Vision of Hope -- A Leader of Men: 981116 04:57 PM EST by R MikkaiIl
Riccohh.
Through the ether itself as it swirlled with dust and pollen the thought floated.
Riccohh. Dammit Riccohh, answer me.
Gods, what, Mikkaill? Have you been reading Sidd's propaganda again? You're just so demanding. Riccohh didn't like having all too spare moments of sleep disrupted, but there was a touch of humor there too. The conversation he was enjoying was just that rare.
Of course I've been reading it. As well you should. That's not the point, the point is the explosion. You weren't hurt but how the hell does that happen? That mustn't happen again. I can't imagine ...
There was no need for exposition on what Mikkaill could not imagine. A moment's almost anguished silence lingered in the air because understanding was complete. Then the connection, synapse to synapse, began again.
How do you suppose Garth is managing?
The dust alone knows. I've not had a report from Special Ops in hours.
One of us should have gone along ...
And undermine Garth's command? He's a good man. That's not how we do things, Mikkaill. I shouldn't have to tell you that.
A heavy pause passed in a flash of thought. No, it shouldn't have needed to be said that in the Legion of Freemen those who rose to the rank of Commander were trusted. Yet even among the faithful of the LoF, all too often there was room for doubt when starving, frightened people were shaken. Shaken but not Broken - it was Mikkaill's personal motto.
The final words touched Riccohh's mind. Tonight then?
Tonight, Riccohh answered and felt the contact slip away. "Careful," he breathed aloud and drifted back into a fitful slumber.
One might have thought Riccohh Mikkaill Gideonn was talking to himself.
0516 - Ric
And what was Ricohh's personal motto? He never stopped long enough to think of one. That was the way it was with Ricohh. All action, little thought except for tactics. He sometimes felt lost without Mikkaill next to him. How long had it been since he'd seen his brother without having to look in shattered mirrors? Always something to do, always someone around.
Mikkaill.
It was early. Mikkaill wouldn't be ready and he'd be annoyed with Ricohh's impatience.
Please, Mikkaill. The walls are closing in and I can't breathe. The thought flew fresh on a fetid breeze that swirled into the cavern.
Special Ops had brought in a tank, one the Church would be hot to get back. A million plans boiled and bubbled in his head. Mikkaill would know what to do and he, Ricohh would make sure it got done. He looked upon the tank there in the cavern, scoured of any markings, a fresh brush for the Freemen to use to paint their idea of freedom.
Give me something, Mikkaill. Something to make this hopelessness go away...
And there it was, lingering on the misty outskirts of his mind. The ruin, Ricohh. You know where. Nervousness reminded him: Don't be seen!
====
When day had finally arrived, Garth had called a halt to the Special Ops. As
the Warthog coasted to a stop, Garth leaped down and began to survey the area. His
silver hair blew in the harsh desert wind, and he squinted against the rays of the sun.
"I want everyone in their desert gear, ASAP," he called to his team. Heeding his own
advice, he made his way to the rear of the Warthog and rifled through his personal
belongings. He pulled out his desert gear, an old hat which said "New Rydynn
Wildcats", and a pair of goggles, and a scarf to cover his mouth. He put on the
goggles, then slid on the ball cap, at last wrapping the scarf around his lower face.
He looked around and watched the rest of his Freemen doing the same. He nodded
in satisfaction, then his hand jerked up suddenly to check for the locket that hung
around his neck. He sighed when he realized it was still there, and delicately placed
it beneath his jumpsuit.
He looked around at the wasteland again, and caught the fleeting sound
of the nearby Sea of Hope. He winced, at the horrible sound of the angry, churning,
radiated sea. Its probably angry at us huumanns for nearly killing it. Honestly can't
blame it. He snorted, then continued to survey the area. His jaw dropped suddenly
and he reached again into the back of the Warthog. He pulled out a large piece of
reflective canvas used for tents, and dragged it across the desert floor. His men
watched him curiously as he made his way to a giant rib cage and flung the canvas
over it. Probably a petrified whale, he thought. Sure is big. Garth estimated that
it was about 30 feet high, and nearly 100 feet long. He grinned as the others began
to do the same, and eventually they had covered the entire skeleton, producing a
temporary base. Garth nodded in satisfaction, then went back to the Warthog.
The heat here is nearly unbearable, he thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
Might be the hottest place on Sabbatt. He picked up his gear and made his way back
to the tent. He went inside and smiled as he noticed his men had already set up cots,
a cooking station, and an old battered fold-up table. Garth went to the table and set
his gear, an old radio transmitter, his personal computer, and his survival pack on
it.
