"Left Wing"

Five-thirty in the evening was early for this party town, located on Baja’s rocky Isla Cedros. The sun still lingered above the sea as a mass of drunk, noisy and horny college students filled the cobblestone streets on their spring break. Loud, obnoxious music filled the air, accompanied by the smell of beer and perspiration. Many of these liberated American students filled the bars that dotted the town. Many were human, with a generous spread of Vulpines and Catranis.

Domingo Chavez watched the crowd from the roof dining area of the tavern he worked at for extra money. Spring break had only one week left, and he would soon be leaving to go back to his senior year at Michigan State University. Chavez was a Vulpine, standing five foot eight, with a lean build. His Vulpine head, very close in design to a North American Red Fox, or Vulpes vulpes, was fixated on the street below. His forest-green eyes, an extreme genetic rarity among Vulpines, scanned the crowds for his newly met girlfriend. Her name was Francine. Everyone just called her Frank for short. Chavez put a foot on the edge of the roof and leaned onto the railing. His white apron fell forward, held on by ties around his waist. His ash gray T-shirt also was pulled away, giving him a look of being scrawny. Chavez squinted through his narrow, thick, black-rimmed glasses in search of Francine.

"Ding!" a voice from behind called. Chavez didn’t look. "Ding!" the voice called again. Chavez turned to look at the source of the voice. It was Ruben Salinas, the tavern owner and manager.

"Ding, you Casanova! Frankie works tonight! She not come by here, man! Why you look for her?" there was a slight pause. "Why you not working? Consiga detrás abajo!" Salinas shouted from the stairway. Chavez smiled a little and turned to go downstairs. His lightweight desert boots made barely a thump as he walked across the thin asphalt-tile roof. Salinas was by then standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Chavez. His large gut shook in a hoarse chuckle.

"What?" Chavez asked.

"Nothing." Salinas looked away and waved a towel at Chavez before tossing it over his shoulder. Chavez descended into the dimly lit tavern.

He worked until ten, making a decent day’s pay on tips, then Chavez jumped on his one-cylinder motorbike and drove to the other side of town, where Francine worked at a boardwalk amusement park, selling tickets. He drove the noisy bike right up to the ticket booth, narrowly missing numerous pedestrians in the process. Francine was just getting off her shift when Chavez pulled up.

"Hey there, sweet thang. Need a lift?" Chavez asked through his full-facial helmet.

"In more than one way," Francine said, giving Chavez a knowing wink. She brushed back her hair and slid the other helmet firmly over her head. The in-helmet communications system turned on.

"Better than taking a bus," Francine said, her words sharp in Chavez’s ears. She wrapped her arms around Chavez’s waist and put her head to his back.

"The town has buses?" Chavez asked. There was no reply. Chavez shook his head. "Here we go," he said. He gave the bike a little gas, and the front tire lost contact with the wood sidewalk for an instant. He performed a tight turn and the two sped off into the night.

The next morning, Chavez rolled out of bed at seven-thirty. Careful not to wake Francine, he closed the door to the motel suite’s bedroom and tiptoed into the living room. A well-worn couch and loveseat filled most of the room, and a square coffee table made walking between it and the television set a hazardous venture. Chavez checked on his telescopic video camera that was balanced precariously on a tripod and looked over the night’s recordings with the help of a nearby notebook computer and the ancient plasma TV. Everything was fine. His spring break project was going to be an a-plus at least. The offshore geothermal plant was the worldwide pride of Mexico, despite the President’s rather ruthless reputation.

President Delacroix was the first Frenchman to hold the Mexican office, and had quickly altered the democracy of Mexico into a one-man dictatorship. The world put up with him for his oil, found in the Gulf of Mexico just forty miles away from shore. While most of the world was hydrogen powered, it was expensive to process and had to be kept in an air-tight container at all times, seeing how it was easily made useless by the introduction of nitrogen and oxygen, the two most common elements in the air. Fossil fuels were still a coveted commodity, even in the year 2993. On top of all that, a geothermal plant was pure gold. Finding a controllable vent in shallow water would make a lot of electricity very inexpensive to make and very easy to sell, freeing up the oil found elsewhere from being used as fuel for power plants.

Chavez used the restroom and set a pot of coffee to be made in an hour’s time. He then sneaked back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed next to Francine. He reached for the nightstand, and on it was a copy of Chavez’s favorite book, Rainbow Six by Tom Clancy. He removed the bookmark and opened it to a page.

"Ding," Francine groaned. She turned over and faced Chavez, shielding her deep brown eyes from the sun that was inconveniently in her face. Chavez put the book down, looking at Francine.

