Difference between revisions of "Atlantis: chapter 9"

Latest revision as of 22:56, 11 September 2008

Chapter 9. Sweet. Hope you enjoy.

Please note that this page and all related articles are a work in progress and the authors reserve the right to edit, expand, delete, and/or reformat this page and all other related pages. Please also note that in writing this we mean no disrespect to any country or culture, a book merely needs protagonists and antagonists.

[edit] Chapter IX: Sound and Sight

"Wake up sleepy head." A soft voice flowed through Tom's ear as he drifted back to consciousness. It was Scarlett.

"Right now?" He grumbled. Tom was not much of a morning person.

"Yep. Matt's making eggs and bacon."

"Somehow, the idea of a homey meal of eggs and bacon here just turns the thought sour." Tom yawned.

Tom lifted himself on his elbow into a slouched but technically upright position. Blinking back the sleep-induced haze, he crawled out from under the thin blanket. He stumbled up to the kitchen counter of the tiny room and groped around for the coffee pot. Pouring himself a cup of the dark, cloudy black liquid, he settled down on a stool with a plate.

Matt was still in the kitchen, beating a bowl of eggs. Somehow it just seemed out of place. Matt scrambling eggs inside and firing guns and slicing with knives outside. Just odd.

Holly came and joined him after downing three cups of coffee in one sitting.

"Thanks for breakfast Matt." Holly said through a mouth full of eggs.

Tom stared at the golden, fluffy eggs with chunks of ham seeded throughout and a sprinkle of pepper on top. It reminded him so much of the time spent with his Mom, and suddenly he didn't want to be there.

"So when'd you learn to cook?" Tom finally asked.

"I guess I should take that as one of your hard-earned compliments." Matt said. "Seriously though, probably while I was camping. We cooked our own meals. It was either cook them or eat it cold."

Tom grinned, and Matt chuckled.

"It sure did a wonder on you in the fine art of putting eggs on a pan." Holly said, adopting a fancy British accent.

"I think they're great." Scarlett said.

"Glad someone appreciates my hard work." Matt said in mock indignation.

The exchange was so like old friends from elementary school. We are indeed friends from elementary, Tom reflected.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Asked Scarlett after a moment.

"Well, I thou-" Holly began.

Tom's comm link vibrated. He walked over to the headset, which was sitting on a table beside his bed, and fit it over his head. The visual-audio system let him view Dr. Shang's pale, thin features in vivid detail.

"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Lane, but you are needed in my office. Bring the rest of the company with you." He said, then closed the link.

"Looks like our rest is short lived." Tom groaned.

"We'd better go see what he wants." Matt grunted, then tossed his plate into the trash.

All four of them, sporting light military fatigues, piled into a lift and ascended to the top floor. A secretary was awaiting them as they got off the large, open elevator and crossed the threshold to the top commanding offices.

"Follow me this way please." She said. Her breath was tinged with a spearmint twang.

They were shown into a office adorned with plush black leather couches and tall, wiry lamps. A small, cozy fake fire was glowing from one wall. The lamps threw out harsh LED white light, the only portion of the office out of place. Numerous military decorations hung on the wall above a richly adorned mahogany desk. Thick oriental rugs carpeted the floor. Hanging above the medals and Doctor degrees was a set of ceremonial Wakazashi Japanese sword-daggers. It was Tom's first clue as to Dr. Shang's heritage.

And that was another thing. Dr. Shang had a P.h.D in psychology and Medical science.

Tom cast a glance at the finery and decided he'd rather stand. The rest of the crew apparently agreed, for they all stood beside Tom.

"Please, take a seat," Dr. Shang drawled, interrupting Tom's momentary detached manner.

The crew looked around and reluctantly lowered themselves onto the overstuffed chairs, with the exception of Tom, who remained standing.

Dr. Shang raised an eyebrow but made no comment.

"Tea, anyone? It's Jasmine," Shang offered. When no one spoke, he shrugged and poured himself a cup. Savoring the smell of the expensive blend, he took a sip, then set the cup on a immaculate white saucer on his desk designated for that exact purpose only.

Tom involuntarily inhaled the aroma of the perfumey liquid; it permeated the entire office, and even Tom had to breathe. Maybe that was the difference between Tom and Shang. One drank black coffee, the other drank fine, noxious, delicate tea.

Dr. Shang reclined in his comfy padded leather chair. Black of course, just like everything else about him, except, ironically, his drink.

