Unity (by Cass and Gage)

[Gage Silver 0]

Unity*

A Granger-Silver Log

 

Gage reached their primary extract, breathing heavily and sweating as he brought up the rear. Their shuttle waited in the clearing, crew covering their approach. In the dim cabin lighting of the shuttle, for the first time he clearly saw the passengers that Cass might have lost her life to save. Severely abused and malnourished, they were wrapped in emergency blankets, looking small and submissive in their seats with their hands awkwardly bound in zip cuffs. A precaution until their identities could be confirmed on the Buffalo Gap; the chance that one of them would attack their rescuers or aid the enemy too real to risk. Maybe unnecessary, given the profoundly dazed and fragile look of one man. But insensitive?

 

The only sustainable routine is vigilance, Gage reminded himself against a pang of sympathy.

 

A crewmember pulled the blanket taut around the dazed man’s shoulders and offered him water, but he just stared, lost in the recesses of his mind. One quietly sobbed and another endlessly thanked the crew, caught between mania and disbelief. The bright eyes of the woman next to him slowly found Gage and she weakly smiled in spite of her bindings, spilling a tear on her scarred, dirty cheek.

 

Gage couldn't give her much in return for her smile, numbed by feelings he never could put into words. That left him stunned like a punch in the gut. Not quite out of breath, but couldn’t catch it either. Empty. Noticeably restless.

 

“You took a hit,” Tasha pointed out, digging out a bandage as he neared. He absently touched his shrapnel-grazed neck and glanced at his hand. His gaze shot up, counting and assessing what remained of the team. All present except Cass but in one piece to his relief, lingering at the foot of the cargo door and watching for a sign. Moa quietly towering and an anxious Souter standing in his shadow. Tasha looking like she would break into sobs if she glanced at the shuttle behind her. O’Neill and Daniels affirming their resolve while the crew chief impatiently yelled and waved for them to board.

 

And Gonzales: his first and closest friend on the team. The one member in which Gage really confided. The buddy that snapped him out of the fog between training and instinct, when Cass went down and their advance was blocked by a barrage and unexpected enemy forces. That reminded him with a squeeze of the shoulder that they stood a better chance if they ignored impulses and found the door*.

 

Gage nodded in gratitude, knowing they felt the same. They fell back to regroup and go back in. They wouldn’t leave without Cass.

 

Gage didn't blame the victims or command for what happened. Strangers, teammates, family: these were the reasons they served and willingly risked their lives. To protect freedom. Preserve life. The things they valued the most. You wouldn’t protect a whole lot if you were too busy saving yourself. They had to make peace with the possibility of losing everything.

 

But they weren’t expendable. Not in their minds or the minds of command. The desire to make it home with your team was your strength, the thing that kept you going and vigilant. No one wanted to die. No one liked sending people into die and the teams were too valuable for command to use recklessly. Impersonal but true: a single operator wasn't easily replaced, requiring a lot of money and time to reach their peak. Life, including theirs, was far from cheap to anyone in the community. But sometimes things just went wrong.

 

They'd risk it all again to make it right. For her life. Not heroes. Just people dedicated to something bigger than themselves. That wouldn't hesitate when it counted.

 

“Grab the extra kit,” Gage said, Souter and O’Neill jumping to retrieve it as he gave a message for the pilot to the crew chief.

 

The crew chief nodded. “What about them?” he asked, pointing at the agents they were sent to recover that had yet to board the shuttle.

 

Gage caught their eyes, screaming questions at him in the dark. The team had done all they could. Used their secondary extract to ambush and throw off any pursuing forces, and give Moa and Tasha time to get the sick and injured back to the shuttle. But it was just a matter of more time before someone stumbled on their position. They’d delayed the shuttle’s takeoff for too long. But he couldn’t leave them without an explanation. He’d make up for the brevity later, if it came to that.

 

“They’re going with you,” he told the crew chief and turned.

 

“Staff Sergeant,” he addressed the agents and reconsidered, trying to soften his tone. “Mr. Granger. Ma’am. You’re daughter was captured. We’re going back, but there’s a chance she,” he subtly hesitated, “might not make it out.

 

“Give you my word we’ll do everything we can,” he said with finality. “But right now you need to board that shuttle.”

 

Marine SSGT Frank Granger flashed a stern look, obviously withholding comment. His wife, Marine GYSGT Samantha Ducharme, stepped between the men and met Gage’s eyes straight on.

 

“Look,” she began, then paused as though choosing her words, “I appreciate your sentiment, sir, but we’re your best chance at getting her out. We know the area, we know the personnel and how they work, and trust me, after what we’ve witnessed, which is a hell of a lot more than what you see here,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, “payback is going to be more than sweet.

 

“Besides,” she sucked a breath taking a resolute stance, “you’re really short on time. What they don’t have in firepower they make up for in brutal interrogation methods. Intel’s their big ticket. The prisoners that survive they sell on the cheap; the intel goes for high dollar. After what just went down, you leave her in there long and she won’t survive.”

 

Gage looked averse to the idea as he considered, but surprisingly agreed. “All right.” He glanced at the crew chief, gesturing with a tick of his head. “Need to borrow a couple of your phasers.”

 

The crew chief didn’t need convincing. Frank and Sam were armed. The team cleared and Gage gave the pilot the signal to takeoff. Slipping back to the trees, Gage paused at the edge of the clearing to watch the shuttle fade into the darkness. They were committed.

 

Gage set a demanding pace through the jungle, steering a hook that would bring them around the behind the compound. They stopped once or twice to adjust their heading, but not for very long. Sunrise was approaching. They didn’t have a lot of time if they planned on using the dark to mask their approach.