"Morning, Frank," he said.

"What—what time is it?" Francine asked.

"About quarter-to-eight. Go back to sleep. I’m going to make breakfast."

"You should," she said, turning back over, "after all the work I did last night." Chavez smiled a little and went back to reading his book.

Later that morning, Chavez made eggs and bacon, which he and Francine ate at the coffee table, watching the news. An Asian female dressed in a dark purple suit presented the news in English, obviously dubbed and translated for the predominantly American population on Isla Cederos.

"--The band of rebels was executed for their crimes last night. In lighter news, our beloved President Delacroix will be spending the night on the new geothermal power plant near Baja to prove to the world how safe and secure the facility is." With that news, Chavez made a little gagging noise. Francine looked over at Chavez.

"Ding? You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Chavez said, turning his head towards Francine, but not taking his eyes off the television. He finally tore his stare away and looked at Francine, smiling a little.

"Okay…" Francine said, spearing another bite of eggs.

The rest of the week went normally, busing tables and partying with Francine, until the last day of spring break. Chavez was in the final hour of his shift when a man wearing a suit, a rarity in Puerto Seguro, entered the bar. Chavez’s tip-detector immediately jumped up a notch. He was in luck when the man took a table near the door, seeing how people rarely tipped at the bar. Chavez blazed a trail through the tables and chairs to get to the man, who was wearing sunglasses, even at nine o’clock at night.

"Good evening, sir. Can I get you anything?" Chavez asked. The man took off his sunglasses and gave Chavez a look like he could almost recognize him. There was an uncomfortable silence. Chavez shifted his weight onto one foot and asked again.

"Can I get you something, sir?" The man seemed to snap out of it and fielded Chavez’s question as if it was rehearsed.

"Give me one beer," he said. Chavez nodded slowly.

"What kind?"

"Whatever’s on tap and over three dollars."

"That’s everything, sir."

"Four dollars."

"That covers half."

"You pick," the man said, making a waving gesture with his right hand. His left hand stayed hidden under the table. Chavez held his breath for a moment.

"Sure thing," Chavez said, then turned to walk to the bar. What a weird guy. Chavez thought. He leaned over the cedar bar and grabbed a clean glass out of the dry rack and expertly filled the glass with beer from the tap on the other side. He brought the glass back to the man and placed it on top of a napkin.

"Nothing else?" Chavez asked politely.

"No." The man hadn’t removed his gaze from Chavez since he first saw him.

"Okay then," Chavez said. He walked away, creeping past Salinas and onto the roof.

The digital clock in Chavez’s room was just turning to ten twenty-five in the evening as he unlocked the door and entered. He turned on a light and opened his computer. The power plant, normally a speck of light on the horizon at night, was magnified hundreds of times to appear as if it was just outside the window. The plant was three hundred feet high, not counting the ten stories of boilers and other machinery that was housed in a sunken part of the plant, just below the waterline. The plant’s living quarters and control center was located in a large, doughnut-shaped building with the actual plant in the middle, below the waterline. One could easily mistake it for an oilrig, if it weren’t’ for its massive size and lack of oil tankers constantly around it.

The time-lapse movie sped through hours of inactivity, and then slowed as a large helicopter with the presidential colors of white, purple and gold landed on the acre-wide helipad. Once it landed, time sped up again, and the clock in the bottom right corner sped faster than Grey could read. The sun moved across the sky and descended in the west, momentarily bleaching out the plant. A few more seconds passed, then the movie slowed, the clock showing shortly after nine-thirty. There was no activity on the plant, and Chavez backed up the tape to just before the disturbance. He pressed a few buttons, and everything got a yellow outline, for an inactive object. The seas were a thick yellow band, for it would take more than just waves to slow down the tape. The disturbance would be outlined in blue as it appeared on the screen. The time slowed, and the camera showed a very large, rounded object, only visible to the camera’s sensitive detectors, moving across the sea, plant and the air. After a few times around, Grey discovered that it was not outside at all. It was a reflection on the window glass from inside! He watched the tape the rest of the way, and there was no other disturbance.

"Frank?" Chavez called into the suite. "Frank?" Chavez slowly moved to the kitchen. He opened the silverware drawer and felt around on the underside of the counter. He found what he was looking for and with a little resistance from the tape, pulled out his .38 police-issue pistol. He silently pulled back the bolt, loading the first round.