"Now, to the heart of the matter," Shang cut abruptly. "As you well know, the raid on Facility 1 has left us stretched thin, and our defensive networks threaten to fall. This facility posed a major stumbling block to any adversary looking to surround us. Hypothetically, if an enemy managed to take down one, he'd still have the other two. However, what many failed to foresee is that we are now vulnerable." He said, opening a file on his laptop and spinning it around so that Tom and the rest of the crew could see.

"As you see here, Facility 1 guards the Southernmost tip of our section of our network. Without the strategic advantage of the facility, the enemy will have an unchallenged alley to surround us, a secret pass, if you will. Without Facility 1, the enemy can surround us and attack from three of the four cardinal directions: East, South, and West. They might succeed, they might not. This campaign would end here and now. This is not acceptable. America beaten by Russia! What will people think? Yes, America won the Cold War. Thirty years later and Russia stomps us out of the most significant historical and technological find of the millennium! It can't, it won't happen. Furthermore, without the defensive aid of Facility 1, our enemies have complete access to all of our sector of the island behind the three Facilities.

All of the land we have gained we will lose. They will take out our supply bases on the coast and force this facility in the ground. Facility 3 will survive for a while longer, but it will require resupply ships to sail straight up the river, making them extremely vulnerable to coastal ambushes and Atlantian raids by sea. Then will be the matter of unloading the supplies, which turns into a technological nightmare due to the Facility's docking ports. And even then, they will be short on supplies. We very well might lose this war.

We cannot lose control over this territory.

However, we need you four's help.

"We are dispatching teams to set up camp along this rift here," Shang said, running his finger on a precipitous drop two kilometers to the West of Facility 1. "The mission for these teams will be to set up a mobile rapid attack force borderline that defines our space. Four teams, four camps, and four mobile defense outposts. Conveniently, there happens to be four of you.

"This operation will be assisted by patrolling Predator UCAVs, or unmanned-"

"I know, I know," Tom interrupted impatiently. "Unmanned combat aerial vehicles."

"Good. I forget that you are not the stubborn, oblivious Lieutenants that I have to deal with. Regardless, you will be aided by patrolling Predator attack drones, and you will have access to whatever equipment you need. This mission is encoded class Beta, one of the highest in the book. Needless to say, this cannot fail." Turning the screen around to face him again, Shang closed out of the virtual map and pulled up a word processor.

"Now for your teams. I have them sorted out for you already, or you can handpick members from your own squads if you want. Oh, and Tom, West has recovered. He may be a little sore, but he is ready for active combat.

"Thank you sir," Tom replied tersely. "I'll be glad to have him on my roster."

"Hm, well, your teams will consist of fifty men. One man will not make much of a difference."

"No sir," Tom was forced to agree.

"Well, do you have any preferences besides West?" Shang asked.

"No sir. I don't want anyone else from my squad to get hurt, and they deserve a break."

"Very good. Matthew? Any preferences?"

"No sir, I will be content with any you can give me, so long as they won't slow us down." Matt ground his teeth. He hated his full name, as he thought it didn't sound tough enough.

"Good. Scarlett?"

"No sir."

"Holly?"

"No sir."

"Good. Your teams have seen some action before, so you won't have to worry about any recruits getting in the way. Matter of fact, they're the best that the American military has to offer. Together, they make up Angel Squadron. I believe you're familiar with them?" Shang asked.

"Yes sir, just rumors and overheard chatter among my men, nothing solid though."

"Paraphrasing the President, 'Angel squadron makes up the finest and bravest of America; they are our fallbacks whom we can count on to show us the path to victory...'. In short, they are the elite. The best of the best, only top grade-A Psi soldiers."

Tom saw Matt out of the corner of his eye turn slightly and mutter, "Psi soldiers?" to Scarlett.

"I'm sorry sir, you said...?"

"Psi soldiers, like yourselves. They are the specials, all of them can control one type of element or energy, but only one. Conveniently, Angel squad consists of 196 men. So you each get 49 men for your expedition. Tom, you'll have 51, including yourself and West.

"Yes sir," Tom answered. I don't get this whole 'yessir, nosir' nonsense. Why can't we just say 'sure' or 'can do' once in a while? Tom thought at Matt

Yeah, I feel like the sheep in the song 'ba ba black sheep'. Matt answered, although no verbal sound escaped his lips.

Scarlett joined in next. Tell me about it,

And I don't see why we have to answer 'yes sir' to him. Holly jumped in, not wanting to be left out.

Yeah, Scarlett agreed. All of us could kick his fat-

Guys, listen, he's about to speak again. Tom warned.

Not 'he', but it. Scarlett said.

