Atlantis
THE ATLANTIS STORY BY: BRANDON KRUPCZAK AND WILL ANDERSON
Please note this is only a teaser, and if you want to see the rest of the story, type in 'Atlantis: chapter 1' to get to chapter 1 and the prologue, 'Atlantis, chapter 2' to get to chapter two, and so on and so forth. Or, you could click on these new, shiny links here:
Drawing by Will Anderson
The sirens wailed inside the building. Sitting in the lounge, Tom jumped at the ear-splitting wail, spilling peanut shells everywhere. Ugh, why now, he groaned. He had just sat down with a bag of peanuts to watch a bit of T.V. Now, of all times, the raid that the radar had spotted earlier had arrived.
Jumping to his feet, Tom dashed out the door and down a flight of stairs to the ground level, where the main armory was housed. He dashed past panicking recruits, ducked under marines fumbling with guns, and shot into the Armory. Entire racks were filled with guns, from handguns to assault rifles. Huge tables were laid out with tons and tons of ammo. Rushing in, at least twenty other men were in there, grabbing rifles, grabbing ammo, and hightailing it outside.
"Move, Move, MOVE!" a sergeant called.
"Let's go, go go!" another one screamed.
Everything was confusion. People were screaming at people, trying to grab weapons and ammo at the same time, mingling among each other so that it was impossible to tell whose squad you belonged to.
Tom grabbed a rifle, a sidearm, and ammo for both. His knife was already strapped to to his leg in its sheath. He darted out the door into the next room. He was already wearing combat fatigues and armor, but he stopped to pick up a helmet, making sure it fit snugly. Tom turned on his HUD (heads-up display) and soon saw tactical information and squadmember positions, marked by green triangles pointing upwards, milling around. Tom sent out an "operational" signal that told his squadron that he was ready to go. Their acknowledgement lights strobed on. His strike team was waiting for him outside.
Ten men, not including himself. His team consisted of six general assault soldiers, two machine gunners, a sniper, and an anti-armor trooper, as well as he.
He had trained with his team on many occasions, but this was the first real battle. West, Dyke, Sanders, Rieley, Shama, and Trippe made up his assault team. Hoewin was sniper. Chaumers was anti-armor, and the Nelson brothers were the machine gunners. He was the leader, with West second-in-command.
"Go, go, go!" Tom shouted hoarsely. His team obeyed without question. They sprinted after him as he ran pellmell down the hallway, swinging a wide arc around a corner.
The sirens wailed in and out of hearing as they ran behind a corner. Ahead of them was an exit door marked with a yellow and red stripe over the door frame. It was open, and they rushed through out into the courtyard. Above them on the wall, heavy machine guns pounded the forest around them. The crack of sniper shots echoed throughout the place.
Tom ran up to the gates, his men right behind him. Armored Stryker tanks were waiting to take more men outside. The Strykers were highly advanced modern tanks that could seat twenty men, not including the crew, as well as have the capability to fire the 120mm cannon and .50 cal on top. Tom and his team piled into one of these beasts of destruction. They sat down in the seats, not bothering to strap themselves in for the short ride to the trenches just outside the wall.
Before long more than fifteen tanks were lined up, waiting to be let outside. In addition to the Strykers, armored Humvees with twin .50 cals mounted on top were seeded throughout the tanks. They were dwarfed in comparison to the leviathans that the U.S.A. called tanks, but Tom knew from experience that these things could pack a powerful punch.
Overhead, multiple Orca-squadron hovercraft armed to the teeth with chain guns, mortars, rockets, and flamethrowers soared high over the walls, their complements of fifteen men making each of them considerable foes. Tom also spotted three Huey gunships hovering menacingly above the gate; the Guardian Angels. If the Atlantians and their Iraqi allies were planning on beating the U.S. and Great Britain, they were in for a serious disappointment.
The doors opened, first the small, thin emergency sliding door that came apart extremely fast, then the big, re-inforced concrete blast doors slid apart like lethargic stone monsters, then the emergency sliding door on the other side.
"Hoewin, take up position on our squad's six!" Tom screamed. Hoewin sprinted to a position that was hidden somewhere in a hill behind him. Earlier the team's skilled sniper had donned a ghillie suit to minimize any chance of being seen by the enemy.
Flashes of light jumped around everywhere as the native and Iraqi forces fired upon the guards and autoguns on the wall, and the Americans returned fire. Explosions dotted the field, and it was filled with the screaming of men dying. Tom had no time to dwell on it, instead breaking off from the main group, his men in tow.