"Frank?" he called one last time. He brought the pistol up and aimed it at the bedroom door, which was now open, despite Chavez’s recollection of closing it that afternoon. He moved across the linoleum, his desert boots barely making a noise. He put his off-hand on the door and took a deep breath. He pushed the door open just enough for him to get through. He checked behind the door and looked suspiciously at the bed. He got down on one knee, gently touching the trigger with his index finger. He put a hand on the comforter, which had fallen, covering the gap between floor and bed.

Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his neck. It squeezed against his carotid artery, cutting off blood to his head. Chavez grabbed the arm with his hands, trying to pry it away. The arm squeezed, crushing his throat, blocking off air from his lungs. Chavez tried to elbow his attacker, but he had the sense to back away a bit. The arm pulled Chavez off the floor, letting his feet dangle in the air. He could no longer see in color, and everything began to have a muffled sound to it. Chavez, with the last of his strength, brought his .38 around his back and pressed it to the torso of the assailant. He fired two round in rapid succession, and the arm let go. Chavez staggered forward onto the bed, his breath strained as his trachea slowly regained its shape. He rolled over and aimed his pistol at the door, but saw only two feet standing straight up in expensive dress shoes. Chavez stood and approached the attacker. It was the man from the bar. He was still alive, on the verge of death. The bullets had punctured both his lungs and grazed his heart. Chavez, with no emotion for the man, reached down, lifted his head and twisted, snapping his neck. Chavez searched him and found a picture of a squad of soldiers lined up in the classic unit-photo op. They were standing or kneeling to the side of a large aircraft, holding weapons and looking very tough. One of the faces was circled in red ink, and a few words in Arabic were written beside it. Chavez recognized the circled face in the picture— he was looking at himself!

Not far from the city hall, on a two-way street, there was a redbrick, three-story building. The front door was a single glass door, leading into a tile lobby. Houseplants alternated with benches along the walls, and one would quickly discover there was no directory. In fact, there was nothing at all. Just benches and houseplants. If one were to have the right key and the right information, one would find an elevator hidden in a blank wall to the south end of the lobby. The only indication of anything was a small card-key slot in the wall between two large tiles of marble.

Upstairs, there was a floor of offices. A single hallway led down between pairs of offices to a soundproof door leading to a cavernous computer lab. Inside, a horseshoe-shaped computer console occupied the middle of the room with but one chair. In the chair, a geeky, skinny, flat chested Vulpine technician was asleep at her post. She wore a long white lab coat that covered her technical college sweatshirt and blue jeans. She dreamed of a handsome man coming into the lab and sweeping her off her feet in a romantic episode that could only lead to—

"Charlotte!" a hoarse voice called from the door. Charlotte Hoek was awake in a flash, and had spun her chair around to look at Major Colonel Charles Carlsson, her boss for all practical purposes.

"Yes, Colonel Carlsson?" She asked, finding her large, thick glasses in her lab coat pocket and putting them hastily onto her face in a last-ditch effort to appear as if she was at work.

"Timecheck," said the six foot three Lupus as he walked into the room, buttoning his dark gray uniform as it jingled with medals and awards. He had an energetic air to his stride, as he always got right before something big happened, despite his advanced age of sixty-five and prosthetic leg. He stood beside Hoek and nodded to the large screen on the wall where the horseshoe curved to come back around. Hoek pulled her chair up to the console, rubbing sleep from her eyes and began to type away. An image of Baja, Mexico came up and concentric squares zoomed in on the small chain of islands to the west. It zoomed in close enough to recognize separate buildings, then people, then individual blades of grass thanks to the Nautilus II’s unique zoom lens that could detect a flu virus from it’s ninety minute orbit twelve miles above the Earth. A warehouse near a pier was opened, and an ALV-94 helicopter was being rolled out onto the concrete dock.

"Excellent. I will inform General Holz of their progress." Carlsson turned on his heel and strutted out of the room. Hoek watched the men on the screen scramble about. She silently prayed for their success. The alternative wasn’t pretty.

Captain Vincent Rosen, a Vulpine, held the picture up to a light. Lieutenant first class Matthew Grey, also a Vulpine stood, watching his CO inspect the picture.

"It’s of us, just before the raid in India," Rosen said, handing the picture back to Grey. Grey looked at the photo and of himself, circled in red ink with some Arabic words scribbled next to it.

"The guy who tried to kill me had it. I think he went bar hopping, looking for me."

"Your green eyes don’t exactly make you a ghost in a crowd on a foggy day, buddy," Rosen said. He pulled the strap for the holster for his sidearm tight against his leg and snapped the extra strap to itself. Grey stuffed the picture in one of the pockets on his urban-camouflage field jacket.

"True," Grey said. He picked up a Russian-made AN-77 and checked the magazine.