Come on, you're on officer, for heaven's sake. Holly, the oldest, advised.

Just one of the many gifts of having psychological powers, Tom and the crew had learned telepathy at an early age. During their days at a government training camp (their lives were that weird) the only way they had been able to speak without fear of being overheard by the millions of cameras and bugs and listening software was to do it mentally.

An added advantage to using telepathy, unlike the normal rules of physics, telepathic thought took place instantaneously. They could have whole conversations in only a thousandth of a second.

"Your teams will meet you in forty-five in the courtyard outside. Make sure you are ready," Dr. Shang said with passive hostility.

"Yes sir!" The crew declared all at once.

"Thats it. Dismissed."

"Yes sir!" The crew shuffled out of the cozy office with Tom in the lead.

"Alright, armory. No slacking." Tom ordered. Despite being the youngest of the group, he displayed the most leadership capability, especially now, after his 'treatment' as he later came to call it. Velociraptors were normally vicious creatures, but they were also scary smart. Fortunately for Tom, being jammed into a crowded field with bullets pinging by overhead and explosions all around without being able to work together to overcome a superior enemy weren't exactly advantageous for a Raptor. The Iraqis just hadn't gotten into their heads that they were taking a behavior and instincts born millions of years ago and barely suppressing it with drugs and pain. Eventually the Raptors would snap, and turn on their brutal allies, the Iraqis. Unfortunately for Tom, that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

All of the courtyards were designated according to importance and proximity to the gate. Conveniently, the building just inside the gate was an armory, so Tom and the crew, as well as anyone else exiting on an operation, wouldn't have to trudge halfway across the college sized research and development facility. The team jogged back to the lift and mashed the holographic display that took the place of buttons in the high-tech elevator and rapidly descended to the bottom.

The lifts were meant to get people and objects to their destination as fast as possible, and at one point Tom felt his stomach rise as he entered free fall inside the shaft. Just as quickly as it came, it passed, and soon Tom felt the lift slowing. The doors dinged open a moment later, and Tom jogged over the threshold and to the exterior door.

Unlike when Facility 1 was under attack and all the exterior blast doors were open to let troops out as fast as possible, the blast doors leading to the real world outside were usually heavily locked down. A biometric access denial panel ran along one wall, and a code was required to open. Tom keyed in the code SHAMEOFFORTKNOX and the blast doors slowly slid apart, then the lighter plastic doors detached and opened. Tom jogged out, not even bothering to check if the rest of the crew was following. He knew they would be.

The Officer's barracks and rooms were located at the near center of the campus, just beside the main research building that made the centerpiece of the large military camp. Oddly enough, the facility was so large it merited a high speed mag-rail train that ran from the main research building to a supply depot fairly close to the gates. Tom boarded the train, and as he turned to grab a handhold, he saw Matt, Holly, and Scarlett walking in a straight line slightly behind each other. Training was part of their lives. No thinking involved anymore, just action. There was no sense in walking in a tight group for the benefit of an assassin or bomber that happened to be in the neighborhood. That would be just their luck, to be preparing for an op crucial to the success of America, and all get blown into pieces just because they walked together. Tom grimaced at the thought.

Matt boarded the train, then Holly a few seconds after, with Scarlett taking their six.

Tom reached out to jab the launch button, but waited for a recruit pushing an ammo carriage to settle in as well. The recruit was so busy fussing over the ammo that he only realized he was in the presence of four officers when he looked up after securing the supplies, by which time Tom had hit the button and the train was taking off.

The recruit looked up and before he could grab a hold, he saw Tom.

"Sir!" The recruit stammered, and hastily raised his right hand in a salute. Without his hand on a hold, the train picked up speed and the recruit flew backward. He would have crashed into a wall, except that Tom grabbed him by the collar and hung on until the man's flailing arms could clutch at on of the restraints.

Tom let go, and the man hastily saluted again, this time keeping a leg wrapped around a pole and his other hand securely locked on a loop.

"At ease, soldier." Tom told him. The soldier was a year older than Tom, and he felt justly awkward about ordering someone outside his squad a year or two his senior around.

The man nodded and ducked his head to check on the ammo crates, his face heating.

Tom tried to stifle a laugh as he turned back to his team.

The train was bolting along the magnetic railway, officially labeled 'really really fast'. They would be at the supply depot in another couple minutes. Tom clutched loosely at the support.