Tom pointed the driver over to a clump of rocks just inside the trench that would provide cover while the men jumped out of the tank and into the trench. The driver consented, and soon they were hurtling at 30 miles an hour over the short, 100 foot stretch to the trenches. Overhead, the skies were cloudy, blocking any view of the bright, sparkling tropical sun behind bloated, dark and ugly thunderheads. In addition, sheets and sheets of rain cut down visibility to a bare 30 meters, soaking the already sodden ground and making ever increasing pools of mud so that the trenches were lined with 20 cm of it.
The Stryker stopped with the back exit doors directly behind the rock spree. The big marines piled out of the vehicle, Tom being the last one to leave.
As the men rushed out, the tank's turret, which was just barely peeking over the boulders, fired off a suppressive shot that sent two of the pickup trucks that the Iraqis called transports flying through the air, the men who had until recently been manning the attached .50 cal both looking like a Superman dressed in rags.
As soon as the last man was out, not including the crew, the Stryker took off towards a bridge in the trench, leaving Tom and his team to fend for themselves.
Tom rushed into the trench, not bothering to find an entrance, instead just dropping into the chest-high depression in the tropical mud that was splattered everywhere. The others were right on top of him, coming out from behind the rocks firing.
One of the Nelson brothers, James, stayed behind the rocks along with Hoewin to give the rest of the crew some covering fire. The sharp crack of Hoewin's sniper seemed to compliment the pounding of James's LMG.
Tom peeked over the top of the trench, looking for a target.
He nearly had a bullet in his face as one glanced off the slippery rock in front of him and shot up towards his head. Luckily his helmet sent the bullet grazing off and in the opposite direction. Ducking back down, one of his men opened up a few rounds for covering fire.
The trenches weren't working out. They were to devoid of cover, despite the fact that anyone standing in them were up to their torso in mud. And the rain only made it all the worse.
Tom fired off a few more rounds before realizing it was hopeless. He couldn't get off a decent shot due to the rocks and mud hummocks in front of them. Tom realized that they would provide ample cover if he could get out without being drilled full of holes.
Grabbing his radio, he called for an artillery barrage from the wall to the open span of land where the Iraqis were huddled, spraying tons of rounds from their AK-74's. The giant 105mm shells from the wall cannons pounded the ground, sending rocks and mud flying everywhere but doing surprisingly little damage. This kind of attack was meant to make the enemy cringe and falter, unable to see while you dashed to find a better position.
Tom saw at least three bodies fly up, arms flailing, rifles twisting as they plummeted back to Earth, unable to escape gravity for more than a few seconds.
Tom scrambled up the side of the trench, dashing out, making for a large boulder just ahead.
Bullets sung close at his heels as he sprinted to the rocks, his men belatedly following. Finally they were out, able to shoot accurately again. Just as Tom was about to pop some Iraqis who were ignorantly not standing behind cover, three sniper shots came in quick succession, causing the Iraqis' heads to burst in a violent spray of gore. Jeez, can't Hoewin let me take a few? Tom thought.
The Nelson brothers flanked to either side, laying down suppressive fire for Hoewin, who was finding higher ground to snipe from. Chaumers hefted his M72 LAW anti-infantry rocket launcher, took aim, and fired at a clump of Raptors; the high-heat missile sent them yelping away in retreat.
Tom continued to take peeking shots, leaving almost none of his body exposed as he did. West was right beside him, working his way to the front as he fired. He liked to be in the thick of the action.
One of the Iraqi's T-86 light attack tanks loomed out of the mist, and Chaumers let loose a anti-tank missile from his Javelin missile launcher.
Trippe took a bullet in the shoulder and went down, arms flailing. Tom loosed a torrent of curses. Trippe was a new recruit.
Maddened at the sight of the poor wretch lying on the ground in so much pain, Tom popped up like a hyperactive bunny and sprayed the rest of the clip from his FN SCAR, eliciting cries of agony from the enemy.
Tom tried to fire another burst, but the clip was empty. Bullets sailed close over his head; he could practically feel them. Cursing, he pulled out his sidearm and emptied the clip as he dived behind a larger clump of boulders, expecting at any second to feel the fiery sting of a bullet impale him.
He made it to safety without feeling anything even remotely resembling stinging or pain. The handgun was empty and he tossed it aside.
Crouching, he reloaded his rifle, fumbling with the clip from adrenaline. He finally fit it into the slot. As he did so, he glanced at Trippe. West had flagged down a medic, and now he was giving Trippe a shot of morphine as well as cleaning and bandaging the wound. He was going to be okay. Twisting around into a hunched stand, he nearly fell back in surprise. Stumbling back, his eyes registered an enormous, terrifying Velociraptor bending over the rocks he was using as cover. Red war paint was smeared over it's face, giving it a terrible, vicious appearance.