Mikkaill is probably wondering how we're doing. Should contact base first.
He flipped on the radio and listened to the static a moment, then switched to the
Freemen frequency. He began to speak into the microphone in what to an
outsider would have been an inconprehensible series of words and phrases but to
any trained Freemen listening in, it said:
This is Commander Garth Lowinn.
Mission into Desert of Hopelessness begun.
Establishment of temporary HQ complete.
Beginning reconassiance.
No hostiles so far.
Will report every 12 hours.
Over.
He flipped off the switch, then opened the laptop. He browsed his personal
files, searching for the information Mikkaill had downloaded. He located a file labeled
"Ruin" and opened it. He glanced over the file's contents, his eyes growing wide. He looked around the tent, and saw Crow helping some boys carry in their gear. He motioned for his second, and Crow set down the gear and came to stand behind his commander. Garth pointed at the screen, and waited for Crow to read it. When he had finished, Crow looked at his commander.
Garth nodded. "This could turn the war, Jack." His voice grew serious as he
recovered himself and assumed command. "I want those cycles out on the perimeter. Pair off the boys, and make sure they understand that under no circumstances are they to seperate. Tell to them to come in every six hours to check in and switch off. It's your job to make out the list of who will be out at what time." He looked at the map on his computer screen and the point
marked in red just about a mile north of their present position. He snorted. "Guess we have good aim." He sighed. "Pair us up for the last shift, Jack." He looked up at his second. "And be sure to tell the others that noone or no thing they encounter is innocent." His eyes grew wide and he stood up, grabbing Crow by the shoulders. "Nothing is innocent, make absolutely sure they understand that. He let go and sat
down again. staring at the map and the red blip that marked the satellite station.
"What have you sent us into, Mikkaill? May Sabbatt help us..."
Vision of Hope -- A Mission Into Hell: 981116 08:59 PM by GL
====
At 5:36 am, just as the sun came up behind the thick layer of dust cloud that shielded it from sight, six years and eighty-two days after his tour of duty officially began, a twenty-six year old First lieutenant named Jack Crow shook the hand of the man who was his current Commander. Then he did an about-face and walked out the make shift door of the whalebone encampment.
As he emerged from the silvered canvas flapping in the wind, located midway from a crimson range of mountains, he turned left and ran toward a cycle that waited a short distance away. Before reaching it, the Commander, who had been watching his exit, moved past him in a sprint to mount the contraption and revved up the engine. By the time the Lieutenant arrived at the second machines side the Commander was kicking up dust in every direction. With
his fatigue uniform flapping wildly in the wind, Crow grasped the streamlined steering column and climbed on, more accurately, was kicked aboard then roughly shoved onto the empty seat by Lowinn.
"Get your ass in gear, Lieutenant!" Lowinn chuckled as Crow stared him down through dark lensed glasses. As he pointed to the distant mountain range hovering on the horizon like clots of bloodied carcasses, Lowinn spoke to the man; or was it himself?
Jack found it difficult to decipher the difference.
"That's where we're goin', son!" Somehow that always brought a smirk to Jack's sunparched lips. The man had seen a lot; so had he. It didn't matter anymore who was son or father.
After quickly catching up, Jack turned his head and over the sound of the roaring engine screamed something to Lowinn. The Commander couldn't hear the words but, whatever they were, the cycle sharply turned and headed northwest just above the original direction they had set out for. There were two specks in the distance that grew into soldiers strung out in the dust. Like the private manning an identical weapon on the other side of the machine
laying on its side, the husky enlisted man focused his eyes and attention only on the ground he and Lowinn were speeding over. Typical groundpounders, Crow thought as he watched the blank, expressionless faces of the two men.
The Lieutenant leaned back and tried to relax, but it didn't take long to realize that there would be no rest for him that day. Without padding on the seat he found it necessary to constantly shift his position in order to keep his back from breaking and his rump from going to sleep. And the noise of the engine was deafening. He hated cycles. How did anyone tolerate them? That sound would eventually drive anyone insane. Ah, what the hell, he
told himself as he turned and stared out at the heat drifting off of the silt covered basin. This might be the last of his work as a soldier.
After completing this little chore he would be on to another and another and another, He would never be honorably discharged from the service and his military obligation would be eternal. He could kiss any hope of a future and peace good-bye.
Forever.