Exactly three minutes and five seconds later, the doors split apart, and Tom found himself in a musty, gray storage center. Stalls lined one wall, their locks controlled by a man behind a desk on the other side of the space, bulletproof glass extending from the desk to the ceiling. The recruit behind Tom busied himself pushing the cart towards one of the stalls, his ID card held up for the operator to see.

Tom searched for the nearest door. He strode towards a glowing, helpful sign labeled 'Exit'. Matt followed a few feet behind.

Tom opened the exterior door, and the crew filed outside into the sunlight for the second time in five minutes. Tom looked around and found the building he was looking for; the armory, painted a deep blue color with an assault rifle painted on the door in white paint.

Tom entered the building after opening a third exterior blast door set. Inside he saw racks and racks of rifles, shotguns, SMGs, LMGs, explosives, and handguns. The weapons were organized into separate rooms. Tom walked up to a rack and examined the occupants. He was in the SMG room.

Time to load up with some serious gear.

Thirty full minutes later, Tom strode to the checkout booth in the armory so the operator could tab his weapons, make sure they got back to the right place.

He was packing heavy. So were the rest. Tom had a feeling he'd need it. Even with an assault rifle, SMG, Katana, and grenades, he still felt uneasy.

He strode out into courtyard Alpha with the rest of the crew right on his tail. Dotted around the enormous courtyard were 8 Assault V-22 Osprey Heli-planes, rotors beginning to spin as they warmed up. Boarding them were lines of green-on-black-clad soldiers, looking scary as all-get out, armed to the teeth with rifles in hand and secondaries strapped on their backs. They all had the standard military crew cut, and their vicious-looking arms sported various tattoos. Even Tom was a little intimidated by them, and he couldn't even imagine what it would be like to see one of those troopers from an enemy standpoint. Tom estimated about a hundred and fifty men, plus the unknown amount in the Ospreys.

Looking closer, Tom spied West slouched against one of the Ospreys that had red paint designating it as a command craft. Tom strode over after leaving Matt and the others, aware that all the eyes of those in the courtyard were on him.

West saw him half way to the bird and automatically saluted. He grinned, and as Tom walked up, he held out his hand for Tom to shake. A serious breach in military protocol, but Tom was willing to forgive him that and more for his performance back at Facility 1.

Tom took his hand and shook it warmly.

"Thank you sir, we're ridin' this bird," West said, affectionately slapping the hull of the gargantuan Assault V-22 attack craft.

A stand with loudspeakers spouting in four directions rang out strangely loud in the cavernous courtyard. "Angel company, dust off in five, repeat, dust off in five."

Tom glanced at the loudspeakers, then at the craft.

"Well then," Tom grunted, then climbed aboard the titanic hybrid. Inside were twenty four of the soldiers Tom had seen from the outside, with two crewmen manning chain guns next to the doorway on either side. Three men sat in the forward cockpit of the craft, one pilot, one gunner and one equipment operator. The bulk of the craft was for seating, with twenty five padded seats and restraints. On the ceiling were leather loop holds for excess capacity boarding. Towards the back of the leviathan were storage racks and cabinets, holding various survival gear and ammunition and other gear.

Although Dr. Shang had said four mobile attack posts, eight of the monstrosities were required to airlift the entire team there. Four would remain, four would leave for more supplies once they got to the landing zone. Although 201 elite soldiers were quite a force to be reckoned with, upon landing they would be vulnerable, with minimal vehicular support. Each Osprey carried only a single CG-tower and two ARMs plus the necessary equipment to outfit them in the other versions there design allowed. The CG-tower, as Tom had learned, stood for Collapsible Guard tower. Basically nothing more than a complicated series of titanium-steel alloy metal struts, it's full hight was about 15 feet, made up of overlapping metal bars that connected to each other like a long, durable series of tent poles.

Simply put, it was a tower completely made of metal bars that stood fifteen feet tall, with ports specially adapted to bear .35 cal chain guns or their 20mm Mk. II automatic grenade launcher counterparts, complete with small depressions in the flooring to store belts of ammunition. The four 'legs' of the CG-tower (nicknamed CGT by the soldiers) could be locked at differing lengths, making them able to stand on the steepest of inclines, and their 'feet' could twist 70 degrees in any direction. State of the art. Altogether, it was rather reminiscent of the blind in The Lost World, by Michael Crichton, and probably developed by someone who had watched too many bad action movies. Nevertheless, the CG-towers were effective on the field, and extremely lightweight yet scarily durable. They even had two platforms for men to shoot out of with walls for cover; one on top, one on the ground.