"Did you leave a note behind for Frank?" Rosen said, referring to Francine.

"Yeah. She probably won’t take it well for the first hour or so, then she’ll probably figure it out."

"She fucked a terrorist," Rosen said, throwing the strap for a satchel over his head and letting the weight of the bag pull it down snug against his shoulder. Grey chuckled a bit.

"As far as she knows," Grey said. He slid seven extra magazines into special pouches on the front of his tactical vest. The garage was alive with activity as the ten men of Strike Team thirteen of Blue Lightning’s American branch readied for a raid that would propel their fledgling organization into the world spotlight. Suddenly, Rosen put down his rifle onto the old metal table nearby.

"What’d you do with the body?"

"Body?"

"The guy who tried to kill you!"

"Don’t worry. I got it covered," Grey said, pulling a black mask over his head. Only his eyes and ears could be seen through the heavy cotton ski mask, and Grey covered his eyes quickly with a pair of HG-2 tactical goggles. An oversized Russian helmet rounded out the getup, and Grey had a Sergeant John Hilde, a burly Catran—related to the American Coyote—spot-check him.

"Lookin’ fine," Hilde said. He gently grabbed Grey by the arm and pivoted him left and right, so he could get a better look at him. There was only one arm patch, for the organization they represented, Blue Lightning. It was a simple design, a white background and a blue thunderbolt shooting down from a blue cloud.

"Lookin’ fine."

"Thanks, John," Grey said. He gave Hilde a pat on the arm and walked past the six-foot-four soldier and half-jogged to Rosen, who was on a military-issue satellite phone.

"Yes, sir. We’re holding on your word alone, sir," Rosen said. He saw Grey approach, tapping his watch, and raised a single finger. "Very well, sir. I’m sure the news will be brought to you, Mr. President." Rosen stood erect, as if the man was right in front of him.

"Thank-you, sir. We will sir. Thank-you, sir," Rosen said. The ten men in the garage stood, staring at their commander, ready, impatient, and nervous about the heavily armed Gerade FGH-32A in plain sight of the multiple police choppers patrolling the beach that night. Rosen made the international sign for a helicopter to start, a single hand in the air, spinning around in a horizontal circle. A general cheer went up from the men as they boarded the chopper.

"Yes, sir. We will. I won’t forget sir. Tell the first lady we send our regards." Rosen hung up. Two additional, non-strike team personnel climbed into the cockpit of the chopper and fired up the engines. The downdraft kicked up dust and litter as the chopper lifted off the ground and headed out for sea. Approximately four miles down the beach, a second chopper filled with ten more soldiers from the Blue Lightning lifted off, headed for the same target— President Delacroix.

As the identical choppers lifted off and headed out for sea, Francine entered the motel room, which had been left unlocked. A note was left taped to the door.

Grey lifted his goggles onto the helmet, so none of the tension of the elastic band was on his head. As the two choppers closed in proximity, Grey’s radio headset began to pick up their chatter.

"Red One, you read me?" Grey asked into the throat mike.

"Red One, I read you Blue Two. Good to hear ya, buddy," Lieutenant David Jers said. Grey could picture the Vulpine now, standing six clean, weighing in at two hundred forty pounds, a living battering ram. The choppers closed in within fifty meters of each other, and Grey could see the individual soldiers on the other chopper, with the help of a waning moon. Grey could see Jers, in his trademark seat, feet dangling out of the chopper with his Mauser 12gu semi-auto shotgun in his lap.

"That weapon isn’t exactly Blue Lightning issue, Red One," Grey observed.

"So, what do they know?" Jers asked. Rosen cut in,

"Radio silence, shitheads."

"Copy," Grey said.

"Roger," Jers said, drawing out the ‘r.’ Five minutes passed, and the pilot’s lazy voice came over the radio.

"We-ere coming up on target. ETA: four minutes." Rosen heard this and held up a hand with four fingers up, needless because the entire team was linked up to the system, but still done out of habit. Two minutes out, the team performed a final check on themselves. All gear was ready, all weapons were slung, everybody had their wits about them. The bottle of tequila that had been handed around a few times disappeared. All ten soldiers donned heavy welder’s gloves. They passed over a Mexican patrol boat, additional security for the President. The sleepy guards onboard didn’t know what to do. By the time they had picked up their weapons, the choppers were out of range.

"Red light!" Rosen shouted. The team got up and lined up as best they could in the cramped space of the chopper. Two lines were dropped out the doors, which brushed along the roof of the facility until the chopper was over the helipad. The presidential transport was still there. The second chopper moved off to the other side of the plant, to drop in near the cargo elevator to the actual plant below.

