Sunday
March 12, 2015
Given that I don't exactly fall under any one government's jurisdiction, and the overseeing body that does watch my progress probably wouldn't even considering to dare piss me off (provided I continue to meet or exceed expectations), I've taken to fraternizing with the troops and crew more than I should. By this, I mean that I've apparently decided that it was worth my time to play some cards to kill the time. Sometimes I envy the science and engineering teams, they're at least constantly busy with "real" work.
Saturday
March 11, 2015
Nothing too interesting today. Dr. Shen is still gleefully cataloging the salvaged parts from the alien craft, while Dr. Vhalen continues to micromanage her team to death while researching the Arc Thrower. Coffee today is pretty good.
March 10, 2015
About damn time.
The alarm sounded at 7:29pm. A satellite picked up an alien craft over Japan. The Raven-1 Interceptor was scrambled immediately. Time to make things happen.
The interceptor engaged the craft and in the space of a few seconds, shots were volleyed and one craft one down. Over the com, "This is Voodoo 37, X-Ray 0 has been shot down; repeat, enemy craft has been terminated!" The floor roared with cheers. Score one for the home team. I let them have their celebration, and I'll make sure Voodoo 37 gets to pick the dinner in mess tomorrow.
My internal celebration came a few seconds later, "This is satellite surveillance Asia, we have located the craft, and we have confirmed sight of alien crew moving. Alien craft appears intact." The message repeated again, but hadn't even finished by the time I had given the order to scramble a ground crew. An intact spacecraft, a swarm of alien bad guys, and a ground squad that's been itching to earn their pay. It's play time.
I met the crew in the hanger of the drop and smacked Wright on the shoulder where he had been hit before. Not even a wince... nice. I shouted at them all over the whining of the turbines, "I want every piece of that alien tech you can carry home on your backs, and I want it intact. The aliens... this ain't catch and release at the pond - tear 'em up!" The team whooped and sprinted onto the craft as it started to take off. Roster: Wright, Marcantelli, A. Bradford, K. Jones. Poor alien bastards.
They hit the ground running at 8:23, running straight off of the dropship and into immediate cover. The smoke at the crash site was thick enough that there was no visual on the craft or any E.T.s. Bradford and Wright peeled the A.O. to the right, Jones and Marcantelli to the left. Within two sprints, Bradford had a bead on the craft. Sleek, silver, ready for plunder. About the same time, Jones and Marcantelli spot alien movement to the left of the craft, and quickly take firing positions from cover.
Before I can even register whose monitor it is I'm looking at, I see scrambling to cover, sliding behind a boulder and a rifle pound three rounds into an alien. First kill: ... Wright? Payback, indeed. Need to keep my eye on that guy. He turns to face Bradford, who has taken cover of her own nearby and flashes him a smile and a thumb's up. Good to see them bonding, they'll need it the further this goes on. Jones and Marcantelli continue to circle around the craft into good flanking cover.
Wright carefully takes to closer cover, which was unfortunately under overwatch by an alien. Wright takes a shot to the shoulder. Shit. He's grinding his teeth so loud I can hear it over his mic, but he raises his rifle, returns fire and blasts another alien into whatever heaven awaits them. Wright: 2, Rest of Squad: 0. Huh.
Wright calls out more alien movement from within the craft and hits his shoulder with the Medikit. Good man. Apparently, Dr. Vhalen sees something on the monitors that alarms her. "A being of pure energy! We'll need to find a way to take it alive to study!". I can see a ball of energy transform into a lanky humanoid on Wright's cam. Dr. Vhalen's scratching notes on her clipboard faster than most people could type them. Hopefully, she'll get her wish, but it won't be today... we don't have the tanks to hold these things yet. As if reading my mind, Bradford lunges forward and charges to the wall of the craft, nice and close to the energy being and smacks it with a shotgun blast to the head. Unfortunately, one of his Sectoid buddies takes advantage of her position and she takes a shot to the leg.
Wright moves to her, fires back at the alien and misses. Bradford gets a revenge shot and hits it square in the chest. It's obviously wounded, but it's still moving and takes better cover. It returns fire but goes wide.
Meanwhile, Jones and Marcantelli have finished circling the craft and take firing positions, shooting into the craft blindly. Neither seems to hit anything of value, but it's enough to distract the aliens. Bradford gets a second shot off on her alien buddy and finishes the job. Unsure of which direction to expect fire, the last remaining alien drops down behind some ship bulkhead. He picked the wrong direction to defend against. Marcantelli finds a perfect flanking position, charges, fires, kills.
The team take their time to ensure no aliens remain, and begin salvaging the ship, prioritizing anything still bleeping and blooping. When they return home, they're able to inventory a wholly intact alien flight computer. Dr. Shen's already got his hands all over it before I can get to the squad.
Medics are already all over Wright and A. Bradford. Wright can't stop apologizing for getting hit. I reassure him that he earned that wound for daring to take out three of the ugliest space slobs this side of Mars, and that he's earned whatever rest he has coming to him. He grins, because he knows it's expected to when the Old Man tells a joke, but I can see the hurt in his eyes... he's out of the game again.
Bradford... A. Bradford, that is, is making no attempt at humor. Her legs is tore up pretty bad and she's yelling cusses that even I've never heard. I shut her up with Corporal stripes. Despite her wound, she's got great tactical sense and knows how to use the area to her defense... anyone else taking the same wound would have likely taken it fatally. She's a leader, and I know it. Now I just need to keep her in the fight and pull the leadership out of her.
Marcantelli and Jones are both obviously exhausted, but keep looking to Wright and Bradford, knowing they could be worse. Neither says much and they both return to the barracks.
After marking some damaged hardware that Dr. Shen says we can't put to any use as 'salvage' and contacting our Grey Market liason to take it away, I note the time as 10:08pm. Most eventful two hours of my life.
The alarm sounded at 7:29pm. A satellite picked up an alien craft over Japan. The Raven-1 Interceptor was scrambled immediately. Time to make things happen.