The ARMs weren't new to Tom. After all, he had almost been blown up and/or pulped on one while playing a game of chicken with a stolen Humvee and a diluted driver. Assault Recon Motorbikes could be adapted on field to produce stunning effects. The default version for the vehicle was the regular motorbike. However, when in need, the ARMs could be converted to one of a couple different forms including one specialized in Arctic combat, another specializing in mountainous or treacherous terrain (this one had three wheels; two in front and one in back for maximum stability while still retaining speed and maneuverability), and one in desert warfare. The full version including the environmental adaptations was called ARMPS, or, as the soldiers called it, Armpits.

However, with two ARMs per camp, and only one guard outpost, things would be tough for the first night when all the animals of the jungle came out to hunt without ground support. Mental note, Tom thought. All men walking on camp travel in pairs.

All the seats were occupied except for one, with two men still standing; Tom and West.

One of the soldiers in Angel suddenly gathered his pack and stood, letting Tom sit. Tom admired the gesture, making another mental note to promote the soldier to lieutenant commander the next chance he got. If he ever survived long enough to get the chance.

Tom nodded to the man appreciatively, then sat along with West, who was already in a seat, buckling his harness.

Peering discreetly at the man's FOF tag on his helmet's HUD, he gleaned that the man's name was Sam Mitchell, or as the Friend or Foe tag identified him as, 'Mitchell, Sam, Sargent, First Class'. Alongside his little blip on the indicator were those of the 24 other men around him, their names and ranks all collapsed into tiny boxes that were waiting to be expanded and opened for Tom to read the name. A bit farther out the HUD picked up the tiny blips of green light that corresponded as friendly units in the other choppers.

"...dust off in ten..."

Ten seconds. This was out of his hands now. Any doubt or hesitation that Tom had didn't matter anymore. Ten seconds was ten seconds.

"Five!"

Tom clutched at his harness, making sure it was tight, and Mitchell, standing up, grabbed two of the holds.

And then the hold started vibrating crazily. Tom heard the whine of the powerful engines and felt the rotor speed increase. He reached into the headrest behind him and pulled out a disposable mouthpiece, clamping it between his jaws. No sense in coming this far and being sent back because his tongue was writhing on the floor. What a pretty sight that would be.

The bird struggled to lift its weight into the air. Slow but steady the vehicle rose, and finally was airborne. The world tilted insanely as the hybrid dipped forward, angling the rotor blades to get maximum thrust. Tom had no idea where they were in relation to Facility 2, and he had to resist the urge to vomit.

West quietly cursed next to him. He really didn't like flying.

Tom shared his sentiment, but kept his opinions to himself. No need to challenge his men's confidence. But then again, if you were confident it generally meant that you were ignorant, that there was something you didn't know. Tom hoped this was not the case.

Tom activated his mission clock timer, as well as the helmet cam just to one side of his cranium. Now his commanding officers would be able to see live, high pixel imaging if he screwed this up. Cheery. Peachy. Just great.

Tom mentally shook himself. No use thinking about it. Just complete the mission.

The trip from Facility 2 to Tom's pre-chosen site took about half an hour. The pilot's voice rang over the intercom of the Osprey.

"Ground site located. Multiple heat sigs. You're goin' in hot!" All of the seats were technically window seats, but Tom had an abnormally unobstructed view. He could see small tanish tents dotting the area below them. Iraqis.

Looking just to the South of the Iraqi tents, Tom saw a series of wooden stakes driven into the ground. Inside were more wooden stakes with tethers attached to them. Attached to the tethers were, of course, Raptors. Perfect. Now not only would they have to contend with men and guns, but dinosaurs!

An unknown bloodlust rose in Tom's throat. Why did he feel that? Like he wanted to fight. His vision flashed, and suddenly he was looking at the scene in a completely new light. Those men were prey. Prey to be killed. Tom thought, I can't wait to get my grimy claws on those m-

Did I just say claws? Grimy claws? Tom mentally shook himself for the second time. When he looked back, he saw normally again, and the men were no longer prey to him. He fought down the disturbing want for blood. What was wrong with him?

The gunners opened fire on the campsite. Lines of dust kicked up, stitching goodly sized holes in the tents, scattering those in the open. Missiles fired off of two weapon pylons on either side of the bay doors. The vapor trails left curly patterns in their wake. More bullets from the chain gun, then the doors opened. Tom and the other 25 men stood as one. Two coils of rappel lines sat hunched by each door. Three more sat by the back of the craft, whose bay door was also sliding open. The first men in line made sure the binds clipping the lines to the roof of the hybrid were secure, and kicked the coils of roping over the side. They attached clips from the lines to their belts, and jumped over the side. The next men in line grabbed the lines, clipped on, and followed their teammates out the door and down to the fight below.