"Yellow!" Rosen shouted. Grey grabbed the rope in his hands, and Hilde grabbed the other. They leaned out so that they were at a forty-five degree angle with the ground, their weight on the rope and the skids of the chopper.

"Green! Go go go!" Rosen shouted. Grey kicked off from the skid, sliding down the inch-thick rappelling rope quickly. The most frightening part of the jump came, judging when to tighten one’s grip on the rope and slow the decent. Too early, and you’re a hanging target. Too late, and you’ve got two broken ankles. Grey timed it just right, using the propellers of the presidential helicopter to estimate his distance from the deck. He landed with barely a noise, his desert boots cushioning the impact. He let go of the rope and flailed his arms at the ground, letting gravity and centripetal force take off his heavy gloves. He snatched up his silenced AN-77 to his shoulder and moved out of the way for the next man to come down the rope. They formed a circle around the drop zone, reinforcing it with each new pair that came down. Grey kneeled behind a metallic box of some kind, watching the door to the stout control tower. As if out of a cheesy action movie, several Mexican guards came running out, weapons not even at the ready. Grey cut the men down with three-round bursts to their torsos, and easy shot at only thirty meters or so.

Across the large sunken area in the middle, team two was fast-roping to the cargo elevator. A squad of soldiers had seen them coming in the helicopters and had taken a position along a stairwell to the roof crane used for loading cargo on and off ships. Grey could see Jers clearly, floodlights illuminating his moves. He ducked behind a crate as more squad members dropped from above, and pulled the pin out of a grenade. He ran towards the stairwell under the fire of the Mexican soldiers and threw the high explosive into the air. The grenade landed at the top of the stairwell. It exploded, throwing a badly torn body over the railing into the water and killing four of the soldiers. The other three broke and ran down the stairs. The FGH-32A that Grey’s squad had come in on was then empty, and turned to face the three fleeing soldiers. It opened up with its 30mm cannon, splattering the three against the steel walls of the facility. It increased its cyclic and went into orbit around the plant to give cover to the team.

"Blue One to Blue, regroup at north end of helipad." Rosen said over the radio. Grey took his AN-77 off his shoulder and pointed the barrel upwards. He fell back across the helipad to Rosen, who was kneeling by the metal stairs that took one to the reception hall of the Plant. They breached the door using a crowbar that one of the team had brought along and cleared the immediate hallway. Just ahead, double wooden doors closed off the large theatre used for speeches or entertaining the workers during long stays. Rosen signaled for Grey to clear the room. Grey took Hilde and approached the door. The rest of the squad moved down the hall, silenced weapon fire announcing the end for the scattered sentries about the plant. Hilde looked at Grey, and the two made eye contact. Grey bobbed his head to make a pace, and on the third, gave a good nod. Hilde and Grey opened both the doors at the same time, and scanned the room for tangos, military slang for enemies.

The room was set up with ten rows of seats in two columns of ten seats wide. The whole theatre could fit about two hundred fifty people, if people stood in the back. Grey went left and Hilde went right. They seemed to twitch at each row, staying in motion while keeping their weapons poised at any danger that might be hiding between seats, requiring a fast twisting of their torsos.

"Clear," Hilde said when he reached the front of the room.

"Clear," Grey said, turning his attention to the rest of the stage. A curtain in the back was swaying lightly.

"There’s someone back there," Grey said. He nodded to the stage, and, without using their hands, the two stepped onto the raised wooden stage. Grey held a hand up to the side of his face, moving it in front of his eyes and back.

Flashbang. Grey signaled. Hilde reached behind him to his belt, and retrieved a flat, blue and white device that looked not unlike a Pez® dispenser, minus the cartoon head at one end. He pressed one end in, and with a click, the device gave off a wisp of smoke. Hilde threw it back into the stage, letting it slide under curtains along the hardwood floor. The device went off with a flash like a nuclear bomb and an end-of-the-world bang to match. The two had shielded their ears with their hands and instant before detonation, and had turned away to avoid the blinding light. They instantly raised their weapons and charged the back. A mid-thirties human with tan skin and dark hair wearing a military uniform was on his knees, groaning, holding his hands to his eyes. The man had the insignia of the president’s personal guard on his uniform. He slowly recovered and began to make out the silhouette of a terrorist standing before him with a weapon aimed at his head. The man growled, and with blood coming out of his ears, reached for his sidearm. Grey quickly moved his selector switch all the way forward and jerked the trigger. The AN-77 spat out ten rounds in less than a second, stopping when Grey lifted his finger from the trigger. The man, now full of holes, fell over, dead. Blood poured out onto the ground.

