[Flashback] DL | CIO | LCDR Stacker | "Dutch, Pt. 2"

Posted on Thu Jun 7th, 2018 @ 3:08pm by Commander James Stacker

Mission: Lacuna
Location: Viery, Federation Border World
Timeline: September, 2415.

The air wasn’t just hot: it was sticky with humidity. Permeated with the sweet scent of rain. That overpowering smell that tells you the storm that’s coming is going to be powerful as hell. Torrential sheets of rain, thunder and lightning, maybe some good ground strikes that shatter the trees. Usually it makes for a good scene when you’re inside or safely under cover. When you’re halfway up the side of a mountain it’s a little more problematic.

A muted rumble growled in the distance. A two-second pause was followed by another. Several leaves on a bush shifted. There was a slight wind, but it was intermittent. Not enough to be the entire reason for the leaves to move. “Here we go.”

“What?” asked a second bush. It was near the first one, tucked low in the grass under the tree and otherwise unmoving. Oddly enough it hadn’t been there the week before: sometime in the last few days it’d appeared under cover of darkness. The foliage matched the local vegetation and was the right color for this time of year. But bushes don’t normally talk to each other.

“Just listen.” Conversation stopped and didn’t resume for a while. Minutes, most likely. It felt like centuries. Finally, there came another rumble.

“Shit.”

“One way of putting it.”

“So, what do we do?”

“We get rained on.” A gust of wind stilled further conversation, as a more pronounced breeze came through and set the branches in the trees to dancing. They swayed back and forth across the sky, tracing unique patterns while the vegetation at ground level joined in. After several minutes of this it diminished, and conversation resumed.

“Look on the bright side: you’ll have front-row seating to some impressive weather conditions. Got your rain shield?”

“They’ll be running scanners.”

“Negative. How-? Right. You haven’t been out in this yet. Active sensors attract lightning. And passive sensors will be next to useless with all the electricity in the air.”

“Keyhole Five-Five, this is Sierra Whiskey Four,” said the electronic voice. It was inaudible in the open air, being delivered as it was by an earbud, but the effect was the same as if God put in a sudden appearance on the mountainside. Any further conversation ceased. It was hard to miss how the voice crackled with static-laced tones. “Weather sat shows a storm front moving into your ops area. Time to contact four-zero mikes.”

“Well at least they noticed,” the second bush said without bothering to put that out over the airwaves. It had a heavier tone with a slight accent.

“But they did give us a timeframe.”

“I hate your optimism.”

“Keyhole Five-Five to Sierra Whiskey Four. Messaged received. No anomalies noted.”

“Sierra Whiskey Four, acknowledged. Good luck Keyhole Five-Five.”

Silenced resumed on the mountainside. That the storm was getting closer could not be denied in the short while that followed the electronic voice. Occasional gusts of wind whistled through the air and set the tree limbs to dancing. Blades of grassed were whipped like a line by winds that wanted to set them bent against the ground. Here and there a twig snapped from a tree.

“Go to landline,” the first bush said after one particular savage bout.

“Testing.”

“Reading you five-by-five.” The thin wire was tunneled underground, where a stray sentry - or native animal - wouldn’t trip across it and become entangled. Running the self-guiding wire had been the least-problematic part about the miraculous midnight appearance of the shrubbery. Last check complete, the two bushes settled down to waiting.

They weren’t the only ones. Their perch had a scenic overlook of an elongated valley, surrounded by mountains wreathed in trees and vegetation. The valley was bisected lengthways by a snaking river that shimmered in the last rays of sunlight. What little sunlight could sneak in, that is, under the roiling black clouds that were being steadily drawn across the sky. And then there was the shipyard.

The shipyard sat in the middle of the town that had sprung up around it, tall squat buildings with military-grey steel walls and few windows dwarfing the one- and two-story houses that spread out in all directions. Viery was a planet of limited industry: what the two things of shrubbery were looking at represented a third of all factories on the world. Their site also allowed them to look straight down the now-open gantry.

At the transport, which was where no fully-completed and operable transport should be. The local officials had been paid off months ago, according to intelligence. Paid to turn a blind eye to the arrival of this ship and its cargo of munitions for the insurgents. It’d been back luck that one of the officials had also been an informant. The first bush didn’t know who the official was, and likely never would. It just clustered under the tree and waited with unblinking eyes.

Dirt crunched from under the bush as the wind rose. Looking with electronic aid, the bush watched as the wind screamed down the valley and battered the exposed workers clustered around an open cargo hatch. Several workers were toppled to the ground. Two of the ones left standing were engaged in an angry debate. Fingers pointed at the hatch on extended arms, and they were yelling in each other’s faces.

“Think they’ll button up for the night?” the second bush asked the first through the wire. The rising howl of wind precluded any attempt at reasonable conversation.

A grunt. “Hope so … they’re buttoning up,” it added with confidence.

“How can you tell?” But the question was rendered obsolete almost as soon as asked. One of the two arguing individuals had walked over to the exposed control console, and even now slammed a fist down on a button. The hatch began to close, taking with it a view of stacked crates of weapons waiting to be offloaded. When the view swung right, it saw workers heading back indoors, heads down against the wind and jackets billowing out behind like so many sails.

“Take first watch?”

“It’s mine. Talk to you in six.”

“Sounds good,” James replied from under the bush. He reached out to tap the control, activating the rain shield. It was just in time: another crack of lightning pierced the sky, and the concussion shook the ground. With it came a torrential rainfall. It thundered onto the ground, cutting visibility with the naked eye to just a few hundred yards. The curtain of falling water raked across the grass, finding purchase everywhere but the shield. There it was deflected away.

He turned over onto his side and went to sleep as Dutch bent to his own tripod-mounted camera, watching the distant shipyard.

=/\=

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
2XO/Chief Intelligence Officer
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170