But, despite command either thinking very similar thoughs, or developing mind reading powers, they've got a point, and they've got the equipment. Brian stows the phone in his pocket, and gets up to go talk to the pilot. Making the necessary arraingements, he walks back though the jet, grabbing his gear bag and sorting through it, he sorts out what he does, and does not need, erring on the side of less equipment.
MP5, sidearm...ammunition, knife...civilian cloths, phone, expensive and useful sunglasses, survival kit...good enough for now.
Satisfied, he approaches the rest of the team and informs them of the updated plan, promising to try and stay in contact and have at least a stable idea of the situation before they arrive. Moving back up to the flight deck, he gets to copilot to join him in the cargo bay to help him get into the HALO rig itself and load his gear into the one useful pouch, SMG strapped to the outside. Satisfied, and having double checked his parachute, he dons the helmet and oxygen mask, and gives the copilot the thumbs up. Alone for a minute, Brian has time to check everything over again in his mind before the cargo bay opens, the Russian landscape sprawled out below him. The temperature drops instantly, and he's grateful for the multiple layers of insulation he's wearing.
He flicks the radio on, connecting him once more with the cockpit.
"This is Osprey. I'm on my way out the door. Have a nice flight."
Brian jumps out with the world quickly passing by at terminal velocity. The urban sprawl and industry of Krasnoyarsk comes into view as he descends through a layer of clouds. Checking his O2 supply and altimeter, an unexpected updraft throws the Brit into a perilous spin.
Up is down, down is up.
Remember your training, Marine.
Brian blocks out the nausea, vertigo, and associated disorientation adjusting his pitch with a complex set of arm and leg motions. He flattens out and checks his altimeter
(in feet)
6000...5800...5600...
Eyes on his altimeter and his free hand jockeying for his ripcord, Brian waits until the last possible moment then yanks it.
The chute opens with no problem, slowing Brian's descent towards a pre-determined dropsite in a snowy clearing just outside of the city.
Brian grunts a bit on landing, wishing he wasn't quite so out of practice.
Alright then...first step, hide the chute...
Wrapping his helmet and chute into a bundle, and hefting the mostly spent oxygen tank over his shoulder, he makes his way to the edge of the clearing, depositing the entire lot under a fallen tree. Not good enough to withstand a determined search he knows, but enough that hopefully they won't be found until he's somewhere much warmer and less hostile. Drawing his knife, he also cuts enough insulation out of his parka that he won't overheat...HALO gear is a little *too* robust for the weather outside, and ditches the pants entirely, changing to the pair of civvie jeans he brought with him for the occasion, tugging them over the tops of his boots to disguise the fact that - yes, those are jump boots officer, why do you ask?
Finding some properly dirty snow, Brian muddies up the jacket enough that it looks well worn, and slings his MP5 and sidearm before putting on the jacket. Heading toward town, pocketing his glasses and drawing up his hood, Brian readies his best confused, drunk Russian impression until he can find some place to stay, and get some idea of what the hell is going on...and what happened to Jess?
Assuming the part of your average destitute Russian, Brian marches towards the outskirts of the Krasnoyarsk. The soft snow under foot produces a soothing yet eerie sound of nothingness which is overshadowed by the vibration of Brian's SATCOMM.
[color=blue:b37227beb9]
From: Nightengale
To: Osprey
Re: Lost Hummingbird
Osprey. Agency intelligence picked up a series of encrypted FSB messages bouncing between Krasnoyarsk and Moscow. Details are still being decyphered, but we have confirmation that a person matching Hummingbird's description was last seen during a raid on an apartment building in downtown Krasnoyarsk.
*Somewhere parked off the highway just outside of Krasnoyarsk city limits.*
Shivering in the salt-rusted cab of a 30-year-old Volga, Agent Robert "Owl" Moten stares down at the bluish screen of his SATCOMM with the latest intel report from Basement HQ.
[color=blue:bae3bc4138]
From: *Classified*
To: Owl
Re: Lost Hummingbird
Owl. Agency intelligence picked up a series of encrypted FSB messages bouncing between Krasnoyarsk and Moscow. Details are still being decyphered, but we have confirmation that a person matching Hummingbird's description was last seen during a raid on an apartment building in downtown Krasnoyarsk.
Proceed immediately to:
55.99 92.79 210.00
*Adendum*
Be advised. There is an ongoing, authorized rescue mission running concurrently with your own investigation. Avoid hostile contact with other agents. Cooperate if necessary. [/color]
I really don't like Siberia, Carla thinks as she sits in the Gulfstream. Brian jumped ship (or more precisely, plane) maybe 20 minutes ago, leaving her with Ayumi and Artis and eventually whatever strange bird "Pelican" turns out to be. The mention of FSB slightly worried her. In her previous missions the local domestic security aparati were either friendly(England), incompetant(Italy), or just didn't give a fuck (Latin America). This is the first time she'll have to worry about being actively hunted, if this hummingbird's song falls out of tune, that is.