"Clear!" Grey said with a bit of perk. He pressed a button on his throat mike. "Theatre clear. One tango down." He depressed the button and motioned for Hilde to follow. It was Hilde’s first real operation, the first time he’d seen someone get killed like that. A wave of fear rushed over him. It wasn’t the fear of dying. Hilde was afraid because he enjoyed it.

Jers crept up behind the soldier who had shot at them before. A quick detour through a cafeteria had put him on his extreme flank. The soldier was squatting behind a corner, weapon ready to waste anyone who came bounding down the hall. Jers placed a foot just below the soldier’s rear. His tail twitched silently with tension. He slowly brought the muzzle of his 12gu shotgun to the base of the soldier’s skull. He pumped the action once, totally unnecessary, but it made a nice loud noise that echoed throughout the deck. The soldier froze, knowing he was fucked.

"Adiós," Jers said. He pulled the trigger, the buckshot ripping the soldier’s head clean off his shoulders. The body slumped forward, the heart still pumping blood to the arteries that used to be there. The badly shattered head rolled around like a deflated basketball.

"Clear!" Jers shouted. From down the hall, five terrorist soldiers rounded the corner and advanced down the call to the decapitated body.

"The sleeping quarters are just this way—keep an eye out," Jers warned. The soldiers did some rubbernecking as they passed by, in disbelief of what they saw. They all made a mental note to never be on the business end of that thing. They moved down the hallway, when there was a loud tearing noise coming from outside. One of the helicopters had just opened up with its twin 7.65mm machine guns, probably strafing Mexican troops outside. The team stacked up in front of a door, which had been locked tight. There were words on the door, labeling it as an access to the living quarters. Jers let his shotgun hang by its sling and grabbed the door handle. He put a foot against the frame and pulled. His powerful muscles tensed, and the door moved visibly, but stopped at the resistance of a deadbolt. Jers let go and took a step back, defeated by a piece of metal. He looked around in frustration, wishing he’d brought a crowbar like team one had done. One of his team stepped forward and put a hand against the door. There was nobody holding it on the other side, which meant that nobody knew they were there. There was gunfire all over the complex, so a single shot from down the hall probably wouldn’t alert anyone in any great deal. The private got a stroke of genius and signaled for everyone to get ready. He raised a hand to the lettering on the door and knocked twice. We waited for a moment and knocked again, the second time two sets of three knocks. There was movement behind the door. Everyone ducked an inch or so, readying their weapons. Using his limited Spanish, Jers shouted for someone to open the door. There was a response, but it was in rapid Mexican Spanish, of which, sadly, nobody knew. There was a tense moment. This could be their only chance in for a long while. Jers shook his head as to say It didn’t work. There was a click, and a sliding noise. The door unlocked. It opened inward, revealing a short plant worker with beady eyes.

"Hola," The clever private greeted. He brought the butt of his AN-77 down on the worker’s neck, knocking the worker unconscious. The six terrorists charged the inside of the living quarters.

Grey had a different situation. In their course of strafing, one of the attack choppers had used a few unguided rockets on the plant. One of them hit the processing facility, which was only a few feet below the water at high tides. The explosion had punched a hole the size of a car door in the roof. In any other situation, it would be ignored, but the underwater part of the plant would play an important role later on. Rosen had rushed his team to the other side of the plant, taking a casualty in the process, a private Christopher Rhienne, who was KIA. They arrived at team two’s drop point, the cargo elevator within ten minutes of the rocket's detonation. Grey went first onto the platform, scanning left and right for any tangos. Rosen followed, followed by Hilde and the rest of the squad. They cleared the platform and formed a perimeter around the elevator. Grey moved up next to Rosen.

"What now, sir?" he shouted over the ambient noise.

"We go down!" Rosen shouted back. He pressed a button on his throat mike. "Blue three—" Rosen called for Hilde. Hilde looked over at Rosen from his position behind the elevator’s guard railing.

"Secure the wet-docks in section two and assist Red once you’re done! Get all prisoners to the theatre and keep them there! We’re going to try to plug the hole!" Rosen shouted. He turned to Grey and nodded. He then ran, still crouching onto the elevator and began manipulating the controls. Grey came up behind Rosen and kneeled down. The elevator started with a lurch, and then moved smoothly downwards. The noise became less and less as they descended, eventually passing below the waterline inside a large tube to keep the elevator and its cargo dry from the seawater. The elevator stopped at the bottom, and it was almost totally silent. Only the soft thudding of helicopters’ rotors could be heard from a hundred feet below sea level in a narrow tunnel. The general static of an active radio line went silent as any form of communication with the surface was cut off. Rosen looked at Grey.