The interceptor engaged the craft and in the space of a few seconds, shots were volleyed and one craft one down. Over the com, "This is Voodoo 37, X-Ray 0 has been shot down; repeat, enemy craft has been terminated!" The floor roared with cheers. Score one for the home team. I let them have their celebration, and I'll make sure Voodoo 37 gets to pick the dinner in mess tomorrow.
My internal celebration came a few seconds later, "This is satellite surveillance Asia, we have located the craft, and we have confirmed sight of alien crew moving. Alien craft appears intact." The message repeated again, but hadn't even finished by the time I had given the order to scramble a ground crew. An intact spacecraft, a swarm of alien bad guys, and a ground squad that's been itching to earn their pay. It's play time.
I met the crew in the hanger of the drop and smacked Wright on the shoulder where he had been hit before. Not even a wince... nice. I shouted at them all over the whining of the turbines, "I want every piece of that alien tech you can carry home on your backs, and I want it intact. The aliens... this ain't catch and release at the pond - tear 'em up!" The team whooped and sprinted onto the craft as it started to take off. Roster: Wright, Marcantelli, A. Bradford, K. Jones. Poor alien bastards.
They hit the ground running at 8:23, running straight off of the dropship and into immediate cover. The smoke at the crash site was thick enough that there was no visual on the craft or any E.T.s. Bradford and Wright peeled the A.O. to the right, Jones and Marcantelli to the left. Within two sprints, Bradford had a bead on the craft. Sleek, silver, ready for plunder. About the same time, Jones and Marcantelli spot alien movement to the left of the craft, and quickly take firing positions from cover.
Before I can even register whose monitor it is I'm looking at, I see scrambling to cover, sliding behind a boulder and a rifle pound three rounds into an alien. First kill: ... Wright? Payback, indeed. Need to keep my eye on that guy. He turns to face Bradford, who has taken cover of her own nearby and flashes him a smile and a thumb's up. Good to see them bonding, they'll need it the further this goes on. Jones and Marcantelli continue to circle around the craft into good flanking cover.
Wright carefully takes to closer cover, which was unfortunately under overwatch by an alien. Wright takes a shot to the shoulder. Shit. He's grinding his teeth so loud I can hear it over his mic, but he raises his rifle, returns fire and blasts another alien into whatever heaven awaits them. Wright: 2, Rest of Squad: 0. Huh.
Wright calls out more alien movement from within the craft and hits his shoulder with the Medikit. Good man. Apparently, Dr. Vhalen sees something on the monitors that alarms her. "A being of pure energy! We'll need to find a way to take it alive to study!". I can see a ball of energy transform into a lanky humanoid on Wright's cam. Dr. Vhalen's scratching notes on her clipboard faster than most people could type them. Hopefully, she'll get her wish, but it won't be today... we don't have the tanks to hold these things yet. As if reading my mind, Bradford lunges forward and charges to the wall of the craft, nice and close to the energy being and smacks it with a shotgun blast to the head. Unfortunately, one of his Sectoid buddies takes advantage of her position and she takes a shot to the leg.
Wright moves to her, fires back at the alien and misses. Bradford gets a revenge shot and hits it square in the chest. It's obviously wounded, but it's still moving and takes better cover. It returns fire but goes wide.
Meanwhile, Jones and Marcantelli have finished circling the craft and take firing positions, shooting into the craft blindly. Neither seems to hit anything of value, but it's enough to distract the aliens. Bradford gets a second shot off on her alien buddy and finishes the job. Unsure of which direction to expect fire, the last remaining alien drops down behind some ship bulkhead. He picked the wrong direction to defend against. Marcantelli finds a perfect flanking position, charges, fires, kills.
The team take their time to ensure no aliens remain, and begin salvaging the ship, prioritizing anything still bleeping and blooping. When they return home, they're able to inventory a wholly intact alien flight computer. Dr. Shen's already got his hands all over it before I can get to the squad.
Medics are already all over Wright and A. Bradford. Wright can't stop apologizing for getting hit. I reassure him that he earned that wound for daring to take out three of the ugliest space slobs this side of Mars, and that he's earned whatever rest he has coming to him. He grins, because he knows it's expected to when the Old Man tells a joke, but I can see the hurt in his eyes... he's out of the game again.
Bradford... A. Bradford, that is, is making no attempt at humor. Her legs is tore up pretty bad and she's yelling cusses that even I've never heard. I shut her up with Corporal stripes. Despite her wound, she's got great tactical sense and knows how to use the area to her defense... anyone else taking the same wound would have likely taken it fatally. She's a leader, and I know it. Now I just need to keep her in the fight and pull the leadership out of her.
Marcantelli and Jones are both obviously exhausted, but keep looking to Wright and Bradford, knowing they could be worse. Neither says much and they both return to the barracks.
After marking some damaged hardware that Dr. Shen says we can't put to any use as 'salvage' and contacting our Grey Market liason to take it away, I note the time as 10:08pm. Most eventful two hours of my life.
Thursday
March 9, 2015
I think we are now arriving at the Guinness Book of World Records record for most boring war ever. And it's with aliens, for crying out loud. How disappointing is that? I would feel fantastic if the aliens had just turned tail and ran; but there's just enough global activity, sightings and intelligence chatter to indicate that they haven't gone anywhere; they're just... Well, I'm not sure what they're doing, but it's getting on my nerves.
Everyone here at base has been so on edge, waiting for the next attack, that we're starting to get exhausted just from the tension of it all. Wright has been back on the roster for a full day and I think he may actually run off and start a new war just to stretch his legs.
We did get our satellite in place and operational over Argentina. Maybe this will help. Maybe the problem is that there's more going on than we're aware and more eyes will mean more activity. And more paychecks, that would sure help.