They better've gotten what I asked for. If I'm going to be hunted, I want to have a damn RPG.
Brian gets a bearing on where those coordinates actually are, and does his best to speed up his pace without actually running, trying to map out the various ideas in his head, finding the appealing ones.
Trading fire with the FSB isn't among them, but hopefully he can find Jess before they can and get her the out before that's a problem. Of course, it may also just come down to a hail of bullets, but he'd really, really like to avoid that. Walking through the streets of the city, Brian grows more alert.
Cars and freightvans rush by as Brian approaches the city proper. The stench of heavy industry and diesel hangs in the air.
It's like I'm back in Birmingham...
Ducking down a sidestreet to check his position against the coordinates, Brian takes a reading.
Two km north-northwest.
Quickly stashing his SATCOMM in his pocket, he hoofs it towards the recon area.
----
Inside his Volga
(insert appropriate Russian sex joke)
Agent Moten drives toward the blip on his SATCOMM, getting stuck in evening traffic while doing so. The aged Volga begins to stall with its wiper blades barely making a dent in the snow which starts to accumulate on his hood and windshield.
----
On final approach, somewhere near Novosibirsk.
Team Artis looks out their windows with a large degree on trepidation as a squall throws them about like ice in a martini shaker. Jack comes over the intercom.
Folks. We're going to be passing through some serious turbulence over the next few minutes. You better buckle up. Goose, I might need a hand up here on the controls.
On the ground below and idling in his rig near the tarmac is Agent Pelican. Through the double-pane glass of his cab he can see a crew tending to the short landing strip with a couple of snowplows.
Peter stares out at the tarmac with professional disinterest. One could expect that a gearhead like him likes to watch heavy machinery, but a couple of snow plows is far too mundane for him. After all, he's driving around a truck designed to be a mobile Q-Branch. The thought that he has enough guns in the back to equip a few dozen mercenaries and make a credible attempt at conquering the nearest Russian army base amuses him for a second; finally, he opens the laptop on the seat next to him and starts the DVD Player software.
Join us now as Jessie and his gang of maverick mechanics rip, grind and burn, transforming ordinary street vehicles into monster machines in the...
Peter halts the playback as he sees a jet pierce the clouds and descend for a landing.
Brian turns a corner, orienting himself in the right direction as he continues to work his way through the city. Fortunately - just like in Birmingham - for the most part the citizens of this um...fair city...don't really care much about anyone else. It's too cold and dirty to notice much, so Brian keeps his eyes open for anyone taking a little too much interest in his impression of an impoverished Russian, or indeed anyone whose stance and posture indicates that they may be predisposed towards getting in his way.
Just a little farther...although he begins to wonder just where this set of Agency coordinates is taking him.
Brian meanders through a series of left and right turns, passing by the city's main square once, no....twice! The SATCOMM GPS system must be getting a bit wonky under the extreme cold and stormy conditions.
Arriving at the designated coordinates, he looks up at an enclave of enormous Stalin-era apartment buildings. It's anyone's guess which one the map is pointing towards, but Brian's pretty sure the only one with blown-out windows in the dead of Winter is a good place to start.
Artis climbs into the cockpit, looking out the windscreen and sees white-out conditions.
"I haven't seen it this bad since I was in Alaska." says Jack while handing Goose a headset.
The plane hits a crosswind, shaking the fusilage violent as warning lights and klaxons illuminate the Gulfstream's flight panel in a cacophony of mechanical panic.
Goose. I'll need you to monitor the ground radar and altimeter. We'll be taking this bird in blind.
Artis looks at the gauges, spotting a considerable drop in hydraulic and oil pressures on engine number two. Moments later, it fizzles out. The Gulfstream's nose falls abruptly with the altimeter following course.
Artis dives into the maintence panels around the cockpit, grabbing a knife, toolbox, keys, hairpins, anything to fix whatever just broke. "Oh, not this time, you rotten piece of yuppie shit!" He finishes it off by giving the offending item a whack out of frustration.
(Trying Mechanics check - if that fails, I'm using my Kick Start ability to make it not fail)
Pulling off the avionics panel cover, Goose goes to work on the engine's electronics system. The wiring looks fused to the circuitboard with brown smoke begins seeping into the cockpit. Not having the proper tools to service the damage, Goose quickly decides to go with Plan-B....kick it.
Giving the panel a swift bootheel to its processors, the blinking lights promptly revert back to normