand instead). Anyone who notices the piece should also notice the badge- that was the hope, at least. He's looking for anyone obviously hostile- Attars first and foremost, then anyone shooting at his friends.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 16:03, Thu 02 July 2015.

Andrey took a fraction of a second to process the new threat that's presented itself and silently wished there was more he could do before committing to action.

"Alain! Enemy contact north!" and then to the crowd "Everybody down! Bomb!" he shouted as loudly as he could with a voice practiced in projecting authority and command when necessary.

He threw himself to the ground, hoping to be clear of any glass or other potential hazards, lying in such a way as to make himself as narrow a target as possible, knowing that most bombs were designed to explode up and out. He took shallow breaths to keep his lungs mostly empty so as to avoid having them rupture in the wake of over-pressurization from the bomb. He reminded himself that most bomb fatalities outside of the immediate blast were caused by internal bleeding - shrapnel killed less than 10% of the time.

He hoped that whoever Alain was working with were the right people... Otherwise he'd exposed himself for nothing.

(ooc: edited slightly for clarity - wasn't able to check the map from the phone)
This message was last edited by the player at 21:52, Tue 30 June 2015.

Sébastien's front sight is waiting as the man with the pistol pops out from cover again.  The first round is away without conscious thought, catching the target low on his right side, then the first follow-up shot strikes a handspan above his left knee (Durand -4 rounds).  Neither bullet appears to do more than momentarily unbalance Sébastien's target despite his certainty of at least two good hits.

The pistoleer spares Sébastien an opaque glance as he recovers his equilibrium, then launches himself up and over the car in an impossibly fluid parkour move, firing as he comes toward Michael and Liam.  Hie volley goes high but he rolls off the hood and sticks the landing five meters closer to the two men.

Michael sees the feet disappear as he goes to one side in front of the suspect van.  He stays motionless, awaiting their inevitable reappearance and is pleasantly surprised by the decreased range.  Three rounds strike the pistoleer's right foot and ankle (Dacovetti -3 rounds).  The target flops down, thrashing and emitting an inarticulate hissing shriek, and folds double as Liam puts a three-round burst into its belly.  A moment later, the EOD tech adds his own anguished grunt as a round from the other shooter's submachine gun punches through his left thigh.

Up the street, Andrey shouts a warning and dives for the sidewalk as the pipe bomb arcs toward him.  The crowd is already surging back from the sudden gunfire.  About half the onlookers, primed for instructions from any authority, follow the Russian down.  As Andrey hits the ground, he sees the police officer lunge forward and bat the pipe bomb away as it bounces from the curb.  A moment later, he feels more than hears the detonation.  There's a ripple like heavy rain as shrapnel spatters exposed flesh.  The cop reels away and falls atop his car's hood, blood seeping over exposed white bone.  There's a moment of stunned silence before the screams start.  Taking inventory, Andrey finds himself seemingly unscathed. 

As James and Hannah plunge into the lobby, the floor-to-ceiling windows star from the impact of wayward ball bearings.  A moment later, the agents belatedly register the flash and smoke-puff of the detonation.  Committed to their momentum, they charge toward the front doors.  As they hit the crashbars, two armed Aboriginal men dash past them down the street, headed toward the firefight.  In profile, James recognizes the one in the lead, heavy satchel banging against his hip, from the ASIO briefing files on the local radicals.  His opening shots of the engagement go wide (Choi -3 rounds) but the gunfire forces the trailing man to stutter-step just in time for Hannah to double-tap him in the right hip (Omdahl -2 rounds).  Her target screams, topples forward, and thrashes through a few meters of skid as his pistol skitters across the rain-slick pavement.

Through the hiss of the SASR team's broad-spectrum jamming, James and Hannah catch a partial transmission from Caradoc: "skrrzin at the north, Ikrrrztyou're friendly..."  More gunfire erupts from the south end of the block as the SASR operators pour lead into the target that Michael's low blow forced from cover.

Upstairs, Cooper herds Papoudopolis and Lim into the conference room as a small explosion rattles the windows and draws whimpers from some of OZ Minerals' less stouthearted staff.  Papoudopolis' only reaction is to cock his head as if gauging the blast's intensity.  From the radio traffic, the SASR cover teams are heading to the sound of the guns.  The assault team is at the police CP, while the plainclothes detail is running the wrong direction on Flinders, about to turn onto Queen.

---

OOC: The SASR channel is not being jammed (remember, Michael told Sergei to fire up the jammer as he and Liam attempted to enter the van) but the Grey Cell channel is affected.

And a map update: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:39, Wed 01 July 2015.

Andrey tried to push the image of the policeman's shattered body out of his mind while visions of Chechnya flash danced in his mind's eye.

The Russian agent scrabbled across the ground, keeping as low a profile as he could and made his way to the fallen policeman, his eyes darting around trying to find the aboriginals through the general chaos unfolding around him.

"Where are they?" he thinks, his chief concern, as he helps himself to the downed cop's pistol.

Durand allows himself a small smile of satisfaction as he sees his bullets strike their intended target, though it's a smile that fades almost immediately as he sees it appears to be largely unscathed. His eyes lock with the creature's for a split second before it makes its move, the same inhuman reflexes that he saw in the garage in Tripoli. And then it's down, Dealer intervening. Just like in Libya.

The Frenchman is looking for the second possible Attar, the one with the submachine gun, when he hears a voice call out to Alain. In his business names were just something to use as a matter of convenience, a way to address someone, to attract their attention, interchangeable, discarded when they had served their purpose, along the passports that go with them, the driver's licence, the credit cards. He had been Alain once upon a time, but that identity had been shredded, both metaphorically and literally, five years ago, so there's a pause before Durand turns.

And then he feels the shock wave of the explosion as the pipebomb goes off. Though he thinks he's outside the blast radius instinct makes him go down, prone, losing sight of the submachine gun wielding alien. For a second a silence seems to hang in the air, like something tangible, that he can reach out, take in his hand, just a split second, then the first car alarm goes off, the screams begin, the anguished wails of those caught in the blast.

Bastards! Always with the terrorists it's the innocent that suffer. He picks himself up, rises to a knee, swallows once, twice, his ears popping. He raises his cuff mike to his face, not knowing if it is still functioning, if it is being jammed. "North end of the street, where the bomb went off. Russian male, by the bank. He called a warning. Detain him." So, Mikhail had tried to warn him. One good turn deserves another, mon ami.

Mikhail is going to have to wait though, for there are still two Attars out there. The unarmed one on the east side of the street, the armed one on the west. More friendly guns should be arriving. Durand yells across the street to Crewe. "Painter! Take down that fucker with the SMG! I'll take the other one."

Durand then rises to his feet, looks to his right, looking for the unarmed Attar, his pistol held in front of him in both hands as he tries to locate his target and take it down.

Bullfrog
Rising to feet cement planter, trying to locate Mas'ud Attar (the one on the east side of the street)
If he spots target will engage with quick shots
Glock 19 (9/15)

From his position on the ground near their original target vehicle, Michael's mind swirls inside its own OODA loop.

Observe: Target one terminated through judicious application of high power bullets, several of them his own. Target Two is still active with a sub-machine gun that has an angle  to his position demonstrated due to Liam taking a round through the thigh.  A bomb has detonated that practically bounced Michael's head off the bumper of the van.  There are more hostiles present in the area than the airman can account for at the present time.

Orient:  The threat the van represents is still an unknown quantity but seems to be a focal point of enemy activity.  Primary threat represents the active shooter, although the van will have to be dealt with.

Decide: The sub-machine gun toting hostile must be eliminated.

Act: Dacovetti repositions his weapon to get a bead on the hostile that still has an active angle on the position he is sharing with Liam.  "How bad?" Michael yells to his partner as he tries to line up the next shot.  If they can clear this target, maybe they can get the van out of there.  If they can get access.

The world has clearly gone to shit around them.  The op will be starring on millions of you tube links and hundreds of hours of "expert" analysis.  There won't be a full accounting of the dead and wounded for hours either, most likely.  So much for quiet and not taking a direct role in the Aussie affairs.


Michael Dacovetti
Firing on SMG hostile
Sweeping for other hostiles if the target is already down
On ground
Glock 19 (6/15)
3 Mags remaining

Before they had reached the bottom of the stairs, Hannah had her pistol out and ready.  She gasped slightly when she heard what could only be an explosion.  Double Down took a couple of deep breaths and pushed out the lobby doors along side Lizard King covering making sure to take the side that he wasn't covering.  Just like in the shoot house... the US Army warrant officer reminded herself.

Hannah watched with grim satisfaction as her shots actual hit her intended target in the intended spot for once.  She'd love to credit the hours spent in the drills and the shoot house, but deep down inside the auburn-haired army veteran knows better.  Sometimes it is better to be lucky than good - much as she might wish to be both.  The chief warrant officer had merely been following her FBI companion's lead, though she'd surmised that given the coloration and racial origin of men they were firing on that James had recognized them as persons - or rather aboriginals - of interest.  Or, at least, that is what she hoped, given that she'd just wounded a civilian.  Though, granted he was an armed civilian...

Double Down moved along with Lizard King switching her targeting from the sprawled, prone figure to the second of the aboriginal pair.  "Freeze!" she ordered the man, though she suspected that was a useless command.  She moved to kick the fallen man's pistol further from him, even as her finger remained on the trigger of her pistol and she prepared to squeeze said trigger in order to stop the other man from fleeing.  Hannah didn't like the prospect of shooting a man in the back, but she wasn't about to let the man get away.

Hannah thought that she could see Dealer, Bullfrog and Painter further down the street.  In the thick of things again... she noted bleakly to herself.

She craned her neck, tilting it to one side as Caradoc's disjointed message came crackling over the Grey Cell line.  "Painter, Double Down.  Repeat Message, Painter." Hannah chirped quickly into her throat mike, "You are breaking up.  Repeat message; you are breaking up."  She frowned, her lips pressed into a thin, tight moue as she glanced in James' direction.  "Please tell me that you understood him and that it is just my radio that is on the blink..." she prompted the Lizard King even though she knew better.

Hannah 'Double Down' Omdahl
Move to kick the first radical's pistol away, if possible; and then fire at second radical, if he flees
Beretta 96 (9/11), 1 spare mag

Cooper kept watch over the civilian staff of Oz Minerals, listening in on the SASR teams trying to reposition to help engage the threat that the American’s were neck deep in.  It never felt good to be sitting around while others were fighting, but he had been on enough operations to know that sometimes you were the doorkicker and sometimes you were security.

”Alright, when we get the word to evac, we’ll move calmly and purposefully out of the room and down the stairs.  I’ll lead, you’ll be last to make sure we have everyone,” Cooper said, pointing to  Papoudopolis.  ”We’ve got teams moving in to clear the street, so it will be just a few more minutes.”
This message was last edited by the player at 12:20, Thu 02 July 2015.

Three shots. Three misses. Three rounds that are supposed to be buried in a legitimate threat right now, instead buried somewhere downrange. On a busy city street. The ramifications of his poor marksmanship are deeply troubling. But once again, there isn't time to dwell on this. He has to shake it off, compartmentalize, deal with it later. Not now. Focus on the job still at hand. Do better.

James moves in the same direction as the aboriginals, keeping on the building side of the cars parked along the street. He covers Omdahl as she moves towards the "suspicious individual" she'd just winged, the second aboriginal centered in his sight picture, still doing his best to make sense of the overall tactical situation currently underway on the street. He's trying to differentiate friend from foe, threat from bystander; he's looking for Attars.

"He said something about a Russian near the bank!" James shouts in reply to Omdahl's query. His eyes dart over to the bank, looking for someone fitting Durand's one-word description. What does a 'Russian' look like, James muses. Probably white, fur hat, bottle of vodka in one hand. Helpful.

His FNH never drops. He's still displaying his badge, prominently enough he hopes. If a threat presents itself within effective pistol range, he'll engage, taking careful aim first, time permitting. He won't miss again.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:34, Thu 02 July 2015.

At the edge of Sébastien's awareness, he sees Mikhail running toward the downed policeman at the far end of the block.  Then he's scanning right, turning toward the storefront.  The window is deserted, the shop's patrons cowering behind upended tables.  There's no sign of Mas'ud Attar --

-- at ground level.  A second-story window slides open and Sébastien raises his eyes to see the Attar drawing back his arm.  With no civilian backstop to worry about, Sébastien unleashes a rapid fusilade (Durand -6 rounds).  The window frame erupts in dust and the Attar staggers back a step.  With visible effort, it forms its features into incredulous disgust as it gazes down at Sébastien, then its jaws distend.  It emits a sound like a clogged drain and, a split-second later, a vile green softball-sized expectoration.  Sébastien springs backward and the bolus strikes him in the stomach rather than the face.  As the Frenchman's sinuses catch fire (Durand: slight acid wound to abdomen, slight "wound" to head from off-gassing), he sees the Attar whip its arm around in an overhand throw.  A dull blue orb streaks across the street toward the suspect van...

The injured policeman is mercifully unconscious but still alive - for the moment.  Andrey avoids focusing on the ruin of the man's face and right arm.  He reaches in, swipes the holster's hood forward, and disengages the retention switch.   The Smith and Wesson (M&P40, 15-round capacity) comes loose and Andrey sprints toward the gunfire.

The second Aboriginal goes for the dubious concealment of the street's landscaped median, letting his Uzi hang on its sling as he fumbles in his satchel.  His hand emerges with another pipe bomb and he hooks a finger through a wire loop protruding from one end.

Andrey fires two rounds on the move (Vasliyev -2 rounds).  He's aiming for center of mass but the Smith's sights rise with his gait.  Crimson blossoms spray from the man's right shoulder and temple.  It's a perfect "turn off the lights" shot.  He drops in his tracks, the pipe bomb rolling harmlessly from limp fingers.

The Aboriginal drops straight out of James' sight picture as a new shooter enters his peripheral vision.  The FBI agent swings his badge and eyes to his left, keeping his Five-seveN oriented on the known threat axis.  The oncoming man sees the badge, then the gun, then Hannah coming around from finishing her own target's disarmament.  There's a flicker of recognition - not at him, James thinks, but at the off-center eagle atop his shield.

Andrey has a bare second to wonder what an American FBI agent is doing in the middle of a gunfight in southern Australia, then two weapons are pointing at him.  With a slight, apologetic smile, he spreads his arms wide and stoops to put down the borrowed pistol on the wet pavement...

"Just meat," Liam yells back to Michael, sounding more aggrieved than seriously injured.  "I've got your fuckgetdown--"

Reflex curls Michael into a ball as he hears something metallic strike the pavement behind him, then his vision goes green and a wall of heat threatens to sear his flesh right through the HAZMAT gear.  There's a thump that he recognizes as a car's gas tank letting go and his wounded suit is letting in the smell of scorched metal and asphalt.

James, Hannah, and Andrey see a small blue orb describe a flat arc from across the street and strike the pavement a few meters from their position.  Grenade, whispers hard-won reflex in the minds of all three combat veterans.  Andrey, already halfway to the ground, finishes the move and flattens.  James grabs Hannah's upper arm, assists her half-formed dive for cover into a fling across a nearby car in a parody of a Dukes of Hazard hood-slide, and gathers himself to leap after her when a green flash flings him against the vehicle's windshield.  It takes him a stunned moment -- Green flame!  All hell is breaking loose here! -- to realize that the burning sensation at the back of his neck is connected to the smell of burning shirt (Choi: slight wound to head).

Michael uncurls to see Liam rolling on the sidewalk, extinguishing the last flames from his own burning Level As.  The airman's Glock has migrated to the place all dropped tools go - the exact geometric center of the suspect van's underside - but Liam's carbine lies abandoned on the ground.  The last standing gunman fires his weapon dry in Caradoc's direction and dumps it as he dashes toward the vehicle.  Michael rolls away from a kick that dents the van's fender with punishing force, keeps moving, somehow comes up with Liam's Mk.18 in his hands as the gunman yanks open the van's passenger door and leaps inside.

---

Slight map update: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:48, Fri 03 July 2015.