Wednesday
March 8, 2015
While activity has globally begun to taper off, there are still enough alien sightings on the ground and in the sky to tell me that this has only just begun. We're being studied; I'm positive of it. But, they won't wipe us out, despite having the obvious means to, and they're not taking the full offensive, when they could easily bleed our global resources dry in a matter of hours. We're being hunted, stalked, poked and prodded. Instead of being sucked up into a UFO in the middle of the night in the woods in the middle of Montana, our planet has been abducted into some twisted, galactic game of chess... we need to be able to plot their next move before they even take it, or our King (me?) is going to topple to the board.
On a more positive note, Wright has been given the all clear and has already prepped his gear for duty. I think he's been going stir crazy in the infirmity. I'll just make sure he gets the chance to make up for lost time... as soon as I have a chance to give him.
E.T. phone somewhere...
On a more positive note, Wright has been given the all clear and has already prepped his gear for duty. I think he's been going stir crazy in the infirmity. I'll just make sure he gets the chance to make up for lost time... as soon as I have a chance to give him.
E.T. phone somewhere...
Tuesday
March 7, 2015
New Interceptors arrived in Asia and South America, and the Interceptor deployed to South America from our base arrived on schedule. We now have two Interceptors at each satellite location. With any luck, they'll have no reason to launch in the foreseeable future... even paying for the fuel right now would put us in debt.
We have expanded the base downward, with the successful installation of the life going to a subbasement. While we lack the need to expand to this level, I'm eager to excavate so that we do have the room when we need it. I hate bottleneck.
I hate to say it, but what we really need is more activity right now... give our host nations a reason to be more grateful and forthcoming with the funds we need to operate.
We have expanded the base downward, with the successful installation of the life going to a subbasement. While we lack the need to expand to this level, I'm eager to excavate so that we do have the room when we need it. I hate bottleneck.
I hate to say it, but what we really need is more activity right now... give our host nations a reason to be more grateful and forthcoming with the funds we need to operate.
Monday
March 6, 2015
Finally, information. Dr. Vhalen presented me with a report that could lead to a solid and clear path to victory. They are like us. Regardless of what the biology of that implies, they psychology of it tells me that we can find a way to communicate, reason with... interrogate them. The potential effectiveness of my Argentinean ally has just grown exponentially. The trouble with this is that we can't interrogate dead spacemen.
Not unexpectedly, Dr. Vhalen has a plan for how to manage the shortage of live aliens we have available for interrogation. She and Dr. Shen have combined forces for the purpose of evil and come up with schematics for an "Arc Thrower". This is a hand weapon that will likely be capable of stunning the creatures, so that they can be safely transported back to base. The catch is that the expected energy output only allows for about two to three feet reach. That's too close for my tastes. Way too close. I've almost already lost one soldier while playing the "let's keep our distance" game; removing the element of range adds a level of risk I'm not comfortable with, by any means. Well, I wasn't, anyway, until Drs. Vhalen and Shen laid down what was obviously a well rehearsed speech about the merits of the cost of winning the war being a few lives in order to save the species. I want it to be horseshit. I know better.
Conveniently, they also have requirements and blueprints for a needed Alien Containment facility. It will take approximately as much time to have the containment facility ready as it will to develop the prototype for the Arc Thrower. As the engineering team reported that they finished excavation of some space on the main level, I gave the go ahead to have them start constructing the facility immediately. I had to pawn off two dead Sectoids to the grey market to get the money - I don't even want to speculate what will be done with them.
Two fingers of scotch finish off the evening.
Not unexpectedly, Dr. Vhalen has a plan for how to manage the shortage of live aliens we have available for interrogation. She and Dr. Shen have combined forces for the purpose of evil and come up with schematics for an "Arc Thrower". This is a hand weapon that will likely be capable of stunning the creatures, so that they can be safely transported back to base. The catch is that the expected energy output only allows for about two to three feet reach. That's too close for my tastes. Way too close. I've almost already lost one soldier while playing the "let's keep our distance" game; removing the element of range adds a level of risk I'm not comfortable with, by any means. Well, I wasn't, anyway, until Drs. Vhalen and Shen laid down what was obviously a well rehearsed speech about the merits of the cost of winning the war being a few lives in order to save the species. I want it to be horseshit. I know better.
Conveniently, they also have requirements and blueprints for a needed Alien Containment facility. It will take approximately as much time to have the containment facility ready as it will to develop the prototype for the Arc Thrower. As the engineering team reported that they finished excavation of some space on the main level, I gave the go ahead to have them start constructing the facility immediately. I had to pawn off two dead Sectoids to the grey market to get the money - I don't even want to speculate what will be done with them.
Two fingers of scotch finish off the evening.
Sunday
March 5, 2015
Uneventful day. Research and engineering teams are each busy with their respective tasks. Wright is insistent that he's ready to return to duty; the Chief Surgeon insists a couple more days of physical therapy. A. Jones's condition hasn't improved. Someone (I suspect an engineer) left the coffee pot on overnight and nearly ruined the machine; fortunately for his career... nay, life (martial law has its privileges), it was salvaged . Everyone gives me a wide berth when walking by me... I've overheard them say that I'm "in a mood".
Not so much a mood, just that something doesn't add up. The aliens have already all but proven they have the tech, firepower, and numbers to wipe us out if they wanted. Why haven't they? What is their agenda? I need answers or we'll end up spinning wheels while the E.T.s get closer to whatever it is they're really here for. Unacceptable condition.
Not so much a mood, just that something doesn't add up. The aliens have already all but proven they have the tech, firepower, and numbers to wipe us out if they wanted. Why haven't they? What is their agenda? I need answers or we'll end up spinning wheels while the E.T.s get closer to whatever it is they're really here for. Unacceptable condition.
Saturday
March 4, 2015
I understand the nature of being a necessary mercenary, but it doesn't mean I have to like it, and it sure in the hell doesn't mean I can't minimize the ethical impact of it all. After a decent nap and a debriefing to the council members regarding the last op, Bradford and I spent the day reviewing potential satellite coverage on a global scale and I had him gather logistical reports on projected costs for Interceptor coverage to protect the nations and the satellites I'll grace them with.