It gazed at him with contempt obvious on its face, rainwater drizzling down its muzzle in streams. And all Tom could do was stab his pathetic knife into it, and he had about as much chance of that as he had becoming president. All it had to do was open its jaws, lean forward, and snap them up, then Tom would be done. Done. Done for good. No waking up. No nothing.
In a last, desperate attempt at survival, Tom twisted and ran, stooping to pick up a rock in the process. He yanked the knife out of it's sheath even though it would do no good. It was a comfort thing.
The Raptor bounded after him, raking its claw down his back. Tom cried out in agony. Raising its killing claw, it charged. Right as the claw was an inch from Tom's back, he dove to the side. The claw planted itself into the dirt.
The Raptor landed with it, snarling angrily. It had missed for the first time in its life. It turned at Tom and growled, a fierce challenge to the enemy. Her rider twisted around, an AK-74 assault rifle cradled in his arms, pointing at Tom. He stood no chance.
Tom flung the rock at the Raptor's rider with all his strength. The tiny stone missile caught the man between his eyes, momentarily stunning him and knocking him off balance, making him slouch in the saddle. The Raptor cried out in alarm: her Master was hurt.
Tom took advantage of the momentary confusion to dive behind a rock, hopefully to safety, but instead onto a fallen body.
Oh, so gross. Tom gagged, then stopped. He realized something: fallen soldiers had fallen weapons, which wouldn't have fallen so far from the body.
Scrambling frantically through the mud, his fear-numbed hands grasped at a bit of cold plastic material. Yanking it up from the suction-like mud, he brought it into view: a handgun. What type he didn't care, he whirled above the rock, aimed, and fired. The first bullet hit the Raptor's shoulder, causing it to whirl around, snarling in pain. The second bullet took the rider in the chest.
The rider was thrown off the beast with a violent twisting motion, coming down to earth and face planting in the mud. He didn't stir.
The alarmed Raptor snorted in fear. That fear was soon replaced by rage as the beast charged after Tom. Tom didn't move an inch, but stubbornly pounded the rest of his pistol rounds into the raptor's mighty jaw, penetrating the brain. The raptor gave a last weak roar and desperately dived for Tom. It seemed as if the thing would bite Tom's head off, but at that moment it met its end as Hoewin had finally reached the summit of a small hill, and taking notice of Tom's distress, cracked off a shot at the beast. For a short moment Tom was standing in shock at the wreck of blood and guts resting next to him.
As soon as the moment had begun, it had ended. Tom sprang into action. Trying not to scream in frustration, Tom sheathed his knife then sprinted back to his fallen assault rifle, checking to make sure it wasn't damaged by the rain or mud, when he heard the cry. On the other side of the group of rocks, West was in danger.
“Help! Help!!!” The shrill cry of pain chilled Tom's already freezing blood. An enormous Velociraptor was hanging over the man, and Tom saw Shama face down in a puddle of reddish mud, with Sanders, Dyke, Rieley, and Trippe sprawled across various rocks, all looking dazed. Without stopping to think, he brought around his rifle and fired. The Raptor fell to the ground amidst a flurry of lead.
“Uhhg, thanks.” West gasped as Tom hurried over. “I think I broke my leg.”
“Ok, just take it easy, and wait for the meds.” Tom said. West dragged himself off the ground, and Tom called for a field ambulance to pick him up. If West's leg was broken, it would be suicide to order him to keep fighting, unlike Trippe, who could still move. After about thirty seconds, a vehicle came by. West hopped in the specially adapted ambulance, and they went screeching off to the next soldier.
Meanwhile, Dyke, Sanders, and Trippe had gotten to their feet,and Reiley was blinking stupidly, staring up at a beleaguered James as he dragged him to cover while firing his 8 pound machine gun in one hand. Tom glanced through the mist at another company of soldiers, who were tending to two men with clenched jaws, sitting against boulders with large red streaks on them. Tom forced himself to turn his attention back to his own squad, peering at the stricken tropical landscape. Almost immediately he spotted muzzle flashes here and there, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, pearing through the scope. He emptied the entire clip on three of the Raptors. They fell, and Tom narrowly dodged an arrow. He stabbed a knife vaguely in the direction of the native who had attacked him. He dropped another native with his bayonet, then smacked another with the butt of his gun.
A Raptor came up, and Tom reloaded and fired hurriedly. It didn't go down, but was severely wounded, and Dyke finished him off. “Thanks,” Tom said, glancing at the man. They were all tired and breathing heavy. The soldiers were highly trained, heavily armed, and just simply the best of the best.
