The Rift
"What'd you think of that speech?"
It was about an hour after the applause following Calvin's speech had finally died off; he was walking through the long, rolling plains with Mike, Angela, and six other men. Angela and these latter six, along with Calvin, composed the SIS (Stealth Infiltration Squad). Usually, the other fifty or so soldiers didn't have to do any actual fighting, but they had been summoned twice so far.
"Could've been a little longer, I think," said Mike. "How long did you talk anyways -- three minutes?"
"Five," said Angela. "I personally like the ones that are short and sweet. You don't really enjoy hearing Calvin's voice that much, do you Mikey?"
Everyone tittered, while Mike blushed a little. It wasn't uncommon for the troops to have these sort of conversations before a mission; they helped to sooth everyone's pre-battle nerves.
Calvin looked thoughtful.
"Well, I don't think I did too bad... Hmm... Maybe I should start preparing for them beforehand."
"Couldn't hurt," said Mike.
"Look, we've got a stormcloud at twelve o' clock," said John, in a passive tone. John was one of the interior scouts of SIS, and he was fantastic at his job. The guy was knowledgable, calm, and he was always on the watch.
They followed the gesture made by his coffee brown hand and saw a dark foggy sphere in the sky -- an absolute garuntee of rain. So far the wind had been steadily picking up, and that was fine -- they could handle the cold -- but rain and lighting could make their job a bit harder.
"Fuck," said Calvin. "Looks like we're going to get a little wet."
"This'll make sneaking fun."
Richie, another member of of SIS, had walked up to them. He had a small grin on his face. With the bags under his eyes, and the springy tufts of orange hair sticking out from the sides of his hood, the effect was to make him look something like either a clown or a child molestor. Richie wasn't a child molestor, but sometimes he did act like a clown. Like John, however, he was indispensible.
Calvin sighed.
"Dimished enemy sight, huh? ...That's about the only advantage it'll grant us."
Angela said what all of them were thinking, but what none of them would say.
"I fucking hate being wet."
Up ahead there were three trucks carrying loaded trailers with green tarpulin tightened around the tops. Mostly underneath were the humanoid bots -- two-legged skeletons programmed to fire automatic weapons (they could walk, too, but only slowly on outside terrain; as they were, if one of them fell over, it was screwed) -- but there were also crates of extra shells, boxes of bulletproof vests and two-way radios, scopes, gas masks, and explosives. Once these trucks reached the checkpoint, the researchers and the soldiers riding in them would set up a makeshift base of sorts, and wait until the rest of the men caught up.
All the foot-soldiers were grouped into packs of five to fifteen -- just like Calvin and his gang. There wasn't really any formal order necessary for this part; they were still five miles or more from the checkpoint.
As they walked, Calvin's thoughts slowly strayed away from the conversation and he began to think about his old family and the upcoming mission. This one would be different from the others; they had a good chance of accomplishing the mission without being detected, but if they did get spotted, the consequences would be tragic.
Maybe he could pull this thing off without any fighting, or more importantly, without any more deaths. He wondered, though. After all, many people had died under his protection before.
It was about an hour after the applause following Calvin's speech had finally died off; he was walking through the long, rolling plains with Mike, Angela, and six other men. Angela and these latter six, along with Calvin, composed the SIS (Stealth Infiltration Squad). Usually, the other fifty or so soldiers didn't have to do any actual fighting, but they had been summoned twice so far.
"Could've been a little longer, I think," said Mike. "How long did you talk anyways -- three minutes?"
"Five," said Angela. "I personally like the ones that are short and sweet. You don't really enjoy hearing Calvin's voice that much, do you Mikey?"
Everyone tittered, while Mike blushed a little. It wasn't uncommon for the troops to have these sort of conversations before a mission; they helped to sooth everyone's pre-battle nerves.
Calvin looked thoughtful.
"Well, I don't think I did too bad... Hmm... Maybe I should start preparing for them beforehand."
"Couldn't hurt," said Mike.
"Look, we've got a stormcloud at twelve o' clock," said John, in a passive tone. John was one of the interior scouts of SIS, and he was fantastic at his job. The guy was knowledgable, calm, and he was always on the watch.
They followed the gesture made by his coffee brown hand and saw a dark foggy sphere in the sky -- an absolute garuntee of rain. So far the wind had been steadily picking up, and that was fine -- they could handle the cold -- but rain and lighting could make their job a bit harder.
"Fuck," said Calvin. "Looks like we're going to get a little wet."
"This'll make sneaking fun."
Richie, another member of of SIS, had walked up to them. He had a small grin on his face. With the bags under his eyes, and the springy tufts of orange hair sticking out from the sides of his hood, the effect was to make him look something like either a clown or a child molestor. Richie wasn't a child molestor, but sometimes he did act like a clown. Like John, however, he was indispensible.
Calvin sighed.
"Dimished enemy sight, huh? ...That's about the only advantage it'll grant us."
Angela said what all of them were thinking, but what none of them would say.
"I fucking hate being wet."
Up ahead there were three trucks carrying loaded trailers with green tarpulin tightened around the tops. Mostly underneath were the humanoid bots -- two-legged skeletons programmed to fire automatic weapons (they could walk, too, but only slowly on outside terrain; as they were, if one of them fell over, it was screwed) -- but there were also crates of extra shells, boxes of bulletproof vests and two-way radios, scopes, gas masks, and explosives. Once these trucks reached the checkpoint, the researchers and the soldiers riding in them would set up a makeshift base of sorts, and wait until the rest of the men caught up.
All the foot-soldiers were grouped into packs of five to fifteen -- just like Calvin and his gang. There wasn't really any formal order necessary for this part; they were still five miles or more from the checkpoint.
As they walked, Calvin's thoughts slowly strayed away from the conversation and he began to think about his old family and the upcoming mission. This one would be different from the others; they had a good chance of accomplishing the mission without being detected, but if they did get spotted, the consequences would be tragic.
Maybe he could pull this thing off without any fighting, or more importantly, without any more deaths. He wondered, though. After all, many people had died under his protection before.