Fortunately, we have access to one more satellite before we need to increase our satellite monitoring capabilities. Given that I've pissed off Argentina and France by having to make a hard choice that was certainly not in their favor, I can potentially earn at least some of one of their country's trust back in short order.
The call I got from the Chief of Staff of the Argentina military reporting their displeasure made the decision for me. I had served with the him in joint operations in the middle east, and I understood his frustration and his acceptance of professional duty. My choice was made though by a simple promise he made: protect all of South American interests in the future, and they'd provide us with any covert medical support they could. Having been witness to his covert medical support in the past, I knew what this promise meant. I gave the order to provide coverage to Argentina with the remaining satellite, with plans to build another for Brazil as soon as able, which would give us 98% South American coverage. It would have to do. I also ordered one of our two Raven interceptors to redeploy to Argentina as well.
What the hell, I'm feeling spendy... just to be on the safe side, I also sign an acquisition order for two more interceptors, one for each location. They can always be redeployed as needed when our eyes in the sky are spread further out.
Bradford also mentioned a "Grey Market" where we could offload some of our salvaged goods to various sponsor nations who would perform their own research and military operations. While I have no interest in being separated from my scientist's precious research. It's good to know I have options when the coffers run dry.
I look in on A. Jones before retiring for the evening. Still in danger, still alive. Hang in there girl, you've got fight in you yet.
Fortunately, we have access to one more satellite before we need to increase our satellite monitoring capabilities. Given that I've pissed off Argentina and France by having to make a hard choice that was certainly not in their favor, I can potentially earn at least some of one of their country's trust back in short order.
The call I got from the Chief of Staff of the Argentina military reporting their displeasure made the decision for me. I had served with the him in joint operations in the middle east, and I understood his frustration and his acceptance of professional duty. My choice was made though by a simple promise he made: protect all of South American interests in the future, and they'd provide us with any covert medical support they could. Having been witness to his covert medical support in the past, I knew what this promise meant. I gave the order to provide coverage to Argentina with the remaining satellite, with plans to build another for Brazil as soon as able, which would give us 98% South American coverage. It would have to do. I also ordered one of our two Raven interceptors to redeploy to Argentina as well.
What the hell, I'm feeling spendy... just to be on the safe side, I also sign an acquisition order for two more interceptors, one for each location. They can always be redeployed as needed when our eyes in the sky are spread further out.
Bradford also mentioned a "Grey Market" where we could offload some of our salvaged goods to various sponsor nations who would perform their own research and military operations. While I have no interest in being separated from my scientist's precious research. It's good to know I have options when the coffers run dry.
I look in on A. Jones before retiring for the evening. Still in danger, still alive. Hang in there girl, you've got fight in you yet.
Friday
March 3, 2015
We almost made it two days without activity. I was actually in middle of filling out an empty incident log for the day and preparing to call it a night, the last of my cigar in full agreement as the cherry winked out of existence. 11:51 PM. Damn.
Alarms begin to wail and bodies began to scramble. Bradford instantly appears at my side, "Sir, we have an abduction in... belay that... hold." He cups his hand over his earpiece to cancel out the noise for a moment, then looks back to me, "You've got one hell of a choice to make. We have three incident sites, sir; a coordinated set of attacks across the globe. Problem is, we have one Skyranger transport and the administration to monitor and support only one team at a time. Each country has committed future resources in the form of money or personnel, so you need to weigh the choice carefully based on what we might potentially lose, and the fact that the extra terrestrials will likely accomplish their missions in the other two countries you don't choose. You can bet panic levels will increase in those areas."
Damnit. The short of if is that in one blink of an eye we went from a global watchdog to a petty mercenary. Well, we have bills to pay and resources to foster. "What are the sites, and what are we likely to gain from keeping each happy?"
Bradford snaps to attention, "Sir: Cordoba, Argentina; there's an engineering school there that has pledged graduates of several different fields to support our needs. Johannesburg, South Africa; the University of Johannesburg has committed their graduate students, in exchange for lab time and field research. Marseille, France; the French Prime Minister is already lobbying to financially back our expenses."
It's an easy choice, and I tell him as much. He assumes Marseille; I'm guessing because he's the one with the privilege of hearing me bitch about our lack of resources from a world that demands my full attention. He assumes wrong. I didn't get to where I am by not realizing there's more at stake than just throwing money at a problem. Engineers and scientists are just as tangible a commodity. Right now we have what we need with the money we can spend, that leaves scientists. Maybe we can get them going in the right direction to upgrade our tech, then we keep the engineers busy with it, and THEN we can worry about how to fund it. "Johannesburg, Bradford. We need the pocket protectors and band-aided glasses working on how to solve the problem before we can build the tools to fix it. Scramble the mission team, I want them in the air in five." He raises an eyebrow for what could be no longer than 1/100th of a second (just long enough for a trained eye like mine to notice), and then cups his hand over his microphone this time and starts clearly and concisely providing orders to various departments in the base. I take my chair, and nod to an orderly who returns the nod and heads to the coffee pot. Gonna be a long night.
I review the mission roster on my datapad. Jones and Bradford (A. Bradford, mentally noted) are up again as DeLano and Wright are still recovering. Two new rookies this time, then, Marcantelli and Jones. Damnit. Looking back and forth between their dossiers, I notice that they're related. Mother and daughter. Well, step mother and daughter anyway. This is either going to end up in a drama fest, or a competitive body count contest. Better to know now then, and be ready to pull the plug on that little mix up. I'm a big believer in family respect, but given Jones's... damnit, K. Jones's already outstanding performance, the mother (A. Jones, to note) may have to take a walk. I shake my head a bit, drag MedKit assignment icons to the rookies, and tap the "Approved" button. It's literally only seconds later that I hear the turbines of the Skyranger transport airship whir to life. I close my eyes to take advantage of the brief time I have before they hit their destination to sneak in what is sure to be the only sleep I get for awhile.
