Intersteller:

Book VI, Evasion

1.

0100 Hours, February 13, 2561

Andromeda System, Jethro Tuff, Concord Ocean

The air was calm, serene. The waves in the Concord Ocean crashed against the hull of the massive ship, Highland, as it cut smoothly and silently through the water. Five hundred yards in length, and one hundred in height, the Highland was nothing short of impressive.

But moving even faster and quieter was a small helicopter a little over two kilometers away, the Endo-Sector B76A MOTH (Mobile Operating Transport Helicopter). It held a crew of six; a pilot, the co-pilot, and a team of four MOUTs (Mobile Operations in Urban Terrain), a special force in the Colonial Army.

Radars scanning the mostly cloudy sky from the Highland wouldn't have seen or picked up any signals coming and going from the lone MOTH. The outside skin of the MOUT was built with composite plastic, which was then etched with a particle beam. The result was microdiffraction gratings that had about the same thickness as the wavelengths of sunlight, so when light hits the skin, it absorbs in places, refracted in others, creating the illusion of a rough surface and optical-interference patterns; so the farther away the MOTH is from an observer, the more light from it diverges randomly. Which makes the MOTH impossible to make out, let alone focus on.

Captain Michael O'Connor sat inside of the MOTH, in the back where there were four pairs of low-issue jumpseats lined in an aisle. Up front of the MOTH was the cockpit, a small compartment with two jumpseats for the pilots.

Dressed in a dark-black, reptile-like fabric coverall from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, he could sink into shadows and vanish. His battle-vest was strapped and clipped securely around his abdomen. There were pockets, carrabiners, and straps all over the vest. He held his CS6K-PA submachine gun in both of his gloved hands, the butt of the gun was firmly secured underneath his right bicep.

He looked around the aisle, making sure each man on his team was calm and ready. Sitting across from him was Second-class Lieutenant Adam D'jango and Sergeant Cory Fisher, the newest addition to the team after their previous mission when a MOUT was shot down. Beside O'Connor was Corporal Vincent Peders, the largest man in his team. They all wore the same black fatigues.

D'jango jumped in his seat when the helicopter bounced. "We almost there?" he asked, the question wasn't directed to anyone.

"Don't get too excited," Peders replied, looking at D'jango. "This mission requires seriousness just as much as stealth and quickness."

"Aren't all of the MOUTs missions done with stealth and quickness?" Fisher asked, joining in the argument.

Peders head jerked to face Fisher. "This one, as of date, the most important of all of the missions we've done."

D'jango shook his head. "You said that the time before this, and the time before that, and--"

"Because you can't seem to remember that, so something always occurs that obscures the mission."

"And it turns out all right in the end," D'jango concurred.

"All right?" Peders voice raised to a shout. "What happened last mission? New Miami, February first. Stryder was point. You were right behind him, if I remember correctly, as you went up the steps of the beach house."

D'jango glared at Peders. "I know what happened."

Peders continued telling the story. "He turned the doorknob of the front door--"

"Shut up." D'jango growled, both of his hands clenched and trembling.

"--and next thing you remember you're in the hospital with burns all over your lucky hide, while Stryder"--he snorted--"was sent home in a black body bag."

D'jango leapt to his feet, his whole body shaking. "I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, YOU BASTARD! Stryder is dead, and it's my fault! Thank you for reminding me of something that haunts me everyday since then." He collapsed to the jumpseat, his head buried in his palms. "God, I wish I were dead..." He shook his head.

Peders was on his feet, and in a flash so was Fisher. The two were about to engage in a fight when O'Connor was between them, his strong bear-like arms holding them apart. "All of you stop this right now," he barked. He glared at Peders then at Fisher. "You all have two options. One: you put aside the past this instant and get along or I'll have you court-martialed for disorderly conduct; or two: you stay behind on this mission, and be court-martialed for failure to obey orders. Your choice. Right now."