Fuck!!! Durand feels the sting of the acid as it strikes him on the chest, his nasal cavities erupting in pain as he inhales the fumes it gives off, the sudden nausea causing memories of Tripoli to flash through his mind. The Frenchman rapidly ducks down behind the cement planter again, blinking to clear his eyes, seeing a blue orb arc overhead as he hawks up a ball of phlegm to try and clear the mucus forming in this throat, spits it out onto the Melbourne pavement in a wad as a wave of green flame erupts further up the street.

Still hawking and spitting Durand ejects the magazine in the Glock, reaches for a replacement, changes the magazines over as rapidly as he can, trying to ignore the burning pain in his nostrils. At least it wasn't quite so bad as Libya. His vision has cleared, a quick wipe of his face with the back of his arm wiping away the water that had streamed out of his eyes, and he is still in full control of his senses and motor functions, unlike Tripoli where Dealer had had to haul him out of the danger zone.

Satisfied that the new magazine is properly seated in the Glock, the Frenchman holds the pistol in both hands, looks up over the cement planter, trying to take in the situation. He can see the green fire, the carnage that it appears to have wrought. He can still see Crewe, but he's temporarily lost visual contact with most of his team, knows that there is no point in asking them for sitreps. Even if the jammer wasn't disrupting their own comms everyone is way too busy right now.

He considers running into the building that Attar had hurled the alien grenade from, but the creature could be skulking anywhere inside the multi story building and given their inhuman strength and speed it would undoubtedly have the advantage. But Durand still thinks about it for a moment longer, weighing it up in his mind before shaking his head, his attention instead drawn to movement around the area where Dealer was last located.

Looking over, he's just in time to see one of the gunmen run towards the van. The DGSE Operator brings his weapon up, holding it in a two handed stance, calling out to Crewe as he does so. "Painter! Target the van!!! Kill that fucker!!!!" His weapon now aimed at the front of the van, Durand tries to get a bead on the gunman then squeezes the trigger, unleashing a volley of shots in the gunman's direction. He doesn't know if his intent is to try and flee the scene, set the bomb, or attack Dealer, and right now he doesn't care, he just wants the thing dead.

Bullfrog
Standing, behind cement planter
Firing at gunman in van (1 x aimed shot if possible followed by multiple quick shots)
Glock 19 (15/15)

The blast of heat that crawled up Michael's spine almost felt like deja vu.  A terribly familiar sensation of being way to close to something inhuman and less than survivable.  At least he was already on the round, it made the process of stop, drop, and roll altogether more easy to initiate.  And trying to roll out the flames on one's back takes on a certain degree of criticality when one is encased in plastic.

He was just assessing the the possibility of total extinguishment when the sound of rapidly approaching gunfire caught his attention, just in time to roll again, to vacate the location of a viciously aimed kick that, given the effect on the van's bumper, would have left Dacovetti's sternum somewhere off the coast of New Zealand (see, he does have a sense of humor, it's just ill timed).  As the TACP rolls, he comes up aces, holding Liam's abandoned Mk. 18, and while he isn't intimately familiar with the weapon, it will do in a pinch.

There is a split second of mental calculation as he tries to estimate the number of rounds left in the magazine before he settles on 9 as a reasonable over/under.  He can go all out and attempt entry into the van, but by all accounts is going to be a very bad place to be when the combined attention of several agents begins firing, or he can try fire blind anticipating where his target might be.  And maybe hit something that goes exothermic in a rapid fashion.

Fuck that.

Dacovetti makes several assumptions based on probability.  One: Most people firing at the van will fire high to avoid the engine block and to strike any potential target in the torso or head.  Two: Most of the people firing at the van are smart enough to notice a friendly operating in the close confines of where they are firing and take reasonable precautions, like aiming high.  Three: This is most likely a cargo van with only the two front seats.  Four: random fucking chance of a bullet hitting the Attar isn't awesome given who knows what the hell he's doing in there, like setting off a goddamn bomb which renders getting shot by friendlies moot.

I'm trusting you all not to miss, he thinks, then dives low, coming up next to the passenger side wheel, angling the carbine in to the open door trying to get a shot on anything inside.


Michael Dacovetti
Making bad decisions
Kneeling and trying to get a shot on the attar
Mk 18 Carbine (?/30)
O magazines remaining

James reaches back with his left hand and pulls forward on the collar of his sport coat, using it to smother and/or wipe the hot spot from the base of his skull. He doesn't know if it's fire or acid; either way, it burns like hell. Regardless, he keeps his head enough to not risk the exposed flesh of his hand, which, if burned, would likely render him combat inoperable. Once he's reasonably certain that the flames have been extinguished (or acid removed), he rolls on to his left side, holds the FNH at arms length in a two-handed grip, and looks in the direction that he thought he'd seen the orb sail in from. They taught this shooting stance at the Academy and drilled it pretty regularly in the HRT, but James had yet to try it- or even see someone else try it- in action.


"Omdahl, you OK?"


James Choi
Lying on left side behind car
FNH (17/20)
Scanning street, looking for orb-thrower or other target (will take aimed double-tap shots at any viable target within range)

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:10, Mon 06 July 2015.

Andrey heard, for the second time today, his ears ringing from too much explosive beating.  That didn't stop him from quickly assessing his surroundings and realizing that the American fed's attention was diverted. He took that opportunity to stay low and roll away, hoping to finally slip away.

"Shouldn't have warned Alain... bad tradecraft. What the hell is with you today Vasliyev?" he chastised himself, doing his best to ignore his throbbing headache and and scrapped palms.

--

Andrey Vasliyev
Unarmed
Crawling away on the sly
like a damned dirty spy

Hannah laid flat for a moment, taking stock and making sure that all of her body parts were all still seemingly attach to her and in working order.  She was breathing heavily and could feel her heart slamming in her chest as the adrenaline drove the blood through her veins, causing her temple to throb.

With an explosion that close, her ears were still ringing and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion for a long moment.  She glanced in the direction of James, having felt his hand release her arm after he'd pushed her past the covering silhouette of the car.  Hannah could see his mouth moving, but only caught the tail end of his words.  The US army aviatrix nodded slowly and held up a hand, trying to lever herself up with her other hand onto her knees.  "I...I'm all right..." she responded to Lizard King.

She took a closer look at James and his flaming shirt (and not in a good way).  Hannah sprung to her feet and lunged forward to close the distance between her and the companion from the FBI.  "Jesus, Choi!" she cried out, "You're on fire..."  And she obviously didn't mean that in a good way either, as she started to try and quickly pat down the flames that threatened to consume his shirt and burn his skin and hair.

Hannah 'Double Down' Omdahl
Kneeling next to the Lizard King
Trying to extinguish flames (preferably with the hand not holding her Beretta...)
Beretta 96 (9/11), 1 spare mag

The stench of singed hair joins the smell of burning apparel as the flames lick at the back of James' head.  Hannah, wishing for her usual Nomex flying gloves, bats at the back of the FBI agent's sport coat and manages to damp the flames as James slides off the car into a cloud of steam, rain flash-heated by the blast.  The asphalt is soft under his knee.  The white dot of his front sight flicks out toward the window from which the orb came, settling on a figure on the second floor of a shop across the street.  Krkrak.  Krkrak.  Fifty meters downrange, the Attar folds over as the first double-tap strikes just above its navel, then reels in an untidy pirouette and disappears from view as the second pair of SS190s nearly severs its left arm at the elbow (Choi -4 rounds).

The gunman slides behind the van's wheel and cranks the ignition.  Seeing the head pop into view, Sébastien looses a volley (Durand -6 rounds).  Safety glass cascades and the gunman jerks away reflexively, but the Frenchman's fire doesn't connect.  It does, however, pin the driver just long enough...

The Mk.18 is set up according to someone else's preferences but Michael has put tens of thousands of rounds downrange with its cousins.  He weaves around the open passenger's-side door, flipping the selector to AUTO as he comes.  The first round is a fraction of a second premature, whacking a chunk out of the door's latch mechanism before burying itself in a headrest.  The rest of the burst rakes the gunman's ribs and hip (Dacovetti - gun dry).  The spray of fluid and tissue that spatters the driver's door is an inhuman reddish-orange.  The gunman turns his head toward Michael and emits a burbling hiss, then slumps, jaws gaping.

With all eyes pointed away from him, Andrey makes a break for anonymity.  He's halfway back to the downed police officer when a four-door sedan screeches around the corner, braking to a halt just behind the bomb-throwers' car.  The three men inside emerge behind the muzzles of stubby assault rifles.  One twitches Andrey's direction and the Russian sighs, going back to his knees even before the command comes.

"Shovel Two to Shepherd, in position at the north end," crackles Cooper's radio as the SASR undercover team arrives on the scene.  "Radio break.  Shovel Two to Black Sheep, delta side --" the building's north side -- "is clear for egress, over."

The Mk. 18 locks back in the empty position, smoke rising slightly from the barrel.  Five rounds was the magic number, nine an overshot.  Four buried themselves in the target.  All things considered, it is a result that shows luck as much as skill.  If not more so.  He watches for a second to make sure his target isn't moving any farther, the only sound reaching his ears is the rush of air escaping the formerly pressurized interior of his suit.  The positive pressure system will make sure nothing off gassing from his target reaches his lungs for a few more minutes, but the air indicator is blinking orange and red isn't far behind.

"Dealer, Target down," he reports, hoping somebody hears. "We're going to try and move this van out of here."

Dacovetti leans into the van and tries to determine if there are any booby traps and to see just what the aliens are trying so damn hard to protect.  Assuming it's safe, he will try and locate keys and move Liam into the interior as well.  Before their air runs out.  And before the cameras surrounding them begin to find their way back into people's hands.

Durand stands slowly, deep breaths, his forehead wet with perspiration. The Glock is still held in both hands, trained on the front of the van. His ears are ringing, a cacophony of noises ringing out, car alarms, police sirens, screams, all compounded by the sounds and smells of expended rounds. A street in the middle of one of Australia's largest Cities has been turned into a battleground.

The Frenchman can see Dealer standing there, see that the van isn't moving, that whatever it was that had been in the driver's seat doesn't appear to be moving any more. He looks around as an unnatural stillness seems to descend upon the scene, can't see any Attars moving, can't see any other immediate threats, although whether the storm has passed or the eye has simply moved over them and they are about to be battered anew any moment now is impossible to tell.

For pretty much the first time since he stepped out into the street Durand has time to process thoughts rationally. He should probably back up Dealer, half way up the street.  But then there was Mikhail. Was he connected to all of this? He had to be. Surely, it could not be a coincidence that he just happened to be here. Durand has his own agenda that he has been quietly pursuing for the last two years, even when he was in exile in Kourou, in disgrace. He's not pursuing it for his own sake. He's pursuing it for two kids who may or may not still be alive.

And the man he saw this morning may know something about them. Or he may not. There was only one way to find out. And if he was linked to the Attars wasn't it the Frenchman's responsibility to ensure that he was detained? For questioning? Questioning that could go in different directions, different tangents.

So as Durand raises his sleeve mic to his mouth and starts running he's telling himself that the reason he's sprinting up the street is related to the Attars. Even although he knows it's not. "Bullfrog, headed north, in pursuit of suspect." He doesn't even know if anyone hears him as he sprints past discarded shopping bags. He's focused on one thing.

The man that he knows as Mikhail.

Bullfrog
Headed north up Queen Street at a run
Looking for Andrey Vasilyev
Glock 19 (9/15)

James' neck screams in pain, a good sign indicating that the burn wasn't bad enough to kill the nerve endings more than a layer or two deep. Getting to his knees, he says, "Thanks, Omdahl." before keying his throat mic.

"All units, Lizard King. I just hit an Attar space bomb-thrower on the second floor of a building on x side of street- look for the busted window. Not sure if it's down for the count. Where do you need me and Double Down? Over."

His eyes scan the chaos in the street, trying to assemble a coherent tactical picture from the pieces scattered about. Smoke, sirens, screams, gunshots echoing back and forth between the buildings. He keeps one weary eye on the blown out window across the way, ready to finish the job, if need be.

-

Hannah nodded curtly to James, "You're welcome..."  But then she placed her free hand back on the butt of the pistol grip to help brace her dominant hand.  Like the Lizard King, Double Down started to scan the street.

After James had called out over the comm, Hannah started to give her run down of the sitrep to her companion.  She continued to cover his six, and since he was somewhat preoccupied the window and the potential target there, she prompted him about the fact that on the north side of the street the Victoria police appeared  along with some SASR personnel, who to be detaining a scruffy man that was surrendering himself, his weapon already on the ground nearby.  While, south of the street the rest of their team were either charging up the street towards them or trying to secure the Ford Transit that was potentially the bomb that Coop had pointed out from six stories up.

Her eyes dwelled on Michael and Liam, then to the green fire in the street and back.  "That." the lithe army aviatrix noted quietly, "Can't be good..."  But she was unsure of whether they should be moving towards or away from them.  One the one hand, disarming a bomb wasn't anywhere in her skill set.  On the other, they were her teammates and she was probably the best driver in the group.  Double Down glanced over at the Lizard King ready to follow his lead on which way to go.

"Stay or go?" Hannah prompted.  With the SASR people close, they could simply wait to join their sweep down the street...
This message was last edited by the player at 08:02, Sat 11 July 2015.

"Black Sheep copies all Shovel Two.  I'm bringing the civilians down now, out." Cooper said as he drew his USP Tac 40, keeping the barrel toward the ground.

"Alright, our security team is in position and we are ready to evacuate.  Please follow me," Williams said calmly and confidently.  He moved to the stairs that would take them down and lead out to the north side of the building.  At the bottom of the stairs, he paused momentary.

"Black Sheep to all units, exiting the north side now, out."  When Coop finished transmitting, he pressed the exit bar and moved out on the the street, looking to link up with Shovel Two before motioning for the civilians to follow.

Cooper Williams
Leading the flock to the promised land.
USP 40 [12/12]
Only engaging if something goes seriously wrong
This message was last edited by the player at 20:45, Fri 10 July 2015.

"Lizard King, Dealer.  Please move up and secure our position here at the van."  Truth be told, Dacovetti still feels pretty naked out here.  And if this thing really is a car bomb, twenty five meters isn't going to make one iota of difference in survivability. "Be advised, we have one target that may be off-gassing soon. Watch your distance."

Andrey surveyed his situation and realized that he was good and properly caught now. He lowered himself to his knees even before they could finish leveling their weapons on him, taking only a moment to brush his forelock out of his eyes before lacing his fingers behind his head.

Caradoc cautiously leans out from cover, Glock still covering the sprawled gunman in the street whose head and shoulders are now beginning to dissolve in a now-familiar green cloud.  "All stations, Painter.  The guy with the knife is confirmed Attar and is off-gassing.  I'm sending some diggers across the way to secure Lizard King's bomb-thrower.  Does anyone need medical?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:09, Sun 12 July 2015.

"All units, Shovel Two," murmurs the same voice on the radio.  "There's a man in civilian clothing surrendering to us.  We're taking him into custody.  Break.  Shovel Two to Painter, we have one police officer down, status red, and multiple civilian casualties, status yellow, over."

While James covers the window which hosted Mas'ud Attar's latest brief appearance, Hannah does a 360º scan of her surroundings.  The two Aboriginals are clearly deceased.  Closer to the blast's epicenter than the agents, they're charred black in places, their bodies curled into fetal positions from heat-induced muscle contractions.  The scruffy man who'd briefly intervened on Grey Cell's side is farther up the street, surrendering to the plainclothes SASR surveillance detail.  One of the SASR troopers catches Hannah's eye and flashes three fingers in response to her two: a hastily-prearranged identification code for the joint operation, fingers on both sides totaling five.  For the moment, blue-on-blue concerns appear to be averted.

Liam slowly pushes himself to his feet with a grunt.  His Level As are charred and melted but appear to have done their job.  There's a rip of duct tape as he pulls free the spare magazine adhered to his waist and taps Michael on the elbow with it.  "Painter, Shovel Four Bravo," he says wearily, "I'm hit, status yellow.  Get to the heeler first."