Tom was in the fifth wave of drops, also the last one. Not even all of the lines were being used. Tom grabbed one in the back of the craft and flung himself over the edge.

He had a moment to think, This is insane, and then plummeted down the line, right on the heels of the man below him. Figuratively speaking. Literally, he was actually just above the man's helmet.

West was right beside him, descending the line as fast as safety would allow. Of course, nothing was safe in the middle of a war zone with murderous crazies shooting at you.

Tom hit the ground. Hard. His knees buckled from the impact, and he struggled to unclip himself from the behemoth hovering above him.

His trembling fingers finally found the release, and he yanked it, then scrambled for cover.

As soon as the last man was off the lines, the Osprey rose a little higher in the air and circled the enormous clearing, filling the space with lead. Tom's men skirted the perimeter, hanging in the jungle, waiting for the Osprey to give the go. Tom looked up just in time to see the second V-22 for their division race in, a fresh stock of missiles ready to fire. Tom ordered a group of men to suppress an MG nest that could cause havoc on the descending troops, then directed another team to flank and eliminate it. There was a certain thrill to seeing his orders carried out and succeeding. Tom found himself directly in the sights of a sniper.

He dove to one side, just as a .303 cal Dregunov bullet raised a cloud of dust where he had been only a moment ago.

Mitchell dropped from the shadows like a determined wraith. His assault rifle was raised. He pulled the trigger. One shot.

The sniper rose half a foot in the air and collapsed against the trunk of a large palm tree. Tom half expected a coconut to fall on the man's head, just like in the cartoons. Tom muttered a thanks, and Mitchell may or may not have heard him. It didn't matter. Tom dashed off to the next flanking position. More of the soldiers were ground side now, overrunning the defenses of the Iraqi camp.

Tom directed a group to secure the entrance to the Raptor enclosure. The wood was sturdy and strong, and the opening was blocked by cross pieces of some indigenous tree. He directed another team to get a roadblock on it, preferably a stolen jeep or tank from the enemy motor pool, and ordered yet another team to cover them.

Tom spied a man running for an abandoned MG mounted to a sandbag barricade. He dropped the runner with a quick burst from his assault rifle.

Tom glanced to his right and saw an Iraqi soldier appear out of the shrubbery, a knife in his hand. But he wasn't jumping for Tom.

The Iraqi fell on an American soldier, knife jutting down towards the man's chest. Tom watched as the man was driven to the ground, clutching at the knife dangling above his torso, fighting the Iraqi for control over the blade.

Tom would have shot the Iraqi dead, but they were rolling around so that Tom was liable to shoot his own man if he tried. Furthermore, another Iraqi emptied the clip from his Kalashnikov at Tom. The bullets spread all over the place, as rate of fire was prized over accuracy in his weapon, but Tom felt a bullet nick his shoulder and one drive into his thigh. Neither bullet penetrated his armor, but they both created bruises the size of figs, and Tom was knocked to the ground.

Desperately Tom pulled at his MP7 sidearm, and then suddenly his grasping fingers hit the hardened plastic stock. He wrenched the gun from its holster and sprayed accurate three-round bursts at anyone who came too close.

Tom looked over. The Iraqi with the knife was on the ground, and the Angel soldier had planted his foot on the man's torso, pinning him. In his hands he cradled his assault rifle, firing single shots at targets who presented themselves.

Another Angel soldier rushed up to the pinned Iraqi and put his hand on the Iraqi's head. Next thing Tom knew, the Iraqi had collapsed, head tumbling to the ground. The Angel soldiers stepped off, and ran for cover as their previous location was sprayed with machine gun fire.

Tom twisted to his knees, fumbling with the magazine catch for his MP7. The clip dropped, and Tom inserted a new 40-round box and pulled the firing pin.

West was beside him, fighting hand-to-hand with a group of Atlantians. Not a good prospect as the Atlantians had been raised fighting close combat, and ultimately they were slightly better at it than West.

West blocked a slash from a sword with the stock of his assault rifle, and kicked out with his steel-toed combat boot, catching the Atlantian between the legs. The Atlantian crumpled, and his buddy came up and jabbed his spear over the fallen comrade.

West swayed backward, attempting to avoid the lethal blow, but was only partially successful. The shaft drove through his Kevlar combat armor and lodged in his chest. West apparently didn't even register it and brought his rifle around, cracking the stick like a twig. The Atlantian jerked in surprise, and Tom raised his MP-7 and fired a three round burst. The bullet spread landed one in his neck, one in his jaw, and one in his temple. The Atlantian collapsed from three consecutive lethal shots.