All three MOUTs looked at O'Connor. "Yes, sir," they said in unison.

"Well?" O'Connor put his arms down. "What is it going to be?"

"The first, sir!"

"Good," O'Connor returned to his seat, tapped a finger on a small bracelet, a complex military program called the Tactic Mainframe, on his left wrist. A light-blue phosphorescent covering enveloped O'Connor. His Personal Computer Display (PCD) appeared in front of his field-of-vision, data bars flashed on both edges, he could pull out a 3-D representation of himself on a data bar on the left. With his eyes he sent an encrypted comm channel to the co-pilot of the MOTH.

The face of a young male appeared in O'Connor's PCD communication data bar on the right side. He smiled. "Hannings here, sir!" he said, excitement in his voice.

"How far away are we from our target?"

Hannings looked down at the array of controls in front of him. He looked up. "About half a kilometer, sir."

"Lower the ramp," O'Connor ordered. "And bring the moth lower."

"Aye-aye, sir. Hannings out." The channel closed, and the data bar slid back onto the right.

The ramp slowly lowered, unsurprisingly quietly without any screeching. Outside it was dark, the sound of distant thunder rolled through the air. Dark waves rose to massive heights. O'Connor stepped to the edge of the ramp. He held onto a bar on the side. Wind whipped against him as he slapped a fresh magazine of 7.5-mm Miniature Electromagnetic Pulse (MEmP) rounds into his CS6K-PA. He clipped the gun to his thigh.

Looking over his shoulder he saw the other three men in his team standing behind him. He slipped the three optic scope headset over the only part of his body that wasn't covered. "Ready?" he asked.

They slipped their headsets over their faces and nodded. O'Connor looked down, released his grip on the bar, stepped off the edge of the ramp, and fell through the darkness below. The other three followed seconds after him, plunging down until they hit the dark surface of the water.

Once underwater, they all tapped their tactics on their wrists, activating their aquatic meshes, which covered their mouths and noses, allowing them to breath. Once meshed they switched their optics headset to infrared, the heat that emancipated from each other's bodies and the fish creatures swimming in the depths below. The fatigues the MOUTs wore kept them invisible from the fish.

Putting their arms to their sides, and kicking their legs up and down, they projected themselves in the direction of the Highland. One hour later they arrived at the massive hull that disappeared below in the dark water. Once they were up against the hull, O'Connor got on to an encrypted command channel with his team.

"One hundred feet away from an entrance, to our left," he said, flicking his open right hand left.

Three green lights acknowledged O'Connor in his PCD and he kicked off the barnacle covered hull followed by the other three MOUTs. They swam beside the Highland for about one hundred feet and came to a massive rectangular shaped entrance. The opening was covered by an mesh-like covering which solid objects could move through easily. O'Connor reached out with his left hand that went through the three inch thick membrane--

--and went in.

Through the membrane was more water fifty feet deep filled with aquatic vehicles. D'jango, followed behind by Peders, than bringing up the rear was Fisher. O'Connor was already swimming towards the ladder nearest them. When he reached the top of the ladder he hefted himself up and broke the surface.

The room was dimly lit above the water. O'Connor climbed up the ladder and scanned the room. There were several men standing around. They were all dressed in the same clothes, light grey sweatpants and an off-colored military green shirts, and carried CALUMs in their hands.

One man stood five feet away with his backed turned to the ladder. O'Connor silently pulled himself up from the ladder, reached down for the Ka-bar with his right hand, that was located on his calf-sheath. He crept up behind one of the men, clamped his left hand over the man's mouth, while slitting the man's throat with the Ka-bar. The man collapsed into O'Connor's arms without a groan. O'Connor laid the body gently down onto the ground and crept through the shadows to another man. There was a glint of steel in front of him.

D'jango grinned and pulled the knife back. "I already got the rest with the others," he jerked his thumb behind him. "Let's find the President and get the hell outta here."