I'm awakened by a fresh cup of coffee being set into the cupholder at the end of my chair. "They've landed sir, mission is waiting for greenlight, sir", the orderly informs me. I nod, yawn, and fire up all mental cylinders.
"Fire it up", I yell, and everyone jumps into action. I can see the metropolitan area that they set down in on their mission cams and start assessing terrain and resources. Bradford snips, "weapons free", and the cams start bouncing as their wearers jump into immediate cover and the mission begins. K. Jones and A. Bradford rush ahead and drop into overwatch stance while the rookies bring up the rear and dash ahead into forward cover. Nice and professional.
A. Jones starts giving hand signals indicating aliens spotted, count of two, inside forward building. I barely had time to note the two Sectoids on her shoulder cam before they disappeared from view. No sooner can I mutter "son of a bitch" under my breath than they start crawling out from all around the building. Within seconds, there are five Sectoids quickly moving on them. Bradford gets a shot off before they find their own cover, but misses. Wiry little bastards. Distracted by her shot though, the ET misses Marcantelli moving to flank, and his error nets him one exploding head. A. Jones then leapfrogs around him into cover and squeezes the trigger, ending the life of another one behind the first, before I could even see it on the cam. Out of Bradford's cam, I see K. Jones grin a bit evil and her eyes squint. Body count contest it is. I can't help but smile, this is starting to shape up like an early Christmas. Rookies, indeed.
My merriment is short lived, however. One alien starts playing some kind of hocus pocus and a stream of energy leaps out of his head (yes, I'm rewatching the video now, while I write this, it was from his head) and reaches another Sectoid. I'll be damned if the one it reached doesn't actually look more determined. I'm not liking how this is shaping up. The three remaining ETs all converge on A. Jones at the same time; three shots, two hits. She goes down. Damnit. But... her vital monitor is still blipping, just a lot slower than it should be. Bradford reads my mind and yells into his mic, "She's still alive! Objective one, recover that soldier and move her to cover!".
Marcantelli leaps (quite literally) next to her and quickly gets her stabilized, while A. Bradford rips the one closest to them in half with a burst of her assault rifle. Two Sectoids in site, both getting ready to move on Marcantelli. K. Jones dashes to the other side of them, aiming for the ET that's sending the brain waves and gets a clean headshot. Much to the surprise of everyone in the room, including myself, the one that was receiving those brain waves drops, too. I can see Dr. Vhalen furious scribbling notes.
One more sectoid appears and tries to flank K. Jones, and fires. Fortunately, the shot goes wide. K. Jones pops right back up out of cover and returns fire, blasting it away.
After sweeping the area and getting A. Jones back to the Skyranger, they give an all clear, and reboard the transport vessel heading home. I grind my teeth through the whole thing. Giving a "dear so and so" speech is always a bitch; I'm not even going to try to guess the size of the ulcer that will give me if I ever have to deliver it to the person that watched her die on the battlefield. They got the job done, and from what I just saw, them being together is a rare asset. I just may need to stack up on some TUMS.
Upon return, the med team was standing by with emergency equipment and the operating room prepped. A. Jones was put on a stretcher and carted off before the Skyranger engines had even begun shut down sequence. The squad, seeing me there to receive them, immediately came to the line and to attention.
I look them all in the eyes for exactly three second apiece. I already had Bradford prepped for their return. I call K. Jones forward. For skill, leadership and a damned sharp eye, she was the first of my troops to earn the rank of Corporal. I have an attendant ready with a new rifle equipped with a holo-targetting system. Not cheap, not production state gear, not ... going to sit and go to waste with her on the squad. True to form, she took back to the line and to attention without so much as a grin or a shake. The determination in her jaw said everything I needed to know. She could be my first true officer, I hope she appreciates the oncoming scrutiny.
I then call A. Bradford forward. She had had her opportunity this time, and took it. I pin the Squaddie rank on her shoulder and her rifle is swapped out for an Assault shotgun. She may not have great aim, but she's got guts and if she can get in close, she's likely to rip them apart.
Marcantelli is last. His reaction time and lack of hesitation to act also put him in the Assault designation. I also pinned a Silver Star on his jacket for putting his life on the line in the saving of another.
A. Jones should be here. I pray I get the chance to have her on the line as well. You'd never know it by looking at her, but I'm sure her daughter's holding the line for the both of them.
I dismiss the soldiers and the crewmen get to work unloading the alien bodies and salvaged weapon parts. Dr. Shen informs me on my way to the com room that if and when needed, they could build a laboratory for the science team use. I mentally file the information, but don't give it too much thought. I'm tired and I almost lost my first troop on this assignment. I've lost men before, but this mission seems to matter more; and so must the soldiers on it.
I'm informed that South Africa already has four scientists en route to the base. I'm also informed that the situation has increased in tension in Europe and South America. Yeah. Can't please them all, just hope I don't piss them off so much they stop sending Christmas Cards before we even make it to our first Christmas with the aliens.
My datapad is blinking that I'm needed in the Situation Room. It's now 4:35 AM. I tell Bradford that they can expect me in about three hours. Commander's greatest prerogative is the ability to designate around naps.
Thursday
March 2, 2015
The second day of my command. Nothing too dramatic on the "let's avoid the extermination of humanity" front. Unless you consider the obscene lack of funding we are receiving from our patron countries... that seems pretty dramatic.
I've ordered the engineering team to begin excavating lower below our base. We have a limited amount of horizontal space to work with, may as well be ready when we run out of room.
The coffee's awful.
Wednesday
March 1, 2015
Woken up at oh-dark-thirty is never my favorite pastime. Woken up at oh-dark-thirty, escorted to a helicopter waiting in the middle of the street in front of my house while the world is going to shit around me, I like slightly less. Destination: base at undisclosed location in Asia. This isn't a surprise. I was flown to Okinawa at a moment's notice within the space of an hour after the space bastards entered our atmosphere and decided to take a crap on our doorstep. My doorstep. Planet Earth. Big mistake.