The two civilians he had spoken with prior to being assigned this duty had promised him that. They were all damned fools; the whole lot of them! And they didn't have a clue as to the bigger picture. Compared to dealing with civilians, this assigned task would be a cakewalk. It wasn't as simple as it could be, but he did not expect any problems. He never expected problems. What he was given were opportunities. During the next twenty-four hours
he would easily get all the opportunities he ever wanted thrown straight in his face.
Crow wondered why he had been chosen for this assignment. As a low-level intelligence officer serving with the Freemen Advisory Group he was nothing special, and he had no special training in the kind of work that had been assigned him. But the two men who he now trusted most said he possessed all the necessary "quali-fi-cations". His reputation for correctly assessing a "situ-ation" was second to none, they said. And that was enough. For this mission all they needed was someone they could count on.
Maybe that was just smoke, though. Maybe they said it only to soften him up before asking that he do this one last thing. He wondered about that as he shifted his body once again in an effort to find a comfortable position in the hard metal seat that shook constantly. No luck. This would be a miserable trip, he told himself. A humorless smile formed on his face, then just as suddenly disappeared as he realized that the discomfort he was going
through was only half of it. After completing this job he would be subjected to another five hours of punishment on the return.
There was one consolation, though. The two trips would be separated by the six or seven hours the two men estimated it would take to complete the work. Again the smile appeared, but this time it expressed humor. Perhaps he would walk back to New Rhydynn, he thought. Surely that trek could be no worse than riding on this thing. Nothing more than a hundred thousand followers of the Church stood in his way.
Almost two hours later, the cycle came to a halt in a barren rock field fifteen kilometers north of a gaping ravine. There a waiting group of six armed Syrynykks in civilian clothes hurriedly began to refuel the beast that was slowly and viciously tearing him apart. Thinking they would be there a
while, Crow dismounted his torturous stallion and started to undo the belt that held up his pants. For a few moments he would stand and stretch, he decided. Maybe even get out and walk a bit. That would loosen him up and relieve his aching rump. A sharp slap on the back caused him to turn his head.
Glaring at him was the face of the Lowinn who had so unceremoniously kicked him into third. The silver haired head that bent close to his own was slowly moving from side to side. No, the Commander was saying. Crow sighed, retightened the belt, then sagged in frustration.
A minute later the crew outside disconnected the fuel line that come from an enormous mobile tanker hold and the two throttled up again. As the cycles groaned and prepared to speed off, one of the Syrynykks passed a small packet to Lowinn. The Commander took it, swung around, and banged it down in
Crow's lap. "Food and coffee," the Syrynykk yelled.
"Where the Hell did they come from?" The thought that was in Jack's head leapt from his mouth.
Lowinn laughed as he called over his shoulder. "They've been with us all the time!"
Vision of Hope -- A Mission Into Hell: 981117 11:23 PM by JacCroVV
As they sped away from the tanker truck, Garth chuckled again at his second. Not many people knew of that small band of Syrynykks, aside from himself, Mikkaill, and a few of the other commanders. He was glad that they had agreed to acompany the Special Ops into this wasteland in order to keep their machinery running. He shifted again in his seat, the bare metal biting into him. He shifted regularly, and smiled when he noticed Crow
doing it as well. He shook his head, the silver hair blowing back from the desert wind. Crow was a good soldier, but Garth knew what he longed for. Same thing everyone on this blasted rock wanted. Peace. Happiness. Love.
Garth sighed and watched the desert ahead of him, trying to focus his concentration on what lay ahead. Anna. The thought leaked through the various barriers the Freeman had constructed, and Garth was sudenly aware of his vision blurring. He tried to blink back the tears, not wanting to remove his goggles and draw the attention of Crow. His mind kept dragging up images of her. He kept seeing her out of the corner of his eye. And
even though he hadn't been there, he could see the bullets cutting her down. He blinked through the tears, trying to seperate the real from the illusion. He should have been paying attention to steering the motorcycle, but the overlaping images, and the salty tears caused him to veer away from Crow, and off of their intended northern vector. As he cut east, Garth saw the small dune ahead, but unable to discern it from the mirages, crested it, and
went over the otherside, out of sight of Crow.
Startled by his Commander's
sudden change of direction, Crow followed, but slowed upon cresting the hill. His eyes widened when he saw Garth struggling to free himself of the vines that had entangled him. "Jack! Get me out of this stuff!" cried Garth. Garth continued to fight the vines, creaming at Crow the whole time. Jack Crow, however, was paralyzed by the sight that filled the bowl shaped depression.
The sight of She.
Vision of Hope -- A Mission Into Hell: 981119 12:49 PM by GL