Michael fumbles through the reload.  The Mk.18's controls aren't exactly designed for operation with gloves this thick.  As he brings the carbine's muzzle back onto the Attar, the creature's head lolls toward him.  Pale blue nictitating membranes slide across its eyes in a slow sideways blink and it glares at Michael.  Its jaw slides open, far wider than any human face should articulate, and its chest heaves.  There's a tearing, retching sound but nothing comes out but a small dribble of orange-gray froth.  The humanoid slumps back, motionless.

Trying to ignore the hiss of escaping air, Michael eases into the van's cab.  The heat radiating from the rear bulkhead is miserable.  There's no passthrough or window into the cargo box.  No booby traps or other augmentations are in evidence.  To all appearances, this part of the van is completely stock except for the occupant and the recent damage.  The keys are on the driver's side floor mat.

James and Hannah warily move down the street toward Michael and his explorations, keeping a close watch on the window from which the explosive device came.  There's no movement.  As the duo nears the van, a new voice keys up on the radio.  "Shovel Five Alpha to Lizard King.  We've got a... uh, your subject down in the northeast stairwell of the travel agency here.  Looks like it crawled here and bled out.  Uh... requesting instructions on handling, over."

Cooper pushes open the door and emerges into the cool humidity, Papoudopolis close behind him.  "I'll get them out of here," the executive says.  "All right, you lot!  Just like a fire drill, we're moving down the street to the cafe.  Susan, lead 'em off!  I'll get a head count."  As Lim moves off at the head of the line, she contrives to bump into Cooper, steadying herself against his bicep and giving it a quick squeeze.

With the OZ Minerals staff secure for the moment, Cooper jogs toward the SASR plainclothes detail.  He arrives at the same moment as Sébastien.  Two of the operators are standing back, covering a kneeling man Cooper hasn't seen before, while the third moves in with cable ties.  The restraining pauses as the team takes in Sébastien's face and drawn weapon, then the sergeant leading the detail raises an eyebrow at Cooper.  "Either of you know this bloke?" he asks, indicating Andrey.

---

Combat appears to be over for the moment.  Status of enemies:

• Attar in the street: dead, off-gassing and dissolving.
• Attar in the Transit: apparently dead, not off-gassing.
• Aboriginal reinforcements in the street: very dead.
• Attar on the east side, second story: apparently dead from the SASR team's report, no off-gassing reported.

Map updated for positioning: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:27, Sun 12 July 2015.

Durand comes to a halt next to Williams. His sidearm is still held loosely in his right hand. He takes a deep breath, nods to the Australian SASR team leader. ”Yes. I know him.”

Two years. Two years since the Russian had vanished without trace. Two years and now Durand was staring right at him. He’s imagined this moment in his mind so many times, how it would play out, what he would say, what he would do. He’d always thought that the first thing he would do was to lash out, to punch the Russian, to take out two years of anger, frustration. Two years of pain. The Frenchman turns towards the kneeling man.

”Hello Mikhail.” There’s no sudden outburst of violence. No rage. His voice is calm, his tone neutral. Addressing the Russian the way that you would speak to a business acquaintance, a colleague that you vaguely knew. It just seemed so...inadequate...somehow.

Slowly Durand replaces the Glock in its holster and nods to the Sergeant. ”Can you secure him please? I believe he’s connected to what just happened, so we’ll need to take him in to our custody. You can clear it with Captain Bellamy if you have to.” Much of what he’d just said was pure speculation of course, but given what's just gone down he’s counting on Bellamy backing him if he's asked.

Then, leaving the SASR operators to do their job, Durand moves over to stand next to Williams, nods to the Australian Petty Officer. ”You OK, Coop?” The Frenchman then keys his mic. ”All stations, Bullfrog. Give sitrep when able, over.” Whilst he waits for his team to check in his eyes flick back towards the man he knows as Mikhail, remembering the last time that they had met, the last time they had spoken, the memory causing dark storm clouds to swirl behind the Frenchman’s irises.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:59, Mon 13 July 2015.

Andrey's face doesn't betray any recognition, even though he knows he's already outed himself, the game still has to be played. This dance has certain steps and the first step has always and will always be: denial.

"I'm sure there's been some sort of misunderstanding.  I don't know anything about this... this..." he glances around with his eyes towards the carnage "...whatever 'this' is" his voice is, not unlike Alain's, calm and measured and tinged with the unmistakable edge of a German accent.

"My passport is on the inside left of my jacket and I would like to speak with my embassy if I am to be detained. I have rights, do I not?" he cocks his eyebrow and gives the officers moving to secure him a wane smile.

Coop patted Lin's hand as she touched him before pointing her toward the Shovel Two team leader.

"This lot will take care of you from here.  You've got my number.." Williams said, glancing at warrant in her jacket pocket, "..so call me later if you want to talk through and process this.  I'm a good listener, I promise," Cooper said with a smile.  I'm also good at life affirming activities following close encounters with death, he thought, but didn't say. As the Shovel Two team collected the civilians, Williams nodded to Durand as he trotted up beside him.

"All good mate.  What's the story on this one though?" Cooper asked, pointing over at Andrey.  Williams walked over and began speaking loudly enough for detainee to hear.

"I've got a contact at the American Embassy if you think extraordinary rendition might be in order," Williams said so casually that one might forget he was referring to an extrajudical process that would likely end up with Vasliyev being subject to brutal and constant torture.  Looking around the street, there was already so much for the spin doctors at the AFP to deal with.  Sending this German terrorist (Williams took the man's accent at face value) and his passport to some black site to join an Abu Ghraib-style ass pyramid was the least of Australia's problems at this point.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:59, Tue 14 July 2015.

That'd be my guy.

"Shovel Five Alpha, Lizard King. Don't take your eyes off it and make sure you have a shooter standing by just in case it wakes up. Trust me on that. Recommend that you seal off the immediate area around the body and evacuate the building. Call in a hazmat team to handle the body. I'll come up if I get a minute. Over."

James nears the van, reluctantly. "Hey, we got an EOD on the way or something?"

-

Durand simply nods, stands a moment, his arms folded, watching as the Australians finish restraining Mikhail, saying nothing, leaving the Russian reflect on what Williams had just said. All of them knew how the game was played these days of course. The old rules were gone. If they wanted to make Mikhail disappear it was easy. Durand and Williams knew that. Mikhail would know that. Or they could be bluffing. He would know that too.

The Frenchman’s gaze remains impassive as the Australian team leader nods to indicate that the restraints are secure, pull the Russian to his feet, at which point Durand reaches Mikhail’s left jacket pocket, pulls out the burgundy passport emblazoned with the seal of the Federal Republic of Germany, flicks it open at the page that contains the personal data, compares the photo with the face of the restrained man now standing in front of him. ”I think that you and I are long overdue a chat, Herr Autenberg. Don’t you?”

Durand grins as the passport disappears into his own trouser pocket and he turns to Williams. ”Did you see a German passport Coop? I didn’t.” Yes, the old rules were gone. Now the game has no rules.

Dacovetti grins at Choi's question.  Between the shattered plastic of his face piece, blood clotting on the side of his scalp, and the deformed plastic of his level-A's, it's not a comforting sight.  The showing of teeth contains more of the gallows than it does of good times.  The TACP leans out of the van, the heat on his upper body lessening noticeably as he does so.

"Choi, this is Liam, EOD.  Liam, Choi." He gives the introduction as lightly as he can, trying to defuse the freight-train of combat running through his reactions.  "Thanks for coming up."    He could dwell on the fact that he has now faced off with interplanetary invaders and survived for the fourth time, but in light of the waves of heat pounding into his back, celebrating might be slightly premature at this juncture.

"Bullfrog, Dealer.  I'm green, van is secured but still extremely hostile.  I need a parking garage or other closed structure that I can isolate the vehicle in." Both for work and to contain any possible explosion, he doesn't add. "Have Sergei link up at the location with all their tools, two more level-As, extra air bottles, and a trauma kit for my partner."

They can't relocate, not yet.  It will take a few moments for the team around them to find a safe location.  There is the physical impediment in the form of an alien body in the driver's seat.  And they still haven't looked in the back.  Giving into momentary impulse, Michael punches the power lock switch, unlocking the Transit's doors.  He scoops the keys into the cupholder on the center console for easy access.

He slides back out of the van and looks at the faces staring at him.  "Anyone want to peek in the back with me?"   The lightness of the question belies the caution involved.  The body, well, after ascertaining whats in the van, he'll dump in the boot of the nearest auto to be collected later.

Andrey rolled his eyes at the thin hollow threats of his captors. The rules may have changed but some things are constant - he had something they wanted and the road to that information didn't wind its way through extraordinary rendition, secret prisons or posturing.

"Is this how we're going to play this? With who-knows-what dead in the street and your opening move is to treat me like an amateur? Come now Alain... A little professional courtesy isn't too much to ask for." he yawned, drawing attention to his face.

The Russian agent deftly worked the distress signal on his smart watch letting Haufmann know he'd been picked up. Sanitize everything, toss the burners, move the evidence and wait for the fallback signal that would hopefully come (assuming he really wasn't disappeared into a black cell somewhere).

(posted from phone - may need to clean it up later)

Durand takes a step away from Williams, towards Mikhail, his right hand already clenching into a fist, his eyes on the Russian, the dark clouds in them gathering in intensity, the portent of a perfect storm as he brings his fist forward to crash into the other man’s solar plexus, an action fuelled by the rage that is enveloping him.

 ”You fucking bastard Mikhail.” The words are hissed, laced with venom as he leans in close to the Russian, not that Durand really cares if Williams or the SASR troopers overhear him. ”You fucking screwed me. Because of you three people are dead and another will never walk again. And two kids are out there in the wind, fuck knows where. Dead, alive, brainwashed, no fucker knows. And that’s down to you my friend. And then you fucking disappeared, vanished off the face of the Earth. So do not talk to me about professional fucking courtesy, Mikhail. I’m not DGSE any more. You have no fucking clue who I work for now. And I can do whatever the fuck I like. So do not think that I will not send you to the blackest hole that I can find and leave you there to slowly fucking rot away. Verstehst du, Herr fucking Autenberg?” There’s a bitter irony in his use of the more familiar ‘du’ rather than ‘Sie’.

He looks as though he’s about to say more when Dacovetti’s disembodied voice crackles in his ear. The Frenchman takes a deep breath. For a moment he had forgotten about his team, about the Attars. Forgotten about his responsibilities to his people. Durand takes a step back, keys his mike. ”Dealer, Bullfrog, good copy. Stand by, over.”

He turns towards Williams. ”Can you get on the SAS net and tell Sergei to rv with Dealer. He needs all their gear, two more Level A’s, air bottles and a trauma kit. And he wants to know if there’s a parking garage or similar nearby that he can take the van to.” Only when he says it aloud does the realisation dawn that Dacovetti intends to move the suspect vehicle himself. Mikhail would have to wait until later.

Responding in kind to SASR plainclothes before making any sudden moves, like standing to move off towards the van, Hannah breathed a small sigh of relief.  One less thing to worry about in this incredibly tense, extremely fluid, and undeniably dangerously chaotic set of circumstances.  She tapped Choi lightly on the shoulder to acknowledge her readiness to move out when he did.  Even though she glanced at his burnt shirt and skin, the lithe warrant officer didn't bother asking, knowing full well he'd beg off.

Hannah frowned as she trotted up to the van along side James.  She and the Lizard King looked worse for wear, but nothing like Dacovetti.  "Dealer," the auburn-haired aviatrix gasped when seeing the blood and perspiration through his compromised helmet, "you need to get that looked at...".  She knew that he'd begged off on Crewe's immediate ministrations, but suspected that was the adrenaline talking from the techie - that and the fact that it would just bring another member of the team next to the (potentially explosive) van.  And she couldn't immediately tell if the perspiration was shock and a bodily reaction to the wound.  Or something else entirely, like the external stress of dealing with a potential car bomb or something.

She'd had just enough basic first aid training to sort of know what was going on, but only enough to probably be dangerous if she tried to treat Dealer's head wound personally.  Like Choi, since both men were still mobile and alert, Double Down wasn't going to press the issue.

Her free hand brushed aside a lock of hair, when introductions were made.  "Omdahl." she intoned quickly with a curt nod.

When Michael prompted them about the van, Hannah pursed her lips.  She looked towards Liam to follow his lead.  She wasn't about to get in the way of his specialty.  The man didn't seem to be missing any digits or limbs; so, that gave her some confidence as she'd been impressed with pretty much all of the other SASR team members' professional level of competence.

Though the gradient dropped off significantly, this close to the van even Hannah could feel the heat.  And she knew enough about basic heat transfer to know that it wasn't a natural phenomenon - or at least one that she'd any direct experience with.  "Jesus..." escaped her lips before the auburn-haired aviatrix regained a bit of composure, "What the hell could be in there?"  Hannah's thoughts strayed towards radiation, which caused a lump in her throat to form.  But very little could be done about that exposure now.  Little else would make that much heat without exploding already, in her limited experience.

It was a Catch-22.  They'd like to move the van to a safer place before opening it up.  But, they needed to know what was inside in order to figure out if they could move it.  Hannah hated these situations - the whole variation on 'Red wire, green wire' that seemed to permeate bomb disposal scenarios.  Give her her trusty blackhawk and live fire in a hot LZ that consisted of only a car top to land on with only a metre clearance on either side any day.

Instinctively, she gripped the pistol in her hand tighter, though Double Down knew that it was unlikely to help in any way shape or form.  The heat source was unlikely to be a creature waiting to ambush whoever was opening it up, but it was the only weapon she had...

Cooper switches channels in time to catch Michael's request.  "Dealer, Black Sheep," he answers smoothly, turning slightly away from the prisoner-handling tableau, "Bullfrog's handling an admin item.  I'll relay, over."

The flex-cuffs go on with a crisp finality and the SASR troopers hoist Andrey to his feet.  One of them glances at Cooper for confirmation of Sébastien's intent.  The diver's chin lifts slightly.  That's all they need to start marching the wheezing "German" toward their vehicle.  A firm hand presses Andrey against the rear quarter panel while others begin working him over in a thorough, professional search.

Cooper, still on the radio with the SASR ops center, trails off in mid-sentence.  His head comes up and he turns toward the van and the rest of Grey Cell.  Sébastien twitches and follows the liaison's gaze.  The SASR agents, cued by the behavior, stop their search of Andrey and orient in the same direction, scanning for whatever potential threat has alerted Cooper and Sébastien. 

At the van, Liam shakes his head in response to Michael's inquiry.  "Not me, mate.  I'm feelin' a... little..."  His voice trails off and he fluidly sinks to his knees. 

Hannah and James are moving forward to aid the EOD tech when a faint noise arrests their movement.  It's almost subliminal, really, on the very edge of hearing already numbed by gunfire, little more than a tiny metallic scrape and ping...

For Michael, there's a stroboscopic flash of white-red-gray and icepicks in his ears to match the renewed pain in his temple.  He can't hear, can't see, the only sensations are pain and the cool hiss of air across his face (Dacovetti: head upgrades to slight wound; blind, deaf, and disoriented for 2 minutes).

James and Hannah are already in motion when the grenade hits the pavement.  The latter rolls away, trying for distance and another engine block between herself and the blast.  The FBI agent takes the expedient of tucking in front of the van, grabbing Michael's right elbow in the process to pull the airman away from the worst of the explosion.  A moment later, their worlds also go white.

From their distant vantage point, Sébastien, Andrey, and Cooper see the van's rear doors begin to swing open.  Sébastien's hand is rising toward his radio when a small canister falls to the pavement at the van's rear.  Despite the distance, all three men flinch.  There's a white flash.  A split-second later, the harsh crack reverberates up the street.

Cooper and Andrey are looking directly at the explosion's epicenter.  Their pupils clench to pinpricks.  Cooper reels away, eyes watering.  Andrey, still pinned against the car, can only emit a pained sound and slump against the rain-cooled metal.  Sébastien, warned by long, painful experience, averts his eyes in time to spare them the worst of the flash. 