"Just us now," he said. Grey smiled a little and stood.

"Let’s do this," Grey said. Rosen answered by moving to the door to the facility, a watertight hatch just big enough for one person. He turned the large shaft that was a locking arm and opened the door. The inside was lit only by red lights, giving it a scary, hellish look.

"You first, Matt," Rosen said. Grey poked his head in. It was very warm, probably from the flow of magma that was routed up into the building and used to boil water to turn turbines and make electricity. He put a foot inside, which made a splash in already inch-deep water.

"Shit," Grey said, realizing the speed at which the place was flooding. Rosen came up next to Grey and looked either way down long hallways.

"We probably got about two hours before it’s totally flooded. If we can cut off the flooding areas with watertight doors, we’ll be fine." Grey looked left, into a hallway that led to darkness, and right into a hallway that led to darkness.

"How?" Grey asked.

"There’s bound to be some kind of control room around here somewhere."

"Note the key word, somewhere," Grey said. "Look for a sign or something." The two splashed around in the deepening water for a good four minutes, trying to find a door to somewhere. While their connection to the surface was cut off, they could still use their radios to speak to each other. Rosen had gone left while Grey had gone right. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in the dark, wet and very humid building, Rosen found the room he was looking for. Grey rushed through the facility, in now two-inch-deep water, and met up with Rosen. Rosen was taking cover behind a bundle of pipes and motioned Grey to open the swing-action door. Grey put a hand on the flat metal plate to push inwards. He pushed hard, to force the door open against the water that had flooded that room too. The control room was lit only by a single row of four computer screens. The green light made it easier to see. Grey found a nearby swivel chair and used it to hold the door open.

"Comon in," Grey said, waving Rosen in. Grey took a step inside, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a reflection of the green light off of something metal, and swinging towards him.

The heavy wrench smashed into Grey’s helmet, defecting off harmlessly. Grey reached for his sidearm, a .38 police-issue pistol, and fired blindly to where his assailant was. There was a grunt of pain, and Grey holstered his .38 and snatched up his AN-77. With the selector still on full auto, Grey emptied his magazine into the worker who had tried to crush his skull. The orange-jumpsuit-clad worker fell to his knees, then onto his face in the dark water. Grey ejected his spent magazine and slid it into the slot of a fresh magazine, which the loaded into his assault rifle.

"Clear," he said casually.

"Yeah, everything here can be turned on or off from here," Rosen said. "Let’s try la luz." Rosen clicked an icon on the screen, and the multitude of fluorescent lights blinked to life. Smiling at his own handiwork, Rosen began clicking around. Different things began to happen, from a siren in a far off part of the facility to the lights turning orange, green, then back to white. "Here we go," Rosen said. "Watertight doors." He worked the computer a bit more, and Grey checked over his shoulder while covering the door to make sure the worker was really dead. "And bingo was his name-o" Rosen said, pressing the enter button. A series of hydraulic motors turned on all over the facility, followed by a sound not unlike a garage door opening or closing. The series of watertight doors that Rosen had selected closed, stopping the leak from flooding the small portion of the facility leading to the very bottom, where they were then.

"Nice," Grey said, realizing what just happened.

"Thank you, now let’s get topside," Rosen said, leaving the computer. They plodded through three inches of water all the way back to the elevator, which was still on the bottom, waiting for them. They got on and Rosen, ever the handyman with electronic and hydraulic controls, told the elevator to rise. With a jerk, the lift started its upward climb, a little slower than before. Halfway up, Rosen hit the emergency stop button. The static of an active radio line came back to life.

"Any of Blue, come in, Blue, come in," Rosen said. There was a pause.

"Blue Three here, I copy, Blue One. Over."

"Blue Three, I need a status report. Over," Rosen said. Grey nodded in understanding of what Rosen just did. There was another moment of silence.

"Ahh, Blue One, situation under control. We secured all levels of the facility and have taken the President. We’re all waiting for you in the theatre. Over."

"Nice work, Blue. Set up perimeter and land our choppers A.S.A.P. Blue One out," Rosen said. He pressed a button on the elevator’s controls and the lift was moving once more.

"That was pretty scary when that guy clubbed me, eh?" Grey asked, inspecting his now dented helmet. The elevator stopped as it reached the top.