 

With less than two hours to the compound, hand signs passed through the team and they took a knee, pausing for the last time. Recorded infrared from the still-airborne raven* showed a party discovering their primary extract about forty-five minutes after they’d left and a little over three hours after the first assault. The enemy lingered in the area for ten minutes before pointing back toward their base, suggesting they’d given up after finding evidence that a shuttle had recently landed and taken off. It meant the team didn’t have to contend with a pursuing force on their rear, but numbers at the compound would increase before they arrived. Still, they might have an element of surprise if the enemy was convinced the team left.

 

Tucking the slate back into a pouch on his carrier, Gage scanned for one man and shifted.

 

“Staff Sergeant,” he called to Frank, taking a knee nearby. His voice was tense even as he kept it low, body language charged. “Tell us everything you know about that compound.”

 

Frank gestured for the slate, dimmed for low-light, and pulled up the recorded video, freezing it on a full frame of the compound. “What you’ve already seen is it: all basic wood and thatch construction, easy to penetrate, easy to blow, easy to burn. They weren’t looking for infiltration.” He jabbed at the screen. “Ammo dump is here, barracks here, fuel here. Central area has the main generator system and a wooden hut on stilts that usually holds the prisoners.” Moa changed position to listen.

 

“Group is a mix of Klingon and Romulan black-marketers with a few earthers. Not much protection inside except for personal weapons, all kinds, energy and non-energy. What you saw on the cliffs is their max, meant to keep prisoners in, not intruders out, but one mortar, here, will be a problem."

 

Gage didn’t leave room for pause. “What about numbers? Source intel came up short.”

 

“Thirty-two with the last shuttle. Guards outside five to seven, but after what went down, they might double or triple that. They’re not that great on tactics, but they do have some. Since they’ve never been assaulted before I’m not sure what you can expect, but I’d expect the worst.”

 

Gage nodded, jaw grimly setting. “Reinforcements?”

 

“Negative. Last shuttle came in just before sunset, bingo* fuel. They’re low on everything. They were waiting for their next hit, hoping to sell the prisoners you just swiped. They start on her....” his lips drew thin as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand.

 

“Where will they keep Cass?”

 

“That wooden hut on stilts mid-compound. It’s about 20 by 24, no windows, one door,” again he tapped the slate, “large generator outside here, razor wire on the perimeter with an opening in the wire by the door, here. Garbage dump and ######ter is close by, some running under the building. The smell’s supposed to help with interrogation.”

 

Gage took back the slate, wearing a frown. “Ok, we’ll go in here, take out these positions first,” he said, jumping frames and pointing. “Follow up with these emplacements. John’ll cover our infil from the east.”

 

He looked at Daniels. “Take your shots and displace. Keep ‘em guessing on where you are, where we’re coming in. Stay frosty.* Raven’s not on target yet. Donno how far out their patrols’re going.

 

“Hect, take Frank with you. Set charges here and here. Jack’ll, you take the Mrs,” he glanced at Sam. “Set charges here. The rest’ll get Cass. Rally here. John, you’ll cover our exfil from here. Good?”

 

Seeing nods in the moonlight and hearing no objections, Gage put the slate away.

 

“Move out.”

 

________________

*Unity: in reference to the song by Shinedown

*finding the door: maneuvers made under fire to rally your unit, break contact with an enemy and regroup

*bingo fuel: only enough to return to base

*kit: gear needed for the operation

*raven: small Unmanned Aerial Vehicle or drone, launched by hand

*stay frosty: stay alert and calm

Edited October 1, 2012 by Gage Silver

[Gage Silver 0]

When Cass came to she was sitting in a small room, pitch black except for one intense spotlight casting a brilliant circle around her, adding its heat to the already dank, humid air. Her ear bud was gone, which was probably the least of her worries. Stripped to tee and shorts, leather thongs strapped her arms to a heavy wooden chair and metal shackles cut into her ankles. Chains secured them to the floor. The wet straps would soon dry, dig into her arms, cut off the circulation and press on vital nerves, making whatever they planned more intense.

 

Cass left her head nodding forward, shoulders slumped and legs limp. Her eyes opened enough to assess the situation but not enough for anyone to realize she was conscious. A heavy throb in her head didn’t help, but at least the room wasn’t spinning. She began the standard assessment for escape.

 

Night sounds drifted from outside: feet shuffling through dirt, a few twigs snapping, some running by in a chaotic manner, tree branches swaying, and an occasional weapons discharge that sounded like a disruptor. After their intrusion the mercs were probably shooting at anything and everything.

 

Hushed tones seemed to come from an adjacent room, but they could be outside. Two... no, three distinct voices. One had the heaviest southern accent she’d ever heard mixed with a Scottish brogue; it took her a while before she could pin it down. Someone spoke a Romulan dialect she couldn’t place, one not used in diplomatic or military circles, so she figured it was lower class. A few words were familiar; most were not. The third seemed to understand them all, his speech occasionally peppered with choice Klingon phrases. In the distance Klingon swears split the silence, then a shout, followed by a deathly stillness. She heard no animal or insect sounds; they must have hunkered down for the duration.

 

The reek of decomposing garbage and fuel mixed with ozone from energy weapon discharge, sewage, wet dirt, and rotting wood. If she was lucky, the rotting wood was the floor, which would make it easier for her to free her legs. Working with the shackles or taking them off altogether would be a different story. Wet dirt could mean a crawl space beneath the building, which might mean she was in the central building, the one on stilts. Sewage? Wouldn’t be the first time she swam through a cesspool.

 

Breeze? None. Given the soft tree-branch swoosh outside the air wasn’t still, so there were closed windows or no windows at all.

 

Minutes passed, then an hour, or maybe two. The throb in her head subsided. Though she fought it, she soon found herself drifting off.

Edited October 1, 2012 by Gage Silver