James pushes off the van's grill, still blinking away the belatedly familiar light/sound/pressure of a flash-bang attenuated by not nearly enough distance or metal.  The van rocks slightly on its springs and there's a flutter of motion on the sidewalk.  He comes around the sidewalk side of the Transit, leading with the FNH's muzzle, as Hannah drags herself to her feet and orients on the threat axis that James' stance indicates.  Both agents have time to register a moving figure vanishing into the unlit depths of the adjacent chocolatier's shop, but it's gone before they can process any details.  Michael and Liam are face-down at their feet.  The former is making vague pawing motions with his hands; the latter sprawls in a boneless slump.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:44, Wed 15 July 2015.

There is the briefest of all possible moments, right after the flash, and a millisecond before the pain starts, where Michael knows, really knows, that he has been criminally stupid and careless.  How could he make the assumption that the back of the van is empty.  Then rational thought is smashed from his brain with the force of a locomotive hitting a car immobilized on a railroad track.  Lines of logic shatter and splinter, glinting into icy pain.  Muscle control falters, conscious direction of nerve impulses severed, although he is too far gone to process that this loss is probably temporary.

Somewhere, his body wretches.  Somewhere, his face is alternatively cooled and burned by the same steady breeze.

You are going to be a father.  What was once a promise of hope from his wife, Magdalena, his Lena, now a shrieking indictment, a wrecking ball echoing off the walls of an empty skull.  We will give this child everything.

Give it what? he had wanted to shriek.  War with the stars? A promise of unknowable violence?  Even then, excitement and love had struggled against the reality of what Michael's world now was.  A war where he might have to sacrifice himself to literally protect humanity. Where was his own child in that?

Promise me you will be careful.

That is not a promise I can make.  I promised to never deceive you, and I won't start now.  There is too much at stake.

Your child deserves a father.

Our child deserves a world, a life, more than just a father.

What will our world be without you?

I can promise to try.  That is all.

Pain.  That was all he knew now.  A white wall of light and noise that seemed like it would never abate.

"Flas...." Durand isn't even half way through his attempt to yell a warning when the device goes off and he instinctively turns his eyes away. There had been something weird about the van anyway, something not quite right. The others around him all seem to have caught at least part of the grenade's effects, but as he looks back towards the van Durand blinks several times, allowing his vision to clear enough for him to see...

What?

What the fuck was that he had just seen emerge from the back of the van?

Right now the decision to come racing up the street in pursuit of Mikhail was beginning to feel less and less sound. And what if it was coincidence that the Russian was here? No. He was involved in this somehow. Durand didn't know how, or why, but Mikhail had some connection to what was going on here. What, specifically, that was would probably have to wait until later however. One glance in the Russian's direction told the Frenchman that he wasn't going anywhere, not in the state he was in, restrained, in the custody of Australian Special Forces, and slumped against a vehicle suffering from the after effects of the flash bang.

And so Durand could go back to doing what he was supposed to do be doing. What he hadn't been doing for the last few minutes. Leading Grey Cell. And he could see that one of his people was down. He'd gone charging off, rogue, and Dealer was down. He looks over at Williams, sees that Australian Petty Officer is also suffering from the effects of the flashbang, but seems otherwise unhurt. Unlike Dacovetti. "Coop! This way! Leaving the Australian to follow when he is able Durand sprints back down the street, towards the van, calling out to alert the Lizard King as he approaches the American agent's six. "James! It's Seb. I'm behind you."

The Frenchman's breathing harder by the time he reaches Choi and Omdahl. He's fit, but he's also forty years old. Looking down at Dealer, he immediately clisk his mic. "Painter, men down, men down. Get over here now! He then turns to the two Americans. "I saw -" What? What had he seen? "- something get out of the van and head into one of the shops. I don't know what it was, it wasn't an Attar but it wasn't -" a momentary pause, although they both probably knows what's coming next. "human. Looked like it was about the size of a kid, with long arms and legs. Too long, you know?" The Frenchman wasn't winning prizes for quality descriptions today.

He has a quick look around his immediate area. If he can see the Mk18 that Dealer had been using he'll pick it up, otherwise he'll draw his Glock again, looks at Omdahl, flashes the auburn haired aviator what's intended to be a reassuring grin. "Double Down, see if Painter needs a hand with the injured. Once Coop gets here you two back up me and Lizard King." He then turns to Choi, nods towards the shattered chocolatier's shopfront. "Shall we see if we can track it down Agent Choi?" Whatever it was...

The Frenchman has a feeling that the day's surprises weren't over yet...

Bullfrog
Linking up with Double Down and Lizard King
Preparing to enter chocolatier's shop
Mk 18 (?/?) if he can find one, otherwise Glock 19 (9/15)

"By cricke.." Cooper failed to complete his exclamation as his shuddered his eyelids and rubbed both with this hands.  Williams took a moment before keying his radio.

"Black Sheep to Shepard.  I think one of our guys just set off a flashbang, I can't see a fuc... anything." Cooper said to the JOC at Victoria Barracks.  He thought about trying to explain the earlier issue with the AISO agents, but now wasn't the time to get into the details.  Not over the radio.  "Before the grenade, I saw a visual disturbance around the cargo box.  Are you getting any video on it, over?"  Cooper blinked repeatedly in an effort to restore his vision to normal as he awaited the response from VB.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:28, Sat 18 July 2015.

One moment, Hannah was watching Liam intently.  For the man is acting strangely; his words are tinged with the same tone that two ASIO agents had (and it was in no way related to their versions of Strine). And she was about to mention something about that to the Choi, when out of the corner of her eye there is movement.

The next moment, the army warrant officer flinched and found herself instinctively diving for cover.  An instinct which undeniably saved her from certain injury and incapacitation.  She didn't even have the time to say anything more than a loud grunt in panic and pain.  Her eyes were clamped shut as she hit the pavement beyond the car and rolled, but the flash was bright enough to that she could sense it even through her eyelids.

After a moment, the flash was gone and Hannah popped up from her prone position, while letting her eyes and ears readjust to the situation.  She glanced another blur of movement out of the corner of her eye that disappeared into the storefront shadows beyond; it jived somewhat with whatever Bullfrog said.  "Painter, Dealer is one of the casualties." Double Down noted over the comms as Sébastien trotted up behind them.  She nodded to the Frenchmen's orders to check on Michael and Liam, "Roger, Bullfrog.  I'm on it."

As she moved towards the two prone companions to check on them, Hannah noted cautiously to Seb and James, "Watch out, guys.  I think that thing was a midget or something, wearing a grey hazmat suit and helmet with black goggles..."  It was the only thing that made sense to her with the heat in the van; it just had to be nuclear waste or something.  Which in her mind, meant that they really needed to be careful...

Mindful of the van, Hannah scanned the bed of the vehicle to make sure it was clear before holstering her weapon.  Then she placed a hand gently on Dealer's shoulder.  "Michael..." the auburn-haired aviatrix called out softly to check if he was responsive.  She frowned as she saw the state of his helmet.  The amount of blood outside of his body (but on the inside of the faceplate) was not a good sign.  Hannah started to probe around the collar of the suit to release the latches securing the helmet; she had to get it off of him to be able to effective treat him.  The crack had already compromised the atmosphere in there - so, it wasn't offering him much protection anyway.

Hannah 'Double Down' Omdahl
Getting up from diving for cover...
Kneeling next to Dealer and Liam
Beretta 96 (9/11), 1 spare mag
This message was last edited by the player at 09:02, Sat 18 July 2015.

"Fuck! Chocolate... it's running... went into the chocolate shop. Shit."

James stumbles forward, trying to pursue, but half of his systems are trying to reboot. The momentary confusion rapidly passes. It's not the first time he's been flash-banged, he reminds himself, instantly staunching any emerging sense of panic. You're fine, Agent Choi.

Durand arrives and takes charge of the situation. James covers the shattered façade of the chocolate shop, systems coming back on line in rapid succession. When the Frenchman suggests going after the runner, James is all in.

Sonofabitch must pay.

"Yeah. Let's do this."

-

Sébastien and James plunge into the confectionery, scattering dazed shoppers.  A door still swinging on its hinges beckons toward the kitchen and the two agents follow.  The incongruous aroma of melted chocolate hangs heavy in the air, though James' palate detects a rank undertone.  Unbidden, visions of the reptile house at the zoo slither through his hindbrain.

The shop's rear delivery door is the only way out of the kitchen.  Cautious of another ambush, this time with a more lethal payload, James and Sébastien carefully clear the back hallway which connects the building's three stories and five tenant businesses.  Another scent, this one of ozone and hot metal, leads them upward.  They find the door to the roof ajar.  Twisted, melted pieces of a padlock are strewn about the landing.  The roof itself is vacant, though a swarm of helicopters is gathering overhead.  This trail is cold.

With Hannah's assistance, Caradoc peels Michael and Liam out of their damaged Level As.  The Australian EOD tech is unconscious, seemingly suffering the after-effects of a grand mal seizure.  He's carrying a scattering of first-degree burns from his suit's brief immolation.  Michael's head wound is as minor as such a thing can be: a grazing strike across the temple, possibly from a fragment of his helmet's faceplate rather than the bullet itself.  His more severe symptoms are temporary, stemming from looking directly at a flash-bang grenade as it detonated two meters away.  By the time the ambulances clear the Victoria Police perimeter, he's not in need of their services.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:44, Sun 19 July 2015.

Flinders Gate Carpark
Melbourne, Victoria
21 April 2015
1422 hrs local (0408 hrs Zulu)

Three vehicles squat in hastily-cleared spaces on the parking garage's fourth level.  Heavy plastic sheeting, hung to obstruct outside observation, reduces the gray afternoon sunlight to a murky twilight which the overhead fluorescents do little to dispel.

The EOD and forensics teams have already cleared the gray Mitsubishi Magna in which the Aboriginal bomb-throwers arrived.  Better, perhaps, to say "eviscerated" - the sedan's innards are strewn across six parking spaces, painstakingly disassembled in the search for intelligence.

The "electrician's" service van is undisturbed, doors stickered to deter entry before an ASIO team arrives to take custody of it.  Whatever secrets wait within it are, for the moment, bound by politics and protocol.

Behind a blast-resistant barrier, Hannah Omdahl deftly manipulates the controls on the EOD robot's remote console.  A freshly-bandaged Michael Dacovetti, Sergei, and a pair of AUSTINT intelligence NCOs watch her monitors with unblinking intensity.  Twenty meters away, a mechanical hand slowly trips the latch on the Ford Transit's rear doors.

There is no explosion.

The shared exhalation of relief dissolves in confusion as the robot's cameras focus on the delivery van's interior.  A complex mass of curves is affixed to the overhead, reducing headroom to barely four feet.  Its surface is an iridescent purple-black, reminiscent of a beetle's carapace.  From it descends a thick bundle of cabling which terminates in a wire mesh basket.

Along the left wall, an array of nine basketball-sized spheres is mounted.  They're clear, connected by a series of tubes and pipes to the assembly overhead.  Seven are empty.  One is full, and another is perhaps a quarter full, of a thin pink liquid.

The rest of the cargo compartment's floorspace is taken up by what looks like a dentist's chair designed by an Aeron fetishist.  The scale takes a moment to register.  No adult human - or Attar - would fit in this contraption.  It's scaled for a child-sized occupant.

---

Victoria Barracks

This time, it's James Choi and Caradoc Crewe in the HAZMAT suits.  The portable surgery suite's operating lights cast their unforgiving harsh illumination on the three recovered cadavers - two and a half, really, taking into account one's dissolution.  The four 2CDO troopers beside them are in chemical defense gear, armed, and ready to splatter both intact Attars all over the back wall if either of them moves.

Caradoc's instruments delicately ease another flap of tissue out of the way, depositing it in a pan.  "The next one of these fucks we bag, someone's gonna ask us to freeze it and fly it out for a real doctor," he muses absently.  "Hey, Jim.  There we are.  That's where the worst damage was on the one we took apart in Libya."  He indicates a pair of fist-sized sacs astride an organ which bears a suspicious resemblance to a lemon.  "I'll bet you anything that's where it keeps the goo."

There's been a parade of Australian task force personnel through the room since the first body bag hit the table  - troops who were on scene wanting to see exactly what they fought, and the rest looking for confirmation of the rumors spreading like wildfire.  Throughout it all, Lieutenant Colonel Quentin Wortham has stood rigidly and silently in the corner, leaning forward with the fixed expression of a man willing himself not to vomit.

---

Andrey Vasliyev sits at the table in his prisoner's jumpsuit and slippers and contemplates his limited number of possible next moves.  He's maintained the Autenberg cover through his hours in Australian military custody but his German has fallen on deaf ears.

The door swings open and one of his captors enters - Williams, the one from the Queen Street fiasco who'd taken charge of the scene in the aftermath.  Andrey assesses the Australian reflexively but his attention is on the figure behind him.  Alain.

Sébastien Durand looks down at Mikhail and sees a fragile vessel full of answers.

Sébastien Durand's expression is impassive when he steps into the room behind Cooper Williams, gazes at the man on the other side of the desk that, together with three chairs, one of which Mikhail is sitting on, forms the only furniture in the room. There are no obvious audio or video recording devices, though it's safe to assume that they're present. And of course there's the omnipresent mirror partly covering one wall. The room reeks of sterile, functional. No natural light, just a single bulb shielded by a grille. It's probably not difficult to imagine it being the first step on a journey to God knows where, to a dark hole where one can simply....disappear.

A slim vanilla folder held in his right hand, the Frenchman takes one of the two seats opposite the Russian, leaves the other for the Australian should he wish to sit, places the folder down on the table. There are no markings on it, no title, not even any obscure code words generated at random by computer to have no connection to the material that they refer to.

Durand's eyes meet those of the man sitting opposite him. The Frenchman's silence hangs in the air like a tangible thing, a tension that feels like one could reach out and touch it. Hold it. Any attempts by the man sitting opposite to try and stick to his cover story of being a German national will elicit no response. In fact nothing Mikhail says will elicit a response.

But you're not going to insult both of us by sticking to that story are you Mikhail? Do you remember the first time we met my friend? Dubai, 2009. Durand had been in country on DGSE business. Friday brunch at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel in Dubai. The Frenchman had been turning on the charm with a Lufthansa stewardess, hoping to screw her later, when he had bumped into the Russian. His annoyance at being cockblocked had swiftly vanished when he had realised that the Russian had contacts, was able to...grease...certain wheels, open doors that might have otherwised remained closed. And so the two had enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship.

Until Somalia.

Durand flicks open the folder.

If anyone had been expecting to see images of aliens from outer space they would have been disappointed. A number of sheets of paper are within. Each of the top four have a different photograph clipped to them. Passport photographs.

Durand begins to silently lay them down in front of Mikhail. The top two a man and a woman. In their forties perhaps. He dark haired, with a neatly trimmed beard. She blonde, though perhaps not her natural colour. The faces in the bottom two photos are younger. A boy and a girl. Not children, older than that, but not adults either. Durand places them so that Mikhail can see every one of them.

Then he does speak. "Remember them Mikhail?" His voice is low. The anger manifested in the punch he'd thrown is clearly lurking just below the surface, but it's contained. For now. "Of course you do." He points to the first two. "They're both dead. But I'm sure you already know that." He nods to each of the other two sheets of paper, to the two faces that stare back from them. "We'll talk about them later. But for now why don't you tell me where you went after Mogadishu."

His lips curl into a thin smile. "And of course my friend here would very much like to know what you're doing in Australia."

Hannah's eyes narrowed as she kept her hands very still, but very much in control of the remote and its camera.  She panned back and forth several times.  "See?" the auburn-haired pilot prompted the others when the pint-sized seating arrangements came into view, "I told you it was a midget and not just some guy crouching down or doing parkour..."  It wasn't really that anyone had doubted her account, but rather that Hannah might have been just trying to justify things to herself.  Obviously, the US Army warrant officer was still trying to process things.

Then the camera panned over to nine orbs, focusing in on the full and partial full ones.  "What do you guys make of that stuff..." she let a touch of wonder and an equal amount of disgust slip in to her voice as Hannah prompted Michael and the other experts for their opinions.  Sometimes, it was nice (and simple) being the driver.

Andrey's eyes flicked back from Alain to Cooper, his lips curled downward in frown. He hadn't spoken since Alain had returned with the folder. His eyes didn't wander to its contents, nor did he appear to take in the images when proffered. Vasliyev's gaze was always on either Cooper or Alain.