I've been ready for this for years. Custom groomed for command of anti-E.T. operations, should they pop out of the silver screen and try to chew our faces off. The few personnel with clearance high enough to even think that this might be a serious project, never quite took it serious enough. Being the butt of one of the few jokes that can even make a General or Admiral laugh is no enviable position in the first place; being the first guy they call when it not such a funny joke after all gives me no shortage of satisfaction. I shouldn't enjoy that part of it so much... I'm a world-class military leader now, but hey, I have a feeling I'm going to run out of anything else to get any joy from, soon enough.
We hit land just a short time later and I'm hustled to a very nondescript elevator, and zipped down what must be a good few hundred yards. Stepping out of the elevator, I'm greeted by a scene from a Michael Bay flick: military monitors galore, alight with explosions from wall to wall. Even being prepared for this the last fifteen years of my life doesn't make this any less grim.
"Commander, we've already got our men on the ground," I'm told by some pencil pusher with a name tag reading "Bradford" on his chest. "We'll brief you on operations after the mission; for now, we have business to attend to. Welcome to XCOM" He waves his hand towards what is obviously the focus of current operations. On display is a hi-res, digital map of Australia, with a red activity indicator blinking smack-dab in the middle of Sydney.
Overlayed on the monitor:
BRIEF: Alien abduction in progress. Site is clear of civilians and multiple hostile elements are present. Collateral damage is not a concern.
OBJECTIVES:
1 - Sweep the abduction site and identify threats
2 - Neutralize all hostile targets
Yep. Michael Bay level shit, right here. Anytime you hear "collateral damage is not a concern", you can bet it's actually expected and some government accountant already has a check written out to the local authorities to make up for the tangible loss that's about to go down. Around the monitor are six camera monitors, four lit up and wavering around what appears to be the same scene in downtown Sydney. It's obviously late night, but there are spotlights and fires lighting up the streets just fine. What I'm looking at quickly becomes apparent as shoulder and helmet mounted cameras of what I assume are the soldiers at the scene. My soldiers. I didn't even get to shake hands yet; here's to hoping I get a chance to.
Bradford speaks into the microphone on his headset, "Mission is a go, weapons free." Chatter quickly fills the air as the soldiers begin coordinating their movements through the local area. I'm impressed by how quickly everything else in the operations room becomes dead silent, save their static backed commands and feedback.
In only moments, aliens are spotted. They're nothing surprising if you've been alive on earth the last century or so, they've been pasted all over our movie screens and book covers. Short, grey skin, almond eyes, big heads. Not quite ET, but Alien Autopsy had it right. Don't bother speculating how we knew what they looked like this whole time, you don't have the clearance to get a straight answer.
In moments, a monitor labeled "DeLano" lights up with a shot from a rifle and an alien's head explodes. Literally. Michael Bay does not disappoint. An alien near the first target quickly returns fire, though, and down goes DeLano's camera, presumably with his body. As the camera raises back up and the body it's attached to obviously limps behind cover, I know he's alright and turn focus to the rest of the scene.
To the right of the scene, a monitor labelled, "Wright" takes a green laser(?) blast almost directly at it. He grunts, apparently hit, but immediately charges behind the alien straight out of a ... movie by some high-explosives guy... and blasts the alien in the back of the head. Two down... two still in view of my troops.
DeLano's partner on the left of the scene takes out the alien that shot DeLano with a shot to the chest. With both aliens in their lane clear, DeLano and Jones turn to Wright and A. Bradford's lane to the right. No real activity from A. Bradford's cam, but she's got clear view of the scene and is barking feedback to her squad, keeping them fully appraised on anything they may be missing. Note, just to follow along here, Bradford is my admin guy, A. Bradford is a soldier. This is gonna drive me crazy even quicker, I'm sure.
What appears to be the remaining alien is hiding behind a cement barrier, returning fire like crazy, but shots are going wild. DeLano hits it in the shoulder with a shot; Jones takes advantage of the distraction to flank it and take it out.
While the troops survey the incident site to ensure no remaining aliens, I'm greeted by a Dr. Vhalen in a thick, but indeterminable, European accent. She indicates that the weapons the aliens carried appeared to self-destruct when the holder was killed, but that the parts can be salvaged for research. Bradford takes the cue and barks to the troops to salvage all alien technology, intact or otherwise, and to ensure all alien evidence and bodies are returned to base.
My soldiers reboard their landing craft and return home. I'm briefed by Central Officer Bradford, my apparent right-hand man. While he tends to focus too much on minute details like showing me where the water fountain is, I humor him and allow his micromanagement of the facilities to continue while I assess the base, mission, and hell, my life. He definitely performed as well as I could hope in the last mission, so if letting him indulge his management style keeps him in top shape, there's no harm.
Dr. Vhalen briefs me on her team's research capabilities and Dr. Shen shows me around the engineering lab. Both doctors scare me just a little in how eager they are to get their hands on alien tech. Dr. Shen also oversees base construction and provides me the current layout schematics and provides some ideas for how we might improve. A quick inventory details for me exactly how screwed I am with regards to resources: five scientists, five engineers, one satellite and two Interceptors equipped with Avalanche missiles. We also have facilities for an Officer Training School and a Satellite Uplink. Not a lot to work with, but hey, when some shady officials from various corners of the world put you in charge of an alien taskforce called XCOM, you expect things are going to be a challenge.
When the troops make it back, I'm already waiting for them in the barracks. I need my soldiers at their best, which means making sure they know what they're worth to me. Medics already start looking at DeLano and Wright's injuries, so I know they're taken care of physically. Mentally, they need morale, discipline, leadership, and a sense of order in this current batch of otherworldly chaos. Promotions; they need promotions.
Kathryn Jones is my first choice: two kills her first go on the ground, voice didn't even shake for a second. Squadie Jones, I assign her to Heavy weaponry and have Bradford note to have her assigned a rocket launcher. She barely cracks a smile and starts cleaning her gear.