A giant T-Rex was wreaking havoc in the front lines, and needed to be dealt with fast. Tom shouted into his radio, “I need aerial support! Requesting Cobra gunship. Red smoke's your target.”
“Roger, require clearance code omega five."
Tom rattled off a chain of pointless letters and numbers.
"Roger, dispatching aerial support. Clear the engagement area.” A calm and serene voice broke the panic and confusion of battle. “All forward units, withdraw! Clear the area for air strike!” He ordered, and he chucked a couple canisters of red smoke as a target for the gunners. Dyke and Reiley flanked to the sides, throwing each another canister of signal smoke and pinpointing the Rex in their laser sights. The Rex howled with rage as the acrid smell of the chemicals reached his sensitive nostrils. He stomped in a rampage, oblivious to all else, which was an added bonus.
Chaumers fired another high-heat flare, and the Rex stomped angrily.
It was almost impossible not to watch, even though he was supposed to be kicking enemy butt. A few moments later, an air-to-ground missile zipped over the tree line, to then crash into the poor Dinosaur's narrow head in an explosion of flames, hot metal, and a newly developed poisonous gas which was supposed to put the Dino asleep if it came into contact with it's head. All it did was make it madder. No matter, the actual gunship was already appearing over the tropical giants of trees. It pummeled the creature's side in a hail of hot bullets and smaller, non-poison missiles. The Rex gave a low moan of pain and fury as the Cobra helicopter whipped by overhead. The Cobra was relentlessly pummeling it in a hail of machine gun fire. It circled 3 times before the Rex finally gave up, the men on its back being long dead from the bullets. It collapsed in a cloud of dirt, blood was oozing from multiple wounds; it couldn't survive much longer. A ragged cheer emanated from the soldiers, while the natives and Iraqis moaned with despair. It gave a final cry of pain as the soldiers added their own slightly smaller bullet wounds to its body, then slumped to the ground, dead. Tom sprinted forward, sliding out a plastic sampler and tube as he ran.
Biological samples were invaluable, and a dead specimen was nearly as good as a live. He cut off a piece of it's skin, and then took a sample of muscle tissue from beneath. He capped the lid shut after storing them both carefully inside the tube.
Cheering erupted from the crowd of men as they rushed forward in order to take cover against it's protective flank, as the skin on it's back and sides are so hard, it is bullet proof. The belly and head are a different story. More of the soldiers began taking samples, and one was so intent on getting a good piece of organ, he cut away too much skin and gasped in surprise as a bullet spat out of it's body moments later, as some dumb Iraqi had been emptying clips and clips into the fallen Dino with naive hope of hitting something. The soldier continued on even though he had taken a nasty wound in his shoulder. Tom launched himself back into the frenzy of Raptors, eager for a smaller opponent to exploit.
The Cobra hovered menacingly over the fallen Rex, as if daring the Iraqis or natives to do something about it. Because of it, the space immediately around it was devoid of any enemy presence. After a few moments of consultation, the Cobra opened fire from its two mounted chain guns and smaller, less powerful 10mm nose gun at nothing in particular. The bullets sent pools of mud plopping up like Mexican jumping beans. Tom was sure that something was being hit, but he couldn't tell in the haze.
After thirty seconds of sustained fire, the helicopter launched its final three missiles at different spots on the ground. The helicopter radioed to Tom. "Commander Lane, we are out of munition, returning to base to re-arm and re-fuel, will radio when clear, over," a slick voice announced in the high-tech hands-free comm link in Tom's helmet visor.
The statement needed no response, and almost immediately the Cobra turned away slowly, almost reluctantly. Tom didn't need it anymore, and it had to refuel.
The other squads were adding their bullets to the fray as well. The Iraqis were being driven back to the rainforest.
Elation seeped through Tom as he realized that they were winning, bit by bit, piece by piece.
Darting from cover to cover, rock to fragment of a tank, Tom and his team were only able to take fleeting snapshots from their guns. But it was better than standing around in the middle of the battlefield waiting to get mown down by a machine gun like all the Iraqis.
Motioning for his men to cover him, he knelt to examine a piece of Dinosaur feces. Again, he slid out another sampler tube and took a sample of the feces. He pocketed it, then looked up in surprise.
Something whipped across his face, creating a dull, excruciating pain. He was thrown to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. He looked up, and an native officer was sneering at him, mere inches away from his face. His team was on the other side of a spur of rocks: they couldn't see him. The officer seemed to think that Tom was done for. But Tom knew something he didn't.
The idiot was standing on a hot geyser. The place was riddled with them. And he happened to have his crotch placed directly over one. Tom felt the ground rumbling already.