His mind was racing at possibilities, approaches, pitfalls, risk-and-reward. He'd gambled mightily earlier in the street when the Others had made their move and he had (perhaps foolishly in hindsight) thrown in his lot with Alain and the locals.  That reflexive action landed him in this cell playing another risky game.  "At least I'm not in any immediate danger of being blown up" he mused humorlessly to himself.

The events of the day, the surveillance, the near-miss at the freight-yard, the firefight and bombing in the street. It was all catching up to him and now, as much as ever, he needed to be one hundred percent. Was there any advantage to stonewalling Alain (other than the satisfaction of spiting the self-righteous Frenchman, that is)?

Finally, his mind settled, he took in a deep breath and addressed Cooper.

"I'm not sure what this man has told you but this is ridiculous! Why, precisely, am I being detained? Why haven't I been permitted to contact my Embassy?!"

What began as a simple statement rose in volume to near-shouting as his resolve (and voice) cracked. Tears form at the corners of his eyes and his eyes darted from Cooper to the door, his fists clenched and unclenched reflexively.

"That is interesting," Dacovetti murmurs over Omdahl's shoulder.  The word is heavy, spat out loaded with incomprehension and a definition of interesting that lies closer to the curse 'may you live in interesting times,' than a simpler meaning that expresses nothing but a scene requiring attention.  The airman's head is splitting despite the massive dose of ibuprofen he ingested and the liters of water consumed to fight dehydration.  The not so subtle constant ring in his ears will be with him for several more hours is causing his voice to fluctuate between too quiet and too loud as he tries to moderate.

"It bears a striking resemblance to a torture chamber, but given the reported speed and agility of the occupant, I would venture to guess that whatever was in there a willing passenger."  He peers at the screen, then alternates with a glance around the barricade. "Command and control perhaps?  The basket could be a controller, accessed from the chair. 

"They fought like hell to keep us from it but decided to escape before we could eliminate or capture whatever was inside.  That's something we haven't seen before."  The Attars the teams has run into have seemed quite willing to throw themselves forward to their deaths, as have any human "henchmen."

Maybe if his head wasn't cracking in two he could figure this out.  "You said the ASIO agents upstairs said something was in their heads?" he asks the aviatrix.  "Is this the nexus for that?" 

Dacovetti shakes his head to dismiss the random question for now, and immediately wishes he hadn't as daggers of ice bounce around behind his eyeballs.  "Shit," he mutters.  "I want to hit those fluids with the frequencies we picked up in the street and see what happens.  Collect and analyze some samples.  After that...we start picking it apart."

The really stupid thing, and he knows it, is that he just wants to crawl in and put the basket on his head to see what happens.  That has to be the flashbang talking.  His risk analysis is turning to shit.

Cooper studied the man Durand called Mikhail for a few seconds before he spoke.

"We've got security camera footage of you killing an Australian national." Williams said bluntly.  "I'm not sure how it works where you are from, but we tend to detain people who commit murder here in Australia."  There was no hesitation or equivocation in his voice.

"Oh, and before you waste any more of our time with your protestations, you should know that we've already contacted the German Embassy and they have no idea who you are.  These are good though.  Very good," Cooper said, holding up the German passport.  "Facebook was an especially nice touch."

"It's amazing what you can get with the right connections.  Take for example these," Cooper added, pulling out his ADFIS creds and badge.  He slid them across the table.  "Take a look at the wear and tell me how old you think those are." Williams said.  He paused briefly before continuing.

"You see Mikhail, or whoever the fuck you are, I just beat two AISO agents unconscious on the sixth floor of the building we found you outside of.  So if the brass gave two goat fucks about your rights, you wouldn't be in here with me,"  Cooper said with a now piercing gaze.  While the RAN Clearance Diver's law enforcement credentials might be unblemished, the same couldn't be said of Cooper's hands and arms.  As Coop picked up the two AFDIS leather wallets and returned them to his pockets, Andrey could easily see that they were calloused and strong.  If the GoA had any intentions of taking this to trial, they'd probably have an experienced ADFIS agent in the room leading the briefing, not a shooter.  Of course it was the kind of realization that didn't bring a whole lot of comfort.  If Australians didn't intend to operate above board, that only left much darker dealings.

"Now, let's try this again.  Who are you and why are you here."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:30, Tue 21 July 2015.

The Russian agent nodded appreciatively as Williams spoke and formulated his last gambit. Escape clearly wasn't an option anymore but perhaps collaboration. This incarceration may very well be the hook he'd been looking for. All pretense of escape and emotional distress washed from his face, as if a mask had been lifted. In its place, Alain recognized the calm, almost indifferent demeanor of Mikhail.

"I am willing to cooperate under the following circumstances and I believe they are reasonable requests. I want immunity from what happened in the street - in light of the fact that the Australian national you're referring to was attempting to detonate a second bomb on a crowded street corner should afford me at least a little latitude." he paused and glanced to Alain.

"Tell whoever is actually running this show that I know what is beneath Attar's mask and I have actionable intelligence. Either cut me in or cut me loose and it's yours. I realized once I'd tracked them here that this was far too big for me" and with that he finally looked at the photos arrayed in front of him and then turned his attention directly to Alain.

"As for this... " Andrey's voice grew quieter before continuing "it's the nature of our profession that sometimes we get it wrong and when we do, people get hurt. That's all I can say right now. We can continue this discussion in private if you'd care to though I don't believe you'd appreciate it anymore than you do now."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:32, Wed 22 July 2015.

Fuck you, Charlie Sheen.

The spleen-like organ slips from James' gloved hands again, falling with a wet thud back into the Attar's exposed body cavity.

"I can't feel a damn thing through these gloves," James exclaimed, scientific curiosity strong but tempered by the dull ache pulsing from the back of his bandaged neck. "...but I'd really prefer to keep all of my fingers. When is the science team supposed to get here?"

James is doing the best he can with the field disection, but the industrial solvent-proof gloves he's wearing are to surgeons' latex what an oven mitt is to a Trojan condom. He's photographed the two and a half Attars- labeled 'Charlie Sheen', 'Jon Cryer', and 'the Kid'- inside and out. Their morphology is similar in most respects to the specimens rendered in North Africa. James isn't exactly sure what he's looking for, but he's hopeful that he'll know when he finds it. Every species, even the Earth's apex predator, Homo Sapiens Sapiens, has it's Achilles' Heel. James is determined to find the Attars'.

He shakes his head and digs back in, trying to shift some very slippery bits to get a better looks at the even slipperier pieces underneath.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:12, Tue 21 July 2015.

Durand's face remains impassive as Williams takes over the questioning, the Frenchman's eyes never leaving the man sitting opposite him, watching his reactions, well aware that people like Mikhail can wear mask upon mask, that peeling away those layers to get to what lies beneath could take time. Fuck, Mikhail almost certainly wasn't his real name, just as Durand's wasn't Alain.

And then the Russian begins to talk. And Durand listens, listens to the request for immunity. Perfunctory, to be expected. And though he wouldn't say so openly in front of his prisoner the Frenchman would privately be willing to concede that Mikhail had a point as to his actions with regard the bomber.

But it's the second statement that catches Durand's attention. The reference to Attar. And what lies under the mask. The Frenchman tries to maintain the same non committal expression,  trying to give nothing away, but he knows that for a fraction of a second his impassiveness had dropped, the surprise had been visible. So, the Russian knew about the aliens. But who was he working for? FSB? Perhaps. It stood to reason that the Russians would have a vested interest in the Attars' activities. Or freelancing, working for the highest bidder? Perhaps.

And then the conversation moves on, back to Somalia. When Mikhail has said his piece Durand nods, reaches forward, closes the folder, sits in silence once again for a moment, before nodding his head. "I know how it is Mikhail, but you should not have disappeared. That creates the wrong impression. So yes, we will have that conversation later, for this is unfinished business for me. Not for my sake. For theirs."

"As for the other matter you mentioned...Mr Attar..." Durand glances sideways at Williams before his elbows find the top of the table, his chin coming to rest on steepled fingers as he looks at the Russian thoughtfully. "That's above our pay grade Mikhail." He's not going to insult the man by pretending not to know what he's talking about. They were professionals after all. "We need to take that upstairs. If you can give us...something...now. Call it good faith, a way to establish your bona fides. That would help." Durand shrugs. "You know how it is." Mikhail had made his pitch. Now it was time for Durand to counter it with one of his own. He's not expecting the big reveal, that's not how the game is played. But the ball is back in Mikhail's court. For now.

The engineering team moves in.  Michael controls his impulse to touch the monolith.

The apparatus reminds Hannah of an avionics retrofit, or perhaps an electronic warfare suite.  It has the feel of an integrated whole, pared down and shoehorned into a vehicle not originally intended for the burden.  The cargo box has been stripped to the outer shell and essential structural elements, with tool marks clearly visible where internal fittings were removed to make room for the alien device.

The overhead installation appears to be the system's centerpiece.  Up close, its resemblance to a giant beetle carapace grows more pronounced, with individual dark-shimmering thumbnail-sized scales visible.  Its connection to the van's roof is seamless.  There's literally not enough room to slide a sheet of paper between the curved structure and the roof.  It's definitely the source of the heat, too, maintaining a constant surface temperature of 141ºF.

Fluid from the partially-full sphere continues its slow march through the tubing into the overhead beetle-device.  After a few minutes of careful fiddling, Hannah determines how to remove one of the empties from its mount.  The latch is accessible with tools but not with human hands.  The residue within has a rank meaty smell with faint chemical undertones.

Michael consults his frequency scanners.  The beetle-device is emanating a faint but consistently recognizable signal.  The pattern is reminiscent of carrier hum or electronics on standby.  When he transmits on low power, the device repeats his signal with a four-tenths-second delay.

Hannah is focused on finding a way into the carapace housing to see what's inside, brushing absently at her right eyelid.  Michael's hands freeze on his equipment as he realizes Hannah's tic is in perfect sync with the alien device's patterns.

---

James and Caradoc continue their explorations of Charlie, Jon, and the Kid.  Working with all the care of men defusing an organic bomb, the two cauterize the tubes which connect Charlie Sheen's apparent venom sacs to the organ believed to produce the substance, then extract them and their contents for further analysis by CBRNE experts.

The duo also identifies and removes several more mysterious pieces of - biotechnology? - from their specimens.  The Kid's half-dissolved remains yield a braided tracery of turquoise wires running from its upper spinal column down each arm to its hands, terminating in a small gray puckered disc at the heel of each hand.  Jon Cryer's jawbone contains a matched pair of lozenges identical to those from the Libyan Attar.  Charlie Sheen, who wears Mas'ud Attar's face, also has the jaw implants - and its fingernails, when a thin plastic coating is flaked away, are the tips of retractable inch-long claws of a dull gray ceramic substance.  All three creatures also bear the familiar black fibrous skeletal reinforcements and pale green subcutaneous armor.

With two mostly-intact bodies, the ad hoc biology team is able to identify a few weak points.  The skeletal reinforcements are weakest at the major arm and leg joints and the joints themselves seem easy to dislocate - though without living muscle to resist such an attempt, it's only an educated guess.  The implanted armor extends throughout the torso to the upper limbs but terminates above knees and  elbows, and on the neck just above the (fake) Adam's apple.  It's thinnest in the abdominal region, where the sheet that wraps the pelvis joins to the upper torso's sheet in a third cummerbund-like band.

---

Sébastien, exiting the interrogation room with Mikhail's goodwill offering in hand, encounters an ashen-faced Wortham staring sightlessly into the one-way glass.  The colonel is wearing a pistol belt - a distinct change from his earlier pressed garrison perfection - and a gas mask carrier hangs on the side opposite his holster.  He turns bleak eyes to Sébastien.  "Monsieur Durand.  Walk with me."

Wortham crosses the hall to one of the basement's few file rooms that hasn't yet been repurposed.  He trails his fingers along the drawers, then clears his throat and looks the Frenchman in the eye.  "There's no way to sugar-coat this.  I didn't believe what you were telling us until I watched two of your men take apart three alien bodies in front of me.  I didn't give your team the support you needed and now there are Australian citizens in hospital."  He looks down and his mouth works silently for a few moments.

When he resumes eye contact, his expression is stony.  "ASIO is furious over this operation being conducted without their knowledge, let alone what happened to the two men they had staking out OZ Minerals.  They're prompting some pointed questions.  My... back channels... tell me this task force is about to be shut down and you and your people are to be PNG'd.  The written notification of the latter is on its way here.  I think it would be best if you were to continue your mission until you're served with that notice.  Along with any Australian troops who are out of contact or who aren't officially attached to the task force."

"Hannah, do not move," Dacovetti says with a deceptive level of calm.  He never utilizes the informal address, Hannah.  Chief, Omdahl, maybe once or twice Double Down, but never Hannah.  It's not how the airman operates.  To use it now is a conscious choice, an attention getting device designed to seize immediate compliance.

Two options present themselves.  In the first case, he can halt their progress and review their options.  This is the safe course of action.  It really is the selection he should make.  Instead, he chooses the second option, and taps out a quick dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot to see the effects on Double Down's eye.

"Everybody back off, we need to reevaluate," he says, experiment complete.  "The fluid looks to be...a conduit? A carrier between flesh and a signal."

Durand leans back against a filing cabinet, his arms folded, his expression serious as he listens to Wortham. It did not take a degree in psychology to see the effect this morning's events has had on the Australian; the changes in his attitude and demeanour are as evident as the holstered sidearm and the gas mask holder he now wears.

When the Australian Colonel has finished talking the Frenchman nods, thinks for a moment before he speaks quietly. "As I said before, Sir, I felt exactly the same as you when I first joined this team." The 'Sir' is included quite deliberately, intended as a gesture of respect, a nod towards the fact that the Australian is the man in charge. "So I do understand how difficult it must have been when a group of people you have never met before show up and start talking about aliens from outer space. You did what I would have done in the same circumstances." It's an attempt to build the relationship, to allay at least some of the guilt that the other man is demonstrating.

"The important thing is that we move forward from here." Although how they were going to do that if they had been declared Persona Non Grata was another matter.  "Obviously me and my people are more than happy to continue working with your team, however this red tape appears to be a complication." The Frenchman shakes his head, the irritation momentarily showing on his face. Evidently it was the same in Australia as it was elsewhere, Government agencies more concerned with proving they had a bigger dick than the others than looking after their citizens.

Durand looks Wortham in the eye. "I presume if we were not here when the paperwork arrived it might cause some delays whilst we were tracked down? Or at the very least if I was not present? After all, there is a chain of command to consider. Things need to go through the proper channels, yes? If we are being asked to leave that needs to go through me as Team Leader." The Frenchman's lips curl into the hint of a grin. Chain of command rarely if ever came up within Grey Cell, for none of his team needed micro managed, but perhaps it could be used to their advantage in this situation.

"After all, our friend in the interrogation room said he had some information. Someone should follow up on that and that may involve dropping off the grid for a while. Which would be unfortunate, yes?"

Wortham's eyebrow slowly twitches twice.  "If Captain Maatsen and I can't find you because you're observing comms silence for SIGINT purposes, you can hardly be recalled and expelled.  It's an inconvenience but my skepticism about your op is a matter of record, so it won't be surprising if you decide to stay on mission without further engagement with my people."

Hannah grunted lightly as she tried to exert pressure on the juncture where she thought that the curved housing anchored to the supporting structure.  She craned her neck to see over the strange piece if she was exerting the right pressure in the right place.  Her brow furrowed lightly as the perspiration beaded on her forehead from a combination of both the heat and the exertion.  A most inopportune time for the momentary discmfort, her hand reflexively moved to brush at the offending muscle.  Warrant Officer Omdahl dutifully froze at Michael's beckoning, the use of her first name in the circumstances getting the desired response for Dealer.  However, the moment that she stopped and focused on the itch on her brow and consciously controlling her body was the same moment that it stopped spasming.

She glanced about in confusion for a moment.