Ryan DeLano and Eric Wright, one kill apiece, both taking wounds. Squadies aplenty in here. Bradford asks, "DeLano, sniper? Wright, support?" I agree, notes are taken, ribbons are handed out. A. Bradford had no shots fired, but made it back alive. I give her a pat on the back, tell her to keep it up and she nods curtly, everything understood in one glance. Professionals. Every last one of them.
The rest of the soldiers in the barracks have everything nice and tidy, gear at the ready. Glad I don't have to worry. I'm assuming here that these aren't ordinary soldiers, and I make a mental note to inquire about the recruitment process at a later time.
For now, I finish the rounds, have Dr. Shen have his guys prep up a couple med-packs, and give the order to start excavating to make room for more improvements in the facility.
Dr. Vhelan provides the options for researching weaponry and armor technology; but, we both quickly agree that Xeno Biology takes a higher priority and that that will be her team's first focus. We need to understand what we're up against first. We need to understand what they hell they're doing here. We need to figure out how to take the fight to them.
I've been ready for this for years. Custom groomed for command of anti-E.T. operations, should they pop out of the silver screen and try to chew our faces off. The few personnel with clearance high enough to even think that this might be a serious project, never quite took it serious enough. Being the butt of one of the few jokes that can even make a General or Admiral laugh is no enviable position in the first place; being the first guy they call when it not such a funny joke after all gives me no shortage of satisfaction. I shouldn't enjoy that part of it so much... I'm a world-class military leader now, but hey, I have a feeling I'm going to run out of anything else to get any joy from, soon enough.
We hit land just a short time later and I'm hustled to a very nondescript elevator, and zipped down what must be a good few hundred yards. Stepping out of the elevator, I'm greeted by a scene from a Michael Bay flick: military monitors galore, alight with explosions from wall to wall. Even being prepared for this the last fifteen years of my life doesn't make this any less grim.
"Commander, we've already got our men on the ground," I'm told by some pencil pusher with a name tag reading "Bradford" on his chest. "We'll brief you on operations after the mission; for now, we have business to attend to. Welcome to XCOM" He waves his hand towards what is obviously the focus of current operations. On display is a hi-res, digital map of Australia, with a red activity indicator blinking smack-dab in the middle of Sydney.
Overlayed on the monitor:
BRIEF: Alien abduction in progress. Site is clear of civilians and multiple hostile elements are present. Collateral damage is not a concern.OBJECTIVES:
1 - Sweep the abduction site and identify threats
2 - Neutralize all hostile targets
Yep. Michael Bay level shit, right here. Anytime you hear "collateral damage is not a concern", you can bet it's actually expected and some government accountant already has a check written out to the local authorities to make up for the tangible loss that's about to go down. Around the monitor are six camera monitors, four lit up and wavering around what appears to be the same scene in downtown Sydney. It's obviously late night, but there are spotlights and fires lighting up the streets just fine. What I'm looking at quickly becomes apparent as shoulder and helmet mounted cameras of what I assume are the soldiers at the scene. My soldiers. I didn't even get to shake hands yet; here's to hoping I get a chance to.
Bradford speaks into the microphone on his headset, "Mission is a go, weapons free." Chatter quickly fills the air as the soldiers begin coordinating their movements through the local area. I'm impressed by how quickly everything else in the operations room becomes dead silent, save their static backed commands and feedback.
In only moments, aliens are spotted. They're nothing surprising if you've been alive on earth the last century or so, they've been pasted all over our movie screens and book covers. Short, grey skin, almond eyes, big heads. Not quite ET, but Alien Autopsy had it right. Don't bother speculating how we knew what they looked like this whole time, you don't have the clearance to get a straight answer.
In moments, a monitor labeled "DeLano" lights up with a shot from a rifle and an alien's head explodes. Literally. Michael Bay does not disappoint. An alien near the first target quickly returns fire, though, and down goes DeLano's camera, presumably with his body. As the camera raises back up and the body it's attached to obviously limps behind cover, I know he's alright and turn focus to the rest of the scene.
To the right of the scene, a monitor labelled, "Wright" takes a green laser(?) blast almost directly at it. He grunts, apparently hit, but immediately charges behind the alien straight out of a ... movie by some high-explosives guy... and blasts the alien in the back of the head. Two down... two still in view of my troops.
DeLano's partner on the left of the scene takes out the alien that shot DeLano with a shot to the chest. With both aliens in their lane clear, DeLano and Jones turn to Wright and A. Bradford's lane to the right. No real activity from A. Bradford's cam, but she's got clear view of the scene and is barking feedback to her squad, keeping them fully appraised on anything they may be missing. Note, just to follow along here, Bradford is my admin guy, A. Bradford is a soldier. This is gonna drive me crazy even quicker, I'm sure.
What appears to be the remaining alien is hiding behind a cement barrier, returning fire like crazy, but shots are going wild. DeLano hits it in the shoulder with a shot; Jones takes advantage of the distraction to flank it and take it out.
While the troops survey the incident site to ensure no remaining aliens, I'm greeted by a Dr. Vhalen in a thick, but indeterminable, European accent. She indicates that the weapons the aliens carried appeared to self-destruct when the holder was killed, but that the parts can be salvaged for research. Bradford takes the cue and barks to the troops to salvage all alien technology, intact or otherwise, and to ensure all alien evidence and bodies are returned to base.
My soldiers reboard their landing craft and return home. I'm briefed by Central Officer Bradford, my apparent right-hand man. While he tends to focus too much on minute details like showing me where the water fountain is, I humor him and allow his micromanagement of the facilities to continue while I assess the base, mission, and hell, my life. He definitely performed as well as I could hope in the last mission, so if letting him indulge his management style keeps him in top shape, there's no harm.