"Damn straight. I thought I had another casualty when he bashed you on the head with that-" Rosen stopped short. He collapsed forward. Grey dove for cover behind a large steel cargo box. He looked back. Rosen was lying on the ground, face down, not moving. He had been shot in the back.

"Captain!" Grey shouted. "Captain!" He looked around. Where did the shot come from? He looked again at Rosen. He still wasn’t moving, although a nice puddle of blood began forming around him. Grey’s helmet and goggles were lying near Rosen’s feet.

"Hey, I need help out here, guys. The Captain has been hit. He’s down. I repeat- the Captain is down," Grey said over his radio.

"Copy, Blue Two, relay position, over," the voice of Hilde said.

"I’m on the freight elevator deck, I think the shooter’s to the north," Grey said, leaning his back against the box, weapon aimed up against his chest. He took a step out from his cover. A bullet streaked across the front of his body armor, making a clean tear about six inches long. Grey stopped and nearly fell backwards trying to get into cover fast enough.

"Blue Two, this is Red One, we’re at the north end of the freight elevator deck. You copy?"

"Yeah, Dave, I copy," Grey said, breaking radio conduct.

"Any idea where the shooter is?" Jers asked.

"I don’t’ know. My guess is the roof of the battery room," Grey said. Jers looked back at his five-man team and where they were.

Several tense minutes later, Jers opened the door out to the cargo lift deck from the battery room. Keeping his weapon aimed high, he stepped out, looking for the end of a rifle hanging over the edge of the roof. When there was none, he slowly moved around the side of the building. Grey laid down flat, and could see under the many cargo boxes through the gaps made by their pallets. He saw Jers’s feet moving around the side, and saw four more pairs following his. He looked over at Rosen, who was now unconscious, probably dead. Jers found the staircase he had thrown the grenade on before and stood at the bottom, looking up. He climbed the staircase, scanning over the roof as he did. There was nothing there. He crouched down below the level of the roof and spoke into his radio.

"Matt, I need some bait," Jers whispered. "Try to draw some fire." He put a hand on the body of one of the soldiers on the stairs. It was still warm. Creepy Jers thought. Grey sighed.

"Fine. Get ready. I’m moving in five seconds," Grey said, getting a look as to where he was going to run. He eyed a small wooden crate, just large enough for him to lay down flat behind. It looked sturdy enough, and if his Spanish was correct, it contained metal tiles for the siding of the facility, good bulletproof cover to have. Grey took the stereotypical sprinter’s stance, one hand on the ground, knees bent. His other hand was holding his AN-77, preventing him from losing it.

"Here I go," Grey said. He lunged forward, his feet pounding the metal floor. Jers saw Grey move and quickly popped up to look over the roof. There was a single shot, and for a spit second, no sound. The fiber-optic blanket concealing the sniper failed for a fraction of a second, showing a translucent image of the shooter in his tan military uniform. Jers hosed the man down with 7.76mm fire, sending his brains ten feet in the other direction.

The bullet the shooter fired traveled through the air faster than the sound the muzzle flash made. It left a thin phosphorous trail leading all the way to Grey. The bullet struck Grey just below the right shoulder, penetrating a magazine pouch. Grey was thrown to the ground by the force of the bullet.

Jers smiled a little at his shooting then looked down to see if Grey was okay. The smile disappeared.

"Fuck," Jers said. He just about jumped down all twelve steps and raced across the cargo elevator. Grey lay not far from Rosen.

"Get the captain!" Jers shouted, pointing at Rosen. He was more concerned about his longtime friend, Matthew Grey. He went down to his knees and rolled Grey onto his back. Jers tried to wake him.

"Matt. Matt!" Jers shouted, shaking Grey furiously. Grey’s eyes shot open. His green stare focused on Jers’s face.

"Did ya get him?" Grey asked quickly. Jers sat back and took a breath.

"He’s with Hitler now," he said as if comforting a child who had just lost a pet. Grey sat up, obviously a little sore by the way he winced in pain. He checked the bullet hole in his tactical vest. The magazine he had used up before stopped the bullet. If it had been full, it probably would have set off the bullets in the magazine, making things much worse.

"Son of a bitch," Grey said.

Grey looked over at Rosen. A blanket was already over his body. "Son of a bitch," he repeated. The two stood around Rosen’s body, looking down. The bullet had gone in through Rosen’s back and had hit his heart. The bullet was stopped by his flak jacket, only stopped on the wrong side- from the inside. Wasting no time, Grey took command of the mission.

"Okay, guys, no time for sentiment. Let’s get him later, we’ve got work to do." With that comment from Captain Matthew Grey, they unceremoniously left the body where it was and entered the battery room.