"What is it?" the thin army aviatrix prompted her more technically-minded teammate, once the order to clear out had been given, "What did you see?". Double Down knew that Dealer wouldn't have made the call without good reason, but she simply didn't know what that might have been.  With all eyes having been focused on her for a moment, Hannah suspected that she'd been in the middle of it, but that is often a difficult place to be to have an unbiased or unfettered perspective.

She frowned slightly when Dacovetti mentioned a 'conduit' of some sort.  "Did anyone see anything like a light purple halo?" Hannah prompted her fellow investigators., trying to piece together what it all meant and on her own terms.  The auburn-haired woman from the Midwest had already debriefed the others with respect to what she'd thought that she'd seen with respect to the ASIO agents.  And her account had been corroborated by Cooper as well, as far as she knew.

Durand nods his head. "Indeed, this is true. I should most probably have a word with my team. We have a number of different leads to follow up on. With regards to the -" the Frenchman pauses for a moment, considers his words "- Russian national who is assisting with our enquiries, I do not think he presents a danger to your country or its citizens but he does have information that may help us in our investigation, so perhaps it would be possible to have him released into our custody? Obviously we would accept full responsibility for him."

If he can get Mikhail out of the interrogation room Durand's intention is to call Grey Cell together in private either here at the barracks or back at their Hotel so that they can discuss their next moves. What the Frenchman needs to consider in the meantime is whether or not to tell the others that they have been PNG'd. His first instinct is not to do so, for then the responsibility for the action is his, and his alone.

Andrey and Williams stared awkwardly at one another across the table in the interrogation room awaiting Durand's return.

"Nice shoes PO" he said with a faint smile, gesturing to Williams' feet "not exactly what I'd want to be wearing in case of action like we saw in the streets, mind you, but very nice all the same. Italian?" his English no longer carried the edge of German he'd been using since he was incarcerated but rather what would probably now be described as an American Midwestern accent - neutral, unspecific.

"Have you been working with him long?" the unnamed him was implied to be Alain but he was certain that the PO wouldn't know that name and he wasn't sure which cryptonym Alain was employing here. No sense in calling out your ignorance by using the wrong name "Has he told you how we met?"

"No halo," Dacovetti confirms.  "No more motion either.  While your attention was focused on the interior of the vehicle, your eyelid was twitching in sync to my transmitter.  As soon as I had your attention, it stopped.  Maybe the halo is an energy bleed effect when this gets focused."  There is a hint of frustration in his voice.  It is unfortunate that no one else could confirm what he witnessed, but it isn't the type of situation that needs outside validation yet, either.

"We need time to assimilate all of this," Michael says.  "Time that we may not have the luxury of."

It feels like he is standing on the edge of a very deep and very oddly shaped well, one that he is trying illuminate, map, and develop a theory of formation on with a penlight, a foreign vocabulary, and no paper.

"Let's keep working."

"There." James holds up the composite sketch, admiring his crude artwork. The finished drawings had a simple, junior-high vibe to them. He puts the drawing down on the table and prints "Alien Commando Concept Sketch" in stylized capital letters at the top of the page. The focal point is twinned outlines of the predominant Attar sub-species, drawn both head-on and in profile, side-by-side. Its vulnerable spots are shaded and captioned; labeled arrows point to the acid sack/emitter system and the conductor/transmitter/receiver [?] node. The whole piece is intentionally made to look like something a adolescent sci-fi geek might doodle during a too-easy math class.

Higher up would get the digital photos and the long-hand field autopsy report. Security was paramount here and James isn't sure how much, if any, access Grey Cell will have to the anatomical studies after higher had been notified of their existence. Hence, the drawing. Dacovetti probably knew how to hide digital copies of the dissection materials but the sketches will serve in the meantime. James hits the Xerox machine and makes copies of the drawing for his teammates.

When all of Grey Cell is in the same room again, James hands a copy of "Alien Commando Concept Sketch" to each member, and, with a wink, a flash drive containing the digital records of the dissection to Dacovetti.

"So I hear we've outstayed our welcome Down Under."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:43, Mon 27 July 2015.

Durand walks back into the interrogation room without the folder he had been carrying earlier, nods to the silent Williams. "It's cleared with Wortham. He's coming with us. I'm going to assemble the team and hold a briefing back at the Hotel, Obviously as our Australian liaison you're included in that."

The Frenchman then turns to the Russian. "You've got a deal Mikhail." He pauses, shrugs. "Or whatever the fuck your name really is. We're cutting you in. You can get changed out of that jumpsuit at the Hotel." Durand pauses again, longer this time, looks carefully at the soon to be former prisoner. "I'm Sébastien Durand."

In the end it always comes down to politics.

The situation doesn't surprise Michael, but it does disappoint him.  The world is in crisis, battle lines are being drawn, and everybody that thinks they matter pull back the rug, drop rapidly into CYA mode, and halt the actual progress that needs to occur.  The battle could be climate change or alien invasion.  What matters is not success.  What matters is avoiding blame and immolating your "enemy."

That Australia now possesses the world's greatest collection of Attar artifacts and bodies (and the resultant value this offers) is not lost on the airman, either.

So he does what always comes next to Michael Dacovetti.  In plain sight, without asking permission, he plugs his phone in to the laptop running the robot that was examining the interior of the van and downloads all the pictures and videos they've shot.  While he finishes working, he starts the encrypted upload to Foundation.  It's going to take a while.

Then Michael takes out a latex glove from the assorted tools thoughtfully provided by Aussie EOD, pours a little of the remnant fluid into the body of the glove, and ties it off. The sealed glove goes into a slot next to his computer in it's reinforced messenger bag. Right next to his own gloves in his travel tool kit. Finally, he secures his spectrum analyzer after. He makes a big show of returning his borrowed gear, cooperating.

He's calm and methodical about the whole process. The personal gear he came with is assembled into a neat stack at one end of the table, the corners of his bag squared with the corner of the folded metal buffet table.  What he gets away with, he gets away with.  What he doesn't, he will, without fuss, either delete or return with a shrug that simply says: "a guy's gotta try."
----------

Back in the hotel, Dacovetti breaks back into the mini-fridge and helps himself to a 12 oz tension release device, liquid form.  There is no real register of taste as he sips the drink, his brain its attendant processing power is required elsewhere.  The sketch Agent Choi hands him is good.  Good enough, and interesting enough, that he is starting to synthesize bits and pieces of what he hopes is the bigger picture.  The flash drive he encrypts and zips to Foundation on their sat-link.  The liquid sample, if he still has it, might have to make its way to Nemesis.

"The Aussies will find our data rather difficult to repatriate," he quips with a satisfied grin.  "I gather we aren't leaving?"

The Russian spy gave Durand a mock salute in the French style, more jovial than sarcastic and he stands "Mr Durand. I like it. Suits you well enough. Call me..." he pauses for a moment and Sebastien can practically hear the Rolodex turning in his mind "Andrey Vasliyev.  Since it appears that Mr Autenburg is most certainly burned and Mikhail has been dead sadly for some time, you may call me Andrey."

He sighed and appraised his poor dress and made a dissatisfied clicking in the back of his throat "Surely you will allow me to change before we leave. Traveling to the hotel in this garb will almost certainly draw unnecessary attention and, correct me if I'm wrong... but unnecessary attention is precisely the kind you are attempting to avoid, yes?"

Quay West Suites
Melbourne, Victoria
21 April 2015
1954 hrs local (0954 hrs Zulu)

A slightly augmented Grey Cell gathers once again in the common room of James and Michael's suite.  Over take-away from a little-known Greek café, Cooper (NPC'd) lays out his last dump of intel.  ASIO and AUSTINT are locked in a turf war over the "terrorist incident."  Concerned by the apparent compromise of two ASIO agents - who have yet to regain consciousness - Colonel Wortham has chosen not to read in ASIO on the true alien threat.  Wortham's last update, corroborated by Maatsen, indicates that the current round of emergency committee meetings will last until midnight.  After that, Grey Cell had best not be at Quay West.

By unspoken agreement, no food is on the coffee table.  No one wants to get a wineglass too close to the collection of evidence and intel.  Alien autopsy records, video and stills of the firefight and the recovered artifacts, glassine baggies of tissue samples, a vial of the fluid from the van, and one of the jawbone implants Caradoc managed to palm while disarticulating an alien face.

The Welshman grins widely as he admires James' art project.  "This is beautiful.  If it leaks, it's just viral movie marketing."  He blinks.  "Huh.  If this ever does get declassified, they'll probably make a movie about us."

Michael's phone vibrates with an incoming call: Crit.  The surf-god's voice is taut with anticipation.  "Sounds like I missed the party.  I'm just closing up shop at Edinburgh.  I've got one of your analyzers sited on high ground and the other tucked into an Orion."

A glance at the airman's laptop confirms that the hardware is online and transmitting... and triangulating on two sources of interference.  The stronger one, by several orders of magnitude, is hanging over the Outback at some 80,000 feet.  The weaker - barely discernible - appears to be in the vicinity of the warehouse Sébastien's Russian acquaintance claims to have surveilled earlier in the day...
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:23, Wed 29 July 2015.

Andrey surveyed the gathered intelligence with admiration.  This was good solid field work backed by efficient case management. If he could be completely honest with himself (which he rarely was these days), it made him slightly nostalgic.

"Not that you need me to say this, but this is damned fine work" he says to all gathered.  "I'm not sure if Mr Durand has told you all much about me..." he trails off to gauge what they all may or may not know before continuing "Andrey Vasliyev. I'm something of a freelancer and have worked with Sebastien in the past and I look forward to working with all of you in the coming days" he offers them all a warm, genuine smile that actually manages to make it to his eyes.

The Russian agent beckoned Durand closer "Look, I understand that trust is going to be pretty thin between us for a little while but I've got some physical evidence that your team probably wants, if for no other reason than to synthesize it with what you already have.  It'll only take me about 30-45 minutes to retrieve it and you can send whomever you like with me if you need to... alternatively, if you'd like to relocate this party to someplace a little less known... I know a guy." he shrugged and left the suggestion hanging.

"If they do ever make a movie." Durand grins when Painter mentions the possibility, attempting to inject some humour to lighten the mood. "You'll be OK Painter. The Brit usually survives. Hannah would fall in love with Coop or Jim - Dealer's spoken for - and save the day." He winks at the American pilot, hoping to make it clear he's teasing her. "I'm fucked though. The Frenchman never makes it to the end of these movies alive. And they'll probably get Jean Reno to play me."

Whilst the DGSE Operator had been tempted to take another beer from the mini bar upon returning to the suite he'd settled instead for a coffee that had subsequently gone untouched as the haul of intel had been put together on the table. The TV is on in the background, tuned to a 24 hour news channel. The volume is off but there were no prizes for guessing what the top story was but the Frenchman had been curious as to how the media were reporting it.

"As Andrey says, he and I have known each for a few years, worked together successfully before a few times." Back to business. Durand adds by way of explanation when the Russian has finished speaking. Following a brief conversation between the two of them and Williams at the barracks whilst Vasliyev had been changing back into his own clothes agreement had been reached that it was best not to mention events in Somalia in front of the others. There was no point in complicating things any more than they already were after all. The Frenchman nods to the Russian. "Agreed, we definitely want to see what you've got. As for the other thing..."

Durand rises, addresses the entire team. "Look, I'd planned not to say anything about this so that you guys were covered against any repercussions, but I think it's common knowledge anyway. I guess the rumour mill works the same in the southern Hemisphere as it does in the north. We have been declared Persona Non Grata. The Aussies want to kick us out. There appears to be a dick measuring competition going on between various parties and we've been caught in the crossfire.

So, from this point on we're on our own. No official back up. So, if anyone isn't comfortable with any of that now's probably the time to say." He pauses a moment, looks at the faces of those gathered in the suite, giving them time to raise any objections that they may have. Provided no one wants out he'll nod. "Thank you. OK, we need to decide our next moves and who's doing what.

Firstly, I think relocation is a good idea. We can't stay here, so everyone pack up what you think you'll need. Someone then needs to go with Mik...Andrey to retrieve his intel." He nods to Vasilyev. "That leaves following up on the Aboriginal terrorists and their local connections and  seeing if this morning's hit and run is linked to what's going on. Plus anything else we can learn from this." He indicates the intel gathered on the coffee table.

"The floor is open ladies and gentlemen."
This message was last edited by the player at 09:16, Wed 29 July 2015.

"Fantastic.  The script will award me the hero's death that is written specifically to demonstrate bravery in the face of death and the importance of noble sacrifice.  And to generate tears."  There is levity in Dacovetti's voice, but he does squirm in his seat a little.  When his phone vibrates he picks up Crit's report with relief.  Whether it is to distract him from the conversation or because of the content of the call, he's not exactly sure.

"Both detectors are transmitting with solid copies.  Nice work." Michael tells the newly found member in the Tribe of Geek. "Don't fret over missing the dance, I have a feeling there's going to be another.  Pick up a burner phone and text me the number. We'll see about getting you invited."  The phone call is disconnected and focus is returned to the meeting at hand.

The Russian is an enigma, an ally of sorts in the street fight and Durand seems to be half vouching for and half trying not to kill with his eyes.  Given that he's standing in the hotel room with the members of the Cell, Dacovetti elects to file him under "trust, but verify."  If the Frenchman is willing to work with the newcomer, the American will trust his judgement.

"Being somewhere we're not welcome isn't new to me," he shrugs, memories drawing across dozens of missions to places Americans aren't welcome or aren't supposed to be conducting combat operations.  Ironically, it was outside of Needles, California where he came within seconds getting pinched by competing arms of his own government where he had the biggest problem of being somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.

"We've got solid physical evidence here.  Looks like we have some sort of methodology for the remote operation of living bodies, if what Chief Omdahl and Mr. Williams are reporting is accurate.  There was a minor demonstration of the technique while we dismantled the van.  One of our Aussie allies has placed our final two monitors, and I've got two locations plotted.  The strongest signal we've detected is hovering over the outback. At eighty thousand feet, so warm up your high altitude ARMs if you want to take a swing at that one.  The weaker of the two is still here in town.

"This is our private intel.  Crit understands the procedures involved and presumably could develop a similar system, even possibly piggybacking on ours, given enough time, but for now, these two sources are known only to the people in this room.  I would rather co-opt their tech expert than go head to head with him, but we have some room to operate before we have to share."

Cooper looked around at the items on the table, but stayed quiet.  He would be effectively AWOL in a few days, but the events of the last 48 hours had demonstrated that the exigency that required his absence was real.  It was only when Durand had mentioned Hannah falling in love that Williams glanced over, before quickly returning his gaze to the items on the table.  When Dacovetti spoke up, Cooper chimed in.

"The AISO Agents appeared to be rebelling against whatever was happening to them.  I'm not sure someone who hadn't had the same resistance training would do the same." Cooper said softly and almost with reverence.

"We've got to figure out how to do something similar if that happens to us," William's added as he glanced around to everyone in the room.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:42, Thu 30 July 2015.

Durand listens carefully as the conversation turns to the subject of the aliens taking control of the ASIO agents. "So if what they're doing is linked to this - " the Frenchman pauses for a moment; the technological side of Grey Cell's operations were not his strong point, a fact that he was acutely aware of so after a moment he continues using the catch all word that people use when they can't think of a better one- " - thing that was in the van could the signal be blocked?"

He then thinks of another question for Dacovetti. "You said one of the locations was in town. Do you have a precise fix on it?"

"Given enough time, a solution could be devised," Dacovetti answers Seb's first question.  "If it transmits we should be able to jam the signal, but the exact methodology may take some experimenting.  With access to Amber Cell, we might be able to develop something.  While on the run..."  he raises his hands in question.  "I'm not willing to make a promise I can't deliver on."

To answer Seb's second question, Dacovetti turns his laptop around for the others to see.  A glowing intersection of four translucent lines is highlighted over the newest satellite image of the city the airman has access to, lat and long coordinates provided with a margin of error.

"Want to go kick a hornet's nest on our way out?"

Durand nods in response to Dacovetti's statement about being unable to promise anything. "Yeah, no worries, understood. " He then shifts forward in his seat to look at the laptop. "On our own, without any back up? We'd be taking a big risk. But I don't like the idea of leaving it be either. Maybe we need to at least have a covert look at it."