West was okay, assuring Tom that it was just a flesh wound and caused him no pain. The spear had indeed barely penetrated the hardened inner battle armor, and Tom didn't pursue the matter.

Then he felt it again. The lust. The lust.

His vision flashed again, and his claws flew out of his skin without him even prompting them. He wasn't in control. Something else was, something animal. Not human.

He flew forward, running at thirty miles an hour.

There were few prey left. Only about ten or fifteen. He reached out, his claws grasping for a throat that was not his own...

A high keening noise erupted from the helicopter, driving Tom to the ground. The noise was unbearable.

Strangely, Tom looked around and no one else seemed to be effected by the noise. West was kneeling beside him, worry written all over his face...

Strangled cries came from the Raptor enclosure. Apparently only they could hear it. And Tom.

West pulled one of Tom's arms around his shoulder, half lifting, half dragging Tom to the cover of the jungle. Another soldier rushed to his fallen commander, grabbing Tom's other arm. Tom could do nothing but writhe between the arms of the two men. That probably wasn't making it any easier for them. Mitchell glanced at Tom. If Tom was out of action, then Mitchell was next in command. However, if Tom miraculously revived, he would lose that command, and he wasn't sure where he stood command wise.

Tom attempted to tell Mitchell that he had to take over, lead the squads, but all his arms managed to do was flop around, and his voice wouldn't rise.

Tom gasped and wroth, unable to do anything but wait...

...and wait...

...He was vaguely aware of West and the other soldier setting him down gently behind an enormous tree...

...the soldier got back up and rejoined the fight, leaving West to watch over Tom...

Blackness was all around him, the pain seeping through his brain and driving out all thought. Tom struggled to...

And then he lost consciousness.

Tom awoke three hours later inside a medical bay. No, that couldn't be right. The last thing he remembered was the pain. How did he get here? Where was here?

He was laying on a pristine white hospital bed. An anti-septic smell was in the air, lingering over the other five hospital beds, most of which were empty. One other bed was occupied, and a med bot was hanging over him.

Tom looked up to see West dozing on a chair right at the foot of his bed. His gaze seemed to wake him up, and West jinked towards the ceiling.

"You're awake now." It was more a statement than a question, as West already knew the answer to his question.

Tom groggily sat up. His head ached as if he had just been hit by a train.

"Unnhh, my head." Tom moaned. "What happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure." West answered simply. "The landing was going fine. We routed them, as a matter of fact. In mid-battle you just kinda... well... Dr. Stephens is on the line. He'll be able to explain it. I hope."

Tom slung his legs over the edge of the bed. Everything seemed to be in working order, except for his head...

It came rushing in a blast of memory.

The sound. That awful sound, the high pitched whine.

West helped Tom over to a stool, and fit a headset around his cranium.

"Tom?" Dr. Stephens' familiar voice rang out loud and clear over the headset. Tom activated the eye-piece, and his round face filled the screen, eyes full of concern.

"Doctor." Tom stated.

"Yes, Tom. I understand you had a little mix up..."

"Yeah. I don't know what happened. One minute I was fighting for my life, the next I was rolling in the mud. Explain."

"Can you give me a little more detail than 'rolling in the mud'? I wasn't actually there, you know."

"Here, how about if I send you the feed from my helmet cam." Tom answered, reaching up to where his helmet camera would usually be on the non-existent helmet he was wearing.

West quickly ran into the next room and returned with a battle-scarred greenish olive helmet. He handed it to Tom.

"Thanks West. Now, hang on a sec, and I'll send it to you."

Tom took the helmet and fit it over his head. West tried to keep from snickering. The helmet looked strangely out of place with Tom's hospital gown he was wearing.

Tom transfered the call from the headset to the built in comm system in his helmet.

"Hey, Doc. Putting it through... now." Tom uploaded the video from his helmet camera to the eyepiece on Dr. Stephens' laptop.

"Thank you, Tom. Alright, beginning, helicopter ride... hmm,... Ah! Here we are, landing... fighting, great tactical analysis by the way, Tom. Oh, here we are. Good god, what on Earth are you doing, Tom? The camera is going crazy... Hmm. Okay, didn't get much. Just saw you rolling around. Did you see anything? Oh, how about did you hear anything?"

"Yeah, couldn't you hear it over the audio feed? Or was the audio not working?"