He was distracted by a string of words: “You ignorant fool. There is no way you can win, so why try? Our armies outmatch yours by sheer number alone 10 to one. Try and beat that, oh great one.” The native said with a smirk.
“Yeah, your armies might be bigger. But not any smarter.” Tom hinted.
Just then, the geyser exploded outward, taking the man full on. He screamed as he was tossed upward 20... 30... 40 feet in the air. As he plummeted to earth, Tom had a moment to enjoy the irony of the situation.
Tom got up and brushed himself off. The battle was almost over. Just another 3,000 guys to go. Then the horns sounded.
The battlefield stilled as the natives and Velociraptors bowed, and the soldiers looked up in fear. It had arrived.
It being the most ferocious, bloodthirsty giant of a Tyrannosaurus Rex there ever was.
“RRRRRROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!” The world came to again as all the soldiers turned and fled.
“Retreat!” RETREAT!!!” Tom yelled unnecessarily. He and his team turned tail and fled without a seconds thought to everyone else behind them.
Everyone was sprinting full out to the base, and the rear was still being picked off by the Raptors and natives. Tom cried out as he was thrown to the ground, an incredible pain in his shoulder. He had been shot. Someone picked him up and threw him forward. His team had been separated. Not that it mattered, as long as they all got to the base.
Tom glanced over his un-injured shoulder and found himself at the near back of the horde. He ran forward, and he barely made it to the gates before they shut.
The men at the rear were still being picked off by the Raptors. To add to the confusion, the natives were throwing javelins and shooting flaming arrows into the crowd, and the Iraqis were picking off the rear lines with AK-74s.
The last of the men dove through the gate, just as their was less than a body's width of space between the two great slabs of reinforced concrete. Tom was able to breath again as the doors shut. Only three Raptors and an native had made it through, and the native had gotten stuck in the door, his foot still being squeezed into the concrete. The remaining soldiers made quick work of them.
Tom could now hear the reassuring thud of the machine guns, the whistling howl of the mortars, and the sharp crack of the snipers. Battle was chaos. Inside the 12 foot thick, 50 ft high reinforced concrete walls, he felt safe.
But it wasn't over. The Rex was still charging, and no one could stop it. Except maybe, him. But there was no way Tom could climb the steps up to the wall now. Then he felt it. An excited, bubbling energy as something inside him rebelled the inevitable failure.
He was rising suddenly, and he looked down. He was 15 ft in the air. 20, 30ft, 40, now 50 feet! He was even higher than that stupid idiot that had gotten caught in the geyser. He was at the top of the wall! He bent over and grabbed a stinger missile from a fallen soldier. But a single missile wasn't enough. He could still feel the energy, boiling, scorching, and unbearable. He had to release it, or die. It was that simple.
He stood straight and raised the launcher, suddenly confident, injury forgotten. He knew what he had to do. He pulled the trigger, then threw it away. Focusing hard, he released the energy in one compact sapphire ball. It surrounded the missile, and together they drove into the Rex's skull. BOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!! The Earth shook tremendously. The Rex was terribly wounded. It thrashed around madly in pain, crushing many of it's own men. With a final cry of blood lust, it escaped into the jungle.
A ragged cheer began on the ground, and became more steady as more and more joined the shout.
By the end, Tom's name was echoing throughout the entire facility joyously. He was a hero. He had saved the day.
He was so tired. Never before had he been tired like this. He seemed to be drained. Drained of willpower and life. He barely had the energy to keep standing. He knew why.
The sapphire ball had been a ball of energy, pure energy, his energy. He had sent his last reserves careening towards that stupid Dinosaur. Now he just needed to sleep...
He collapsed on the top of the wall. About a minute later, he was aware of soft hands gently pulling him to his feet, swinging his arms around their shoulders. He didn't know who it was. He didn't care. They brought him to the ground where he was placed on a stretcher, and from there carted into an infirmary. Just as he was rolled through the double doors, he fell into merciful, deep sleep.
Illustrations
This was the original cover for the Atlantis Escapade. Cool huh? In this drawing, Tom is holding what is supposed to be an FN Scar and a Desert Eagle. Complain to Will if you have any comments.
A random Atlantian royal guard. Niiiice.
First ever drawing of Dr. Shang with chocolate spilled on it. Great job Will!
The cover for the second book in the Atlantis trilogy. Yes, that's right, there will be three books in all which include the character Tom. I'm not gonna give away anything more.
The newer, improved version of the cover for the Atlantis escapade, with a messy title.
An awesome drawing of an Apache Longbow, the newest type. Sweet Chinook in the background.
Tom's awesome Aston Martin DBS with a few modifications