The Frenchman sits back, looks at his colleagues. "What do you guys think?"

"I think that it's likely they'll be ready and waiting for us. I mean, assuming they have long range coms..." James looks inquiringly at Dacovetti, "... they know about what happened at Oz Corp. They at least know that someone's poking around. Their security's going to be a lot tighter than it was yesterday. We go in armed with pistols, without backup..."

"Now, don't think I'm quitting on you- I'm not. If I'm outvoted, I'll go. I mean, this assignment has ruined me; I can't go back to, er, pure Terran investigations now, even if I wanted to. I want to get to the bottom of this, or the top, or whatever. I just think we'll do the human race a whole lot more good alive than dead."

-

"Cautious and prepared, yes," Dacovetti agrees, "waiting for us...I'm not so sure of.  A reasonable assumption is that they don't know that we can track them yet.  They don't know that we didn't just stumble on to them earlier today.  The optimum compromise is probably to go engage in reconnaissance and see what we can see.  After picking up our shipment from Nemesis.

"Our ability to track them, or to develop a jammer does bring up one other issue.  We can probably use this tactic effectively and overtly exactly one time.  Hitting a small location, maybe twice, but if we go after the large emitter in the Outback, it has to work the first time.  If they adapt, we are back to square one for detection."

Hannah had to shake her head at the macho movie banter.  She thought about batting her eyes at Coop and the Lizard King, but thought the better of it - or perhaps didn't want to give too much away - immediately and simply let her end of the cinematic plot line die with the previous head shake.

She pursed her lips at the thought of being recalled.  Especially when they were close to something, the chaos that surrounded them was surely an indication of that.  The lithe army aviatrix took in a deep breath and then reluctantly nodded in agreement with Sébastien, "We should take a look at the nearby signal site.  To not do so would be folly on our part."  Like James, she didn't consider herself a coward.  So, fear was not the motivator for her reluctance (even if some self-preservation was); it was simply a dangerous situation and they didn't have much back-up, if the report that they were PNGs now was accurate.  But doing the basic recon was just good science, that is doing their due diligence.

Yet things could go south in so many ways, so easily.  By definition, whatever they were facing didn't think like a human.  And that made them inherently unpredictable.  The technological advantage that they seemed to possess didn't make things any easier.  Now that she thought more about it, perhaps fear was a factor.  But Hannah tried not to let it show.

"Nemesis left us plenty of get up and go, if we need it." the auburn-haired warrant officer reiterated to the group; Bannon hadn't left much firepower, but horsepower was present.  She knew that she and Choi had already given the rest of the group the rundown (well, perhaps except the German ... er ... Russian guy, Mikhail or Andrey or ... whatever); so, little more needed to be said about that.  Hannah was certain one or more of those was going to be necessary getting to the remote excavation turned accident site, but more than one of them might be useful now for some added reconnaissance as well.

Durand nods when Choi mentions going in lightly armed without back up. "You're absolutely right James. I don't think we're in a position to carry out a full scale tactical assault. I do agree with Dealer and Double Down though. I think we should try and get some sort of eyes on the site, even if only from a distance. The Frenchman turns to Dacovetti. And if we can carry out a covert surveillance that may not give away our new found capabilities.

The thought crosses my mind that if we recon the site and it turns out to warrant a raid perhaps we can get a back channel message to Wortham and Bellamy. Perhaps you can do that through Crit? Otherwise Coop do you have a way of making that happen if we have to?"

"Yeah.  I'll call the day room and tell them to get the duty officer and we'll get it done," Williams said with a grin.  It was hard to tell if he was serious or not, but odds were, he could get in though with his higher command if needed.

Yarraville Neighborhood
Melbourne, Victoria
22 April 2015
0605 hrs local (2005 hrs Zulu)

False dawn comes gray and foggy over Melbourne, too soon for a team running on an average of five hours' sleep.  Andrey Vasilyev's safehouse - or, at least, the refuge he was able to arrange on short notice - is a defunct auto repair shop, sandwiched between an avionics dealer and a plumbing supply house on an anonymous commercial strip.  Chief Bannon's foresight, whether unsanctioned or covertly authorized, was providential.  A return trip to Melbourne Self Storage has left the team able shoot, maneuver, and communicate, after a rough fashion.  The chief himself remains out of contact despite a message left on the team's way out of Quay West.

Where horsepower and firepower leave off, caffeine takes up the slack.  Caradoc toes open the door of Giddyup Mule, elbows through it, and hooks it with a heel to clear the way for Sébastien.  Their burdens steam in the cool air.  Sébastien ducks into the passenger's seat of Andrey's Corolla while Caradoc slides behind the FPV F6's wheel.  Both vehicles rapidly fill with the aroma of coffee and outré hipster breakfasts.  Caradoc slides his coffee into a cupholder, extracts a maple banana granola muffin with a dubious sniff, and passes the bag to Cooper.  "Painter to all stations: package acquired," he reports in an overly-serious tone.

A few blocks away, early-morning passers-by shake their heads in sympathy or scorn, as their individual dispositions direct, at the couple arguing over a broken-down motorcycle.  A much-abused Land Rover stands adjacent with its rear hatch open.  A toolchest sits on the rear bumper, having regurgitated half its contents onto the parking lot.  People see what they expect: no one looks closely enough to realize none of the scattered parts actually belong on the bike.  Nor do they notice Michael slouched in the Landie's rear seat, tending to a signal analyzer while Hannah and James "argue," "work," and keep watch.

Slow, methodical scans pinpointed the source of the local signal as the warehouse to which Andrey followed his quarry the previous day.  Officially, it's vacant - several commercial real estate web sites carry listings for it.  Obviously, the vacancy should be taken in the same sense as that of Andrey's garage.  The lights have been on since Grey Cell arrived shortly after 0500, with the occasional moving shadow evidence of some activity within.  No one has entered or left, though, nor have there been exterior patrols.  Cautious inspection from a suitable distance has shown weathered surveillance cameras - as well as the blind spots in their arcs of view.

The damaged semi-tractor remains in the parking lot, repairs in much the same state as they were when Sébastien left.  To Hannah's practiced eye, the truck clearly came out the victor in an encounter with a much smaller vehicle.  A trailer in matching TransOz livery is now snugged against one of the building's loading docks, and it occasionally rocks on its parking legs as cargo is loaded or unloaded.

James eases into the lee of another conveniently-placed semi-trailer - there's nothing accidental about the surveillance team's location - as headlights swing into view up the street.  The oncoming vehicle slows before turning into the target building's lot.  In profile, it reveals itself to be a ubiquitous Toyota Hilux.  As the pickup slides out of sight, James risks a quick flick of his thermal imager and is rewarded with a black-blue silhouette where a normal human head and torso would appear in the passenger's seat.

Michael snaps to alertness as the signal profile changes slightly.  He's still gathering data but intuition suggests the transition from a power-save or idle mode to a warm-up sequence.

---

Map refresh: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:02, Tue 11 Aug 2015.

Michael really wishes he'd been able to sleep more.  The cognitive load in dealing with the captured "facility" coupled with the massive adrenaline dump of the street fight had left him drained.  Collapsing into a padded corner in the safe house had been bliss, his brain shutting down like a switch, present and sentient in one moment, oblivion the next.  For about three hours, then his phone started buzzing on his chest.

I know you're in Australia.  I thought I saw you die on TV.

He is immediately grateful for the 3rd party encryption software running on his phone, bouncing the text messages he exchanges with his wife across the globe and back, scrubbing the metadata clean.

I'm fine, my love.  Really.  Try not to worry about me. 

Then, How do you know it was me?

I know your 'I'm taking no shit' walk.  Even in a rubber suit.

You promised you would try to be careful.

I am trying, this is important.

More important than us?

You know there is no answer to that question.

I love you.

I love you, too.

After that, sleep had been sporadic.  While technically present, it hadn't been the restful sleep the airman had wanted.  It had been the haunted sleep of the damned.  Broken with dreams and stress.  And now here he is, yawning into his sensor systems, hiding in a friendly country, and trying to make sense of the data flowing around him.  Hovering on the edge of consciousness are the paired voices of Omdahl and Choi, voices that are making both too much and not enough sense.  Dacovetti yawns again, wishing the coffee would hit faster.  Then the digitized needle on the custom spectrum analyzer bounces, feeding another data point into his systems and mind.

Here we go again.

"Dealer to all, signal strength increasing.  Probable warm up of system, watch for effects."  Its not exactly an increase, but to explain what he's seeing on the monitor would take more time than it's worth.

They are here to watch, and gather data.  Specifically Michael, will watch.  He will be the last to act should his assistance be required, but he still pats the bag on the seat next to him, the one with the P90, for reassurance.  Should it become necessary to go fully hot, he'll use it.  Hopefully it won't come to that.  Not yet.  Until then there's the Glock wedged under his thigh for easy access.  And the hope that stealth will suffice.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:20, Wed 12 Aug 2015.

"Sorry, no croissants." Durand's tone attempts to convey the seriousness of this as he places a coffee cup to Vasliyev, hands the Russian a brown paper bag before taking a sip of his own coffee. "I got muffins. You've got the choice of a carrot cake or banana and walnut. Both vegan."

Once Andrey has made his choice Durand will extract the remaining muffin from the bag, take a bite into it, shifts his attention to the warehouse. He can feel the comforting bulk of the Colt he had selected from the stash Bannon had supplied press against his side, sitting snugly in his belt, his clothing concealing it from casual view. The Marlin rifle is on the back seat, several items of clothing forming an impromptu concealment.

He's made small talk with the Russian as the time has passed, filling in a few gaps about what he's been doing since Somalia. Much must be left unsaid, for that was the nature of their work, although in the interests of understanding their mutual enemy he'll talk relatively freely about what happened in Libya, in turn trying to find out everything that the Russian knows about their extra terrestrial foe.

Other than though he's happy to let Vasliyev do most of the talking if that's what he wants to do. The one subject that the Frenchman will point blank refuse to get into is Somalia. Durand had said his piece earlier, in the interrogation room at the barracks. There will be a time to revisit that, but now is not it.

He's just taken another sip of coffee when his radio crackles into life, Dealer's disembodied voice in his ear. He gives a double squawk to acknowledge the transmission, turns to his new colleague. "Could be showtime. We'll hold in place for now, but get ready to move fast if we have to, yeah?" He cranks the window just enough to toss what's left of the muffin, grins wryly in the darkness. "You know, if you'd told me when we first met that we'd end up staking out suspected aliens in Australia I would have said you were crazy man."

James looks directly at Omdahl as he activates his throat mike. It feels awkward, pretending to argue like this, but he doesn't want to break cover.

"Copy that. All stations, Lizard King. We have at least one Attar on the premises. Passenger in the Hilux that just pulled in. Thermal don't lie. Over."

He moved his hands in emphasis, which made the ruse feel even sillier. He was too embarrassed to smile, and feeling too guilty about pretending to yell at Omdahl to properly scowl.

-

Hannah looked slightly bored, though James could tell she was on edge.  She was facing the opposite direction from him, keeping an eye on his six.  She didn't want anything surprising the two of them.

She nodded slightly to his comm message, but then morphed the action into a more wild gesticulation pointing towards one of the pieces on the extended tailgate of the truck.  The thin army aviatrix looked pensive, choosing that moment to place the cuff of her riding leathers near her mouth and feigning a thoughtful pause.  "Damaged Semi is suspect." Hannah noted simply into her mike, "It's recent.  And could the one used in the hit and run."

She knew that she was speculating, but Double Down was getting that 'black cat', 'hackles raised on the back of her neck' feeling.  It was probably right that the rest of the group had given her that gambler's call sign.  She ostensibly let her gaze wander a touch, but really the young auburn-haired woman was just trying to get a better look at the semi and its damage pattern.  She tried to get as good of a picture as she could of the vehicle, without making it too obvious.  Thank God for the backwards facing cameras on the latest generation of smart phones.

Still, if the lithe army mechanic could get a better look (and maybe some closer photographs), they might be able to correlate more conclusively any forensic evidence with anything they might accumulate at the inland accident site when they visited it next.  "Damn it!" Hannah intoned with a touch of over-acted vehemence, before prompting James with a raised eyebrow, "Just look closer.  Why not, just look closer?"  And though one hand was pointing to the spare exhaust manifold sitting in front of them, her other hand was held close to her body and under the outstretched one.   She slowly pointed in the direction of the accident-prone truck; apparently, she was stating her preference that she really wanted to take a closer look...

"Cheap carbs," Cooper said, looking in the back and pulling out half of a 'whatever' muffin.  For some, eating food was a pleasure.  For Coop, it was mostly just nutrition and fuel.  And this wasn't great fuel either.  That's why he always carried Bulk Nutrients Whey Protein Concentrate Travel Packs(tm) in his gear.

When Crewe spoke into the radio, Cooper shifted his reach from his daypack, to his holster.  He eased out his USP Tactical and confirmed that it was in Condition One before returning it.  As the medic finished, Williams turned to the Welshman.

"So if one of these things zaps me with the mind ray or whatever, shoot me in the leg ok?  But not too high, you know?" Cooper said, tapping his thigh just above his knee with the side of his hand.

Andrey waved off the muffins and went over his earlier experience here again in his mind.  Weapons in the cab, at least two more guards, security cameras, etc.  He'd given the team as detailed a picture as he could muster as well as passing on everything he'd found in the truck cab - coordinates, transponder code, etc.  He made sure to mention the money trail as well - funneling money into local mosques as well as funding environmental groups in the northern part of the country (almost certainly a smoke screen)... and of course the heavy investment into shipping and transportation interests.

But here they were, poised again to very possibly take some very direct action against some very dangerous, very hostile unknown.  If Jakarta had taught him anything it was that years away from the field had made him a little soft and a little comfortable. Those comfortable days seem like distant memories.

"Everything more or less appears as I left it. The aboriginals were attempting to repair the panels on the truck when they were called away and went downtown to start blowing things up. Obviously they never returned to finish" he paused and took another sip of coffee "There was an AK and ammunition in the sleeper cab. I never got inside the building though so... could be anything in there.  The guards weren't the most observant - more interested in staying dry than actually watching for trouble."

The support teams pull away from the curb in a mist of exhaust and coffee steam.  Caradoc makes a U-turn and heads a few blocks north before pulling into a hotel parking lot just around the corner from the suspect compound.  Andrey heads south, circling the block before cutting back north along the boundary between a residential neighborhood and the western periphery of the port's industrial outskirts.

Leaving James to cover Michael's back, Hannah raises her phone to her ear and stalks away from the road, ostensibly making a phone call.  Once she's out of line of sight of the compound, she sprints across the parking lot.  Andrey's report on his earlier surveillance included his exploration of the defunct warehouse and his observation point, and the aviatrix easily replicates his route to the catwalk in the building's northwest corner.  The air here is damp with the recent rain and heavy with the sickly-sweet aroma of the neighboring sugar refinery.

As Hannah moves up for a closer look, James resumes "tinkering" with her bike, keeping an eye on the compound's parking lot.  Michael continues watching his signal analyzer and is rewarded with a smooth increase in signal strength.  It levels off well short of the peaks he saw in downtown Melbourne yesterday but it definitely has the feel of equipment coming up to operating levels.  A minute later, his phone vibrates with a confirming text from Crit.

Hannah's just entering the warehouse when James sees three Aboriginal men - all thermally human - exit the door of the target building.  They're wearing rain gear, under which two are ineptly attempting to conceal objects - most likely submachine guns or short carbines.  The third man strides to the damaged semi-tractor and climbs into the cab.  There's a painful mechanical grumble as the big diesel turns over and the truck lurches backward.  One of the armed men strides woodenly to the compound's gate and takes up station to watch up and down the street.  The other makes a wide arc around the grunting truck and begins ground-guiding the driver toward the trailer at the loading dock.  All three are moving awkwardly and there's no apparent communication beyond the ground guide's hand signals.