Dr. Vhalen briefs me on her team's research capabilities and Dr. Shen shows me around the engineering lab. Both doctors scare me just a little in how eager they are to get their hands on alien tech. Dr. Shen also oversees base construction and provides me the current layout schematics and provides some ideas for how we might improve. A quick inventory details for me exactly how screwed I am with regards to resources: five scientists, five engineers, one satellite and two Interceptors equipped with Avalanche missiles. We also have facilities for an Officer Training School and a Satellite Uplink. Not a lot to work with, but hey, when some shady officials from various corners of the world put you in charge of an alien taskforce called XCOM, you expect things are going to be a challenge.When the troops make it back, I'm already waiting for them in the barracks. I need my soldiers at their best, which means making sure they know what they're worth to me. Medics already start looking at DeLano and Wright's injuries, so I know they're taken care of physically. Mentally, they need morale, discipline, leadership, and a sense of order in this current batch of otherworldly chaos. Promotions; they need promotions.
Kathryn Jones is my first choice: two kills her first go on the ground, voice didn't even shake for a second. Squadie Jones, I assign her to Heavy weaponry and have Bradford note to have her assigned a rocket launcher. She barely cracks a smile and starts cleaning her gear.
Ryan DeLano and Eric Wright, one kill apiece, both taking wounds. Squadies aplenty in here. Bradford asks, "DeLano, sniper? Wright, support?" I agree, notes are taken, ribbons are handed out. A. Bradford had no shots fired, but made it back alive. I give her a pat on the back, tell her to keep it up and she nods curtly, everything understood in one glance. Professionals. Every last one of them.
The rest of the soldiers in the barracks have everything nice and tidy, gear at the ready. Glad I don't have to worry. I'm assuming here that these aren't ordinary soldiers, and I make a mental note to inquire about the recruitment process at a later time.
For now, I finish the rounds, have Dr. Shen have his guys prep up a couple med-packs, and give the order to start excavating to make room for more improvements in the facility.
Dr. Vhelan provides the options for researching weaponry and armor technology; but, we both quickly agree that Xeno Biology takes a higher priority and that that will be her team's first focus. We need to understand what we're up against first. We need to understand what they hell they're doing here. We need to figure out how to take the fight to them.
Tuesday
Prologue
And here we are. We've spent more time, money, and effort preparing for 'Visitors From Mars' than we had a right to. We made up stories, we hypothesized about life on other planets, we made it a part of our popular culture, we teased and scared each other with costumes on holidays. We hoped, dreamed, wished... hell, we shook our fists at the universe and downright demanded that we not be alone.
The universe answered.
I am part of that answer. The 'devil's advocate' part of that answer. The part that says if the universe wants to play dirty, we deserve at least a whim of a fighting chance at salvaging something of an existence of our species.
I may very well be our savior. Children generations from now will speak my name in awe, pretend to be me while unfairly creating unbalanced rules on the playground that ensures their victory in the games of imagination they will surely play. I'm not humble, I can't afford to be; because if I'm not everything humanity needs to survive this hot mess we find ourselves in, then... well... we're fucked, and there won't be anyone left to criticize me.
By now, you already know the story - you either remember that day like a stark photograph of blue lines burned into your retina after a camera flash cracks into your eyes; your parents have told it to you so many times you may as well have been there and/or you've seen it in video recordings to the same effect; or, it's been so long that this has just become a legend in some new version of a history book, or even a religious text. If you're none of the above, then we lost, and you're not reading this in the first place. Whatever happens now, the invasion of Earth from alien beings from God-knows-where will never be forgotten so long as one human being still draws breath, of that I'm certain.
What you don't know is -my- story. And the stories of my soldiers. My heroes. The men and women you'll likely never hear of, unless you happen to be damned lucky enough to carry one of their medals through your family as a sacred heirloom. I'll make choices - good ones that will (hopefully) ensure our inevitable victory against the damned aliens, bad ones that will ensure some poor boy or girl just waiting for Daddy to get home for Christmas will never know profound joy without horrendous loss ever again. I have to make the calls, simply because someone has to. Someone has to take responsibility for this, either way, and if I do well... if I save us... we'll come out of this on the other end of hell with a new resolve and thirst for life as we struggle to rebuild and come out of the stronger than we were when we fell prey to some horrible race of space conqueror. If I fuck this up, you won't know it, so I won't waste energy even trying to justify what will never matter again.
The universe answered.
I am part of that answer. The 'devil's advocate' part of that answer. The part that says if the universe wants to play dirty, we deserve at least a whim of a fighting chance at salvaging something of an existence of our species.
I may very well be our savior. Children generations from now will speak my name in awe, pretend to be me while unfairly creating unbalanced rules on the playground that ensures their victory in the games of imagination they will surely play. I'm not humble, I can't afford to be; because if I'm not everything humanity needs to survive this hot mess we find ourselves in, then... well... we're fucked, and there won't be anyone left to criticize me.
By now, you already know the story - you either remember that day like a stark photograph of blue lines burned into your retina after a camera flash cracks into your eyes; your parents have told it to you so many times you may as well have been there and/or you've seen it in video recordings to the same effect; or, it's been so long that this has just become a legend in some new version of a history book, or even a religious text. If you're none of the above, then we lost, and you're not reading this in the first place. Whatever happens now, the invasion of Earth from alien beings from God-knows-where will never be forgotten so long as one human being still draws breath, of that I'm certain.
What you don't know is -my- story. And the stories of my soldiers. My heroes. The men and women you'll likely never hear of, unless you happen to be damned lucky enough to carry one of their medals through your family as a sacred heirloom. I'll make choices - good ones that will (hopefully) ensure our inevitable victory against the damned aliens, bad ones that will ensure some poor boy or girl just waiting for Daddy to get home for Christmas will never know profound joy without horrendous loss ever again. I have to make the calls, simply because someone has to. Someone has to take responsibility for this, either way, and if I do well... if I save us... we'll come out of this on the other end of hell with a new resolve and thirst for life as we struggle to rebuild and come out of the stronger than we were when we fell prey to some horrible race of space conqueror. If I fuck this up, you won't know it, so I won't waste energy even trying to justify what will never matter again.
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