"No, the audio was working fine, Tom, but I didn't hear anything."

"Come on, you must've heard that sound. It's not very easy to forget." Tom continued

"Tom, there was no sound. Just gunfire and explosions."

"Then explain me rolling in the dirt." Tom huffed.

"I'm not sure what happened. According to you, you hear a sound mid-battle and start rolling on the ground. Apparently, nothing else hears it. And the sound signal thing just erupted out of the blue, I suppose?"

Something lit up in West's eyes. "Permission to speak, sir."

"Granted." Tom and Dr. Stephens said in unison.

"I don't know if it means anything sir, but about the time Tom started, uhh, hearing the sound, the pilot hit the repel signal on the Osprey. I think, I'm not sure, but I think the repel signal sends out a wave of sound, but humans can't hear it because the frequency is too high. It certainly gets rid of Dinos, though."

"Of course!" Dr. Stephens exclaimed. "Tom, your treatment must have affected your hearing as well! Wow, if only I could run some tests on y-"

"Yes, if only, but I'm here, now, and I need to be out there, fighting!" Tom interrupted. "We don't have time to do any research on this! Just tell me what I need to know and let's be done with it." Sometimes Dr. Stephens was a little too pacifist in nature and forgot all about the world war going on under his nose.

"Of course, sorry. Simply put, the Dino-repellent signal that the transport put out also now affects you, Tom, because of your treatment. Effectively, this means that we can't use the signals around you."

"Oh, is that all?" Tom grunted. Losing one of their secret weapons because of him wasn't exactly his greatest achievement.

"Alright. Sorry to bother you. I'll be in touch if you need it. I'm just a call away." Dr. Stephens said.

"Thank you doctor." West said.

Tom closed the connection.

"So, where am I?" He asked.

"Hospital bay in camp." West answered.

"We've already gotten camp set up? How long was I out then?"

"About twenty hours. Your lucky, we just finished setting everything up. You don't have to help at all." West chuckled.

"Yeah yeah. Okay, wise guy, lets see what damage you've caused."

"Oh no, not me. Sargent Mitchell did all the ordering."

"Good. Now, help me outside." Tom groaned, fighting against a fresh wave of pain from his head.

Tom shuffled out into the bright sunlight.

His first thought was how much it reminded him of an anthill, so busy and purposeful. Everyone knew where to go, what to do. Forty nine men, with West at his side, all milling about and striding powerfully towards their destinations.

A soldier came up. FOF displayed him as Don Palsey.

"Sir, our defenses have been set up according to plan. Support came in with more CGT's, an' now we've got a defensive perimeter set up. Eight posts. More men are digging trenches in front of them. V-22's came in and delivered a couple more Armpits, as well as a collection of five Stryker tanks. Sam- er... Mitchell ordered Armpits patrol pairs to patrol a perimeter. As you saw, our Iraqi friends kindly set up a holding pen for their beasts. Mitchell graciously accepted their offering, and now we are capturing any sentient beings that stumble onto or around camp. Mitchell called F2 for a techy to come and collect them. We just got word from Kenderson's division. They've set up fine, although they didn't get to route any 'raqis. He sends word that Dayne's and Ottoman's divisions are good as well. Now we're on standby for an alert signal. The UCAVs are flying overhead. Everything checks out." He filled Tom in.

At another time, Tom might have thought about the slang his soldiers used. He would of thought something like, Military recruits and their slang. "CGT's" for Collapsable Guard Towers. "Armpits "for the highly revered ARMPS assault reconnaissance mobile attack platform. And he referred to dangerous and intelligent prehistoric animals that could rip him apart as beasts.

But Tom didn't care at all about the slang. It was a way to deal with the stress and pressure of warfare. And if only Tom had known what was to come, he never would have even thought about it, much less blamed anybody for improper English.

"Very good. Carry on." Tom nodded. Don passed by without a second glance. It must have been strange, reporting to an eighteen year old. A very deadly, lethal, dangerous and strong eighteen year old, but a teen none the less.

"Lets just hope nothing comes our way for a while." Tom muttered to himself. The logical part of his brain told him that was unlikely. The optimistic part of his brain told him to stay positive, anything could happen. Then his conscious self told him yeah right. Maybe thats why a whole bunch of famous military strategists and plotters were pessimists. It was more practical.

Optimism is over rated. He had heard that once. Where from? Someone had told him to face reality head on. It would keep him alive. Probably the most important statement he had ever heard, as it turned out. Head on. Thats exactly how the events hit him. Head on.

Atlantis: chapter 10