The sound of mechanical abuse reaches Hannah's ears before she settles into position in Andrey's earlier vantage point.  From her experience, it sounds like the earlier collision damaged the vehicle's mufflers and exhaust system, but there's nothing wrong with the engine itself.  She eases into a location from which to observe the proceedings and gives the truck a quick once-over, confirming her earlier impressions.  The chrome bull bar is warped and streaked with dark green paint at the truck's left front corner, and the body panels aft of that location are missing - presumably removed by the working party that Andrey observed yesterday.  The color of the paint residue matches that of the unfortunate ANU team's 4x4 that Hannah saw on Papoudopolis' television yesterday.

---

Map refresh: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:26, Sun 16 Aug 2015.

"System at operating levels," Michael reports, "confirmed by secondary monitor."  He checks that the system is recording and nods to himself with a smile, acknowledging the neurosis of quadruple checking his work.

It is comforting to know that even with PNG status, Grey Cell has support at the operator level.  If this situation, or another, goes decidedly sideways, the help will be critical.  The question the team will be facing in a few more minutes is whether or not to take an active intervention in the small alien drama in front of them.

Go or no go, he asks Seb silently.

"Dealer, copy that." Durand's response to Dacovetti's transmission is terse, the Frenchman's mind working overtime as he runs through the different scenarios, the potential consequences of acting or not acting. The fact that the signal strength was increasing was telling in his opinion. It seemed that the Attar's arrival had prompted some sort of activity. The question was, what?

Durand's fingers tap an aimless tattoo on his chin for several seconds before he turns to Vasilyev. "Do you think that you can get us in any closer without them spotting us?" He then keys his radio. "All stations, Roulette and I are going to try and get in closer. Painter, Diver, hold position for now." He wants to keep the Welshman and the Australian in reserve for the moment. "Lizard King, Double Down, send sitrep if able. Over." Whilst he waits for the various replies and acknowledgments the DGSE operator's hand subconsciously moves to where his pistol is tucked into his belt.

Hannah's eyes narrowed as she crouched behind cover, stealing views of damaged truck from her vantage point.  She grimaced slightly, having hoped that James would have come with her.  But, that might have been too suspicious.  She pulled her iPhone out started to focus in on the panels of the semi.  Careful to suppress the flash, Hannah took a few shots so that she and the others could study them later; for while it looked at first glance that there might be a color match with the ANU vehicle, they (and most definitely Dealer, if Double Down had him gauged correctly) would probably want to do some addition technical analysis.

"Double Down here.  Looks to me like we have our prime suspect vehicle." the auburn-haired aviatrix whispered  quietly into her throat mike, as she snapped her pictures, "Getting photographic evidence..."  She'd wanted to use the term 'Probable Cause' but knew that James wouldn't like that as the phrase had a very specific legal meaning (ignoring the fact that they weren't in the US).  Still, the hit-and-run candidate coupled with an Attar on site meant a tangle of threads that ensured nothing good was afoot.

The palms of Double Down's hands were getting a touch clammy as she made ready to bug out and regroup with the Lizard King.  Hannah wasn't feeling particularly comfortable doing solo reconnaissance, even with the familiar pressure of a pistol tucked up against the small of her back under her leather jacket.

"Roger that," Cooper said on-net, as he kept an eye on the goings on down the street.  He thought about ways to create a diversion if necessary, but decided that if things went south, it would just be better to get into the fight as quickly as possible.  All of these targets were hostile in his mind and had to be dealt with swiftly and violently.

James stays close to Hannah, wondering if that's really what an angry spouse would do. He's well aware that his lack of long-term relationship experience is undermining his lame attempt at play acting the aggravated husband, but he doesn't want to leave his teammate hanging out to dry. And who says chivalry is dead?

"Looks like they're loading up." James whispers. He badly wants to know what the E.T.s are doing/keeping in the warehouse. His hours of Netflix research call to mind a host of possibilities- alien spacecraft hangar, mind-control command center, Attar cloning station? However, getting into the warehouse without a fight is unlikely. On the other hand, the big, beat-up rig shouldn't be too hard to follow. <small>"We should get ready to follow that thing."</small> he suggests.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:44, Sat 22 Aug 2015.

"Double Down, copy that. Good job, but be careful. Do not take any risks. All callsigns, if they leave we will try and stay out of sight and follow them covertly. Painter, you and Diver will be lead car, the rest of us will stay out of sight and we'll leapfrog each other as required." Durand sits back in the passenger seat of the Toyota. He knows that everyone knows what they are doing and don't need him to micro manage them, so all he can do at the moment is wait for events to unfold.

Hannah snapped one last flash-less photo on her iPhone.  Then when Lizard King prompted her to leave, she nodded curtly to James' voice over her shoulder and agreed, "Absolutely."  Carefully stowing her phone back into a zippered pocket of her riding leathers, the lithe army aviatrix moved to follow her FBI companion back out - as the way they came in would have to be the way they retreated.

She kept an eye and ear open as they snuck about, as it wouldn't due to be discovered at this junction.  Only once they were well on their way back to the pick-up did she wonder to herself about which of them would have won the 'fight' between her and James.  Hannah had three older brothers; so, she wasn't exactly a pushover when it came to asserting herself.  But pretending to argue with a co-worker, who was supposed to be your spouse?  Well, there were definitely aspects to that scenario that were brand-new territory to her.  Somehow, her training as an army aviation warrant officer had never really covered that...

It would be good to get back on the bike and ride.  That was something that Hannah knew she was good at.

As Hannah and James prepare to leave their observation post, the armed men in the freight yard collapse their tenuous perimeter and set about helping their colleague connect the battered semi-tractor to the anonymous white trailer at the loading dock.  James gives the trio a last backward glance to burn their faces into his memory before following Hannah down the catwalk and out of the warehouse.

Caradoc blips the throttle on the ute's turbocharged straight-six and flings the sport truck down the block to the parking lot of the Rapid Lift warehouse-garage.  Cooper slips out of the passenger's seatand forestalls the manager's red-faced intercession with a brief flash of his AUSTINT credentials.  Taking up station at the building's corner while Crad repositions the ute for rapid egress, the combat diver makes himself one with the landscaping.

The process of connecting the tractor-trailer rig takes a few minutes, due, in Cooper's observation, to the ineffectual "assistance" of two men who are unfamiliar with the equipment.  The driver doesn't display any discernible reaction to their ineptitude, though.  When the process is done, he pulls a few meters away from the loading dock - enough for his colleagues to swing the doors closed but not, frustratingly, far enough for Cooper to get a look inside the dock or the trailer.  One of the armed men joins the driver in the truck's cab while the other disappears into the building.

Five more minutes pass.  The two men sit in the truck with slumped postures and vacant stares, not conversing - or doing anything else, as far as Cooper can tell.

James and Hannah jog back to the Land Rover and Ducati.  It's a matter of less than a minute to throw the tools back into their case and restore the bike to running condition.

Michael keeps a close eye on the spectrum analyzer.  He's beginning to get a feel for the differences between individual signals.  The local one has a particular spike at 575 MHz that repeats every 1.4 seconds.  As he watches, the "pulse" quickens slightly, speeding up to 1.2-second intervals.

James eases his cell phone around his own concealing trailer, using the camera as a periscope, just in time to see the target building's garage door roll up.  A moment later, the Toyota Hilux he saw arriving earlier exits the building and pulls onto the street.  With a hiss of air brakes releasing, the tractor-trailer follows it.  Moments later,  a black Nissan Patrol eases out of the warehouse and takes up station behind the big rig.

Thermal imaging shows two cold forms in the Toyota.  The Nissan's windows are rolled up, blocking thermal imaging, but its cabin appears to contain two or three figures.  The semi-trailer, uniformly cool when James scrutinized it earlier, is now beginning to heat up unevenly.

Grey Cell swings into action as the small convoy rolls north through gathering rush-hour traffic.  The tractor-trailer is an easy mark to follow, though the surface streets aren't the most conducive to its bulk.  To both Hannah's internal compass and Cooper's own local knowledge, it feels like whoever is choosing the route is taking a direct line northwest rather than picking up the less direct - but technically faster - limited-access roads.

After an interminable 45 minutes of stop-and-go tailing, the subjects finally pick up the Western Ring Road.  Ruthlessly using her superior speed and maneuverability - and no small amount of luck and intuition - Hannah manages to get ahead of them as they turn north.  From here, their most likely destinations are Melbourne Airport or the M79 out of the city.  If they're headed to the airport, the tactical situation changes dramatically.  If their destination lies outside Melbourne, direct tailing will be much harder - though Michael's equipment will provide an unfair BVR advantage.

The signal analyzer's readout remains steady, the 1.2-second pulse ticking away without noticeable variation.  The large warm spot at the front of the semi-trailer is noticeably hotter.

---

Decisions?

https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing

"No change in the signal since we left the freight yard," Dacovetti says to Choi.  If the agent had been hoping for any kind of small talk while they tailed their prey, the airman left him sadly disappointed with his eyes mostly glued to his laptop and analyzer.  The combination of 4G wireless and Google maps is helping him evolve a reasonable tactical analysis, updated in real time through analyzer triangulation.  His best guess is that convoy is heading out into the countryside, based more on intuition than evidence.  The airport still exists as a possibility.  Or some other unknown variable that they can't anticipate.

The local source, the one in the trailer, and the one he'd dubbed Ozzy, continues to produce its metronome like spike every 1.2 seconds.  Michael's current working theory is that this is the "operating mode," used for taking manual control of muscle and sinew.  Not that he has much evidence to base this fanciful theory on.  Nothing more than the reports of Omdahl, Choi, and Williams with a moderate dose of his own visual analysis.  None of it is any thing that could be described as empirical evidence.

While they drive, he starts a text conversation with Crit, knowing the Aussie can follow the signals just as well as Dacovetti can.  If these operations are going to continue, they're going to need to develop a counter measure.  A jammer for mind rays, he laughs silently.  Ideally a narrow band system that isn't so easy to detect that it announces the presence of Grey Cell well in advance.  It's going to take work, and it's never to early to start.  At least on the foundation of how it might function.

"Bullfrog, Dealer.  We have good signal acquisition.  If the target take the highway, we should be able to tail from a discrete distance."

"Dealer, Bullfrog, copy that. Stand by." Durand's expression is pensive as he sits in the passenger seat of the Toyota next to Andrey, his attention fixed on the road ahead as the Grey Cell vehicles continue to switch positions at random intervals so that no one vehicle appears to be following the Attars for any period of time.

The Frenchman is curious about where the aliens are headed, whether they are on their way to carry out another terrorist attack somewhere or simply removing evidence of their previous ones. There's another sign for the airport up ahead. It seemed to the Frenchman that the likelihood was that the Attars were either heading there or out of the City.  He speaks quietly to Vasliyev. "If they're making for the airport they're going to come up against a lot of law enforcement. My money's on out of town. What do you think?"

As another mile disappears under their wheels Durand clicks his radio "All callsigns, Bullfrog. Continue to leapfrog for now. If they do take the highway we'll go BVR and Dealer will control the pursuit. Break. Double Down, mind your six and watch out for any sudden accelerations. If they make you your priority is to get clear. Out." Whilst he knows that Hannah knows what she's doing he's worried that her position ahead of the target vehicles on a motorcycle made her vulnerable should she be identified.

Earlier in the pursuit...

As soon as the convoy rolls past the parked Land Rover, James keys his throat mic.

"All callsigns, Lizard King. Thermal indicates that the Toyota is crewed by a pair of Attars. I couldn't get a reading on the Nissan's occupants."

---

Choi enjoys playing tail, especially with such a prominent mark. Being taller than most of the surrounding traffic, the tractor-trailer is visible from quite a ways back, reducing the chance of getting made by following too close. His primary concern at the moment, is Omdahl. She's essentially operating on her own, out ahead of the entire convoy, closest to the Attar-crewed Hilux. He reassures himself with the fact that the Ducati between Omdahl's legs has the horses to easily outrun the Toyota truck. Being that she's a pilot, James assumes that she can handle that kind of speed.

-

Hannah let the quiet hum of the Duc tell her how the bike was handling the chase.  She'd glance at the tachometer and other instrumentation every so often, but generally the auburn-haired pilot liked to feel the ride.  For any combat aviator, intuition was as important as the numbers in her experience.

"Roger that, Bullfrog." she acknowledged Sébastien's orders.  For the moment, the lithe army aviatrix kept the pickup and the tractor-trailer in contact.

Then she nudged the Multistrada forward and it responded by swiftly threading between two cars in the left most lanes.  Hannah could read the dynamic situation of movement between multiple vehicles pretty well and counted on the drivers reacting a certain way.  Some might call it luck, but Double Down had oft found that luck would often save one - as long as their courage held.  And ever since Arghandab, they rarely questioned her courage.

Given that she was in the lead, but trying to follow, Hannah knew she'd need to make a decision pretty quick.  "Double Down here.  I'm going to take the M79." the black and red leather clad rider chirped into her throat mike.  True to her call sign, Omdahl took a gamble (even if it was an informed one, as she concurred with Durand) as to the direction the target was heading, adding simply, "If necessary, I'll double back."  She was probably the only vehicle that could afford to take the chance and still be able to continue the pursuit.

Hannah cast a furtive glance in one of her rear-view mirrors, to see if she'd chosen correctly...

Andrey considered Durand's suggestion and nodded before finally breaking his silence.

"Nothing we've seen so far would suggest that they'd risk exposure at an airport especially in light of the recent 'terror attack' - everyone will be on high alert for anything suspicious... and they move suspiciously. I'm not sure they can help it." the Russian agent scratched his chin and considered their quarry's options.

"It's reasonable to assume that they have resources/safe houses on or near any of the waypoints I passed along from the truck's circuit. It's reasonable to assume that they would rally at one of those points to debrief or plot their next move.  They've invested a lot of money and time in developing... something in Australia. I'm not convinced they're going to try to leave it just yet."

Cooper fiddled with the map as he sat in the passengers seat of the Ford F6 UTE.  Beside him, the Weatherby Mk V was as well hidden as an 11mm rifle could be thanks to the empty muffin bag which now covered the barrel.

"You know, the world's largest Uranium ore-body is about 14 hours away from here.  M79 to B64, then B97 into Olympic Dam.  There's also some deposits and mines out past Lake Frome to the north.  Australia has thirty percent of the worlds uranium reserves in fact," Cooper said idly as they waited for the convoy to reveal its destination.

"What do they mine in Wales?" Williams asked Crewe.  He'd never been that corner of the UK.  Hell, the only thing he knew about the country was who the prince was and that they famous for melting cheese and sauce over toast.

Grey Cell's reasoning is borne out as the Kenworth and its escorts steam northwest on the M79, leaving Melbourne's morning traffic behind for the open highways of the Victorian interior.  The team gradually breaks visual contact, peeling off one vehicle at a time.  In the Land Rover, Michael's signal analyzer remains metronome-steady, its linked RDF gear maintaining a solid bearing toward the small convoy.

It's a long, grinding, pursuit whose urgency soon threatens to fade into the monotony of highway hypnosis.  The Australian autumn day passes slowly, gray morning skies giving way to a hypersaturated blue afternoon flecked with high-riding clouds.  The trail winds steadily north-northwest, backtracking along the route that Andrey dug out of the truck's logbook during his earlier penetration of the compound.  The Russian scrolls through his phone's notes, nods sagely, and accurately predicts the convoy's fuel stop in Mildura, giving Sébastien enough warning to order a matching rest break for the team in the farming flyspeck of Red Cliffs.

Andrey's burgeoning reputation for prescience takes a hit a half-hour later.  Rolling out of Mildura, the Aboriginals and their Attar allies suddenly break north, crossing the Murray River into the state of New South Wales and striking out toward an apparent nothing.  A quick reconnaissance probe by a tired but determined Hannah confirms that both escort vehicles are still with the truck.  The team returns to the trail, dropping back another couple of miles to minimize the visibility of their dust plumes in the waning sunlight.

The convoy rolls along the twisting east bank of the Darling River for the better part of two hours before turning east at the huddled handful of dwellings that comprises the town of Pooncarie.  The team rolls to a halt for hydration, stretching, and consultation in the gravel lot of Pooncarie's single fuel station.  Ahead lies nothing but the dry lake beds of Mungo National Park.

---

Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...wQbg&usp=sharing

The time is shortly after 1700 local; sunset is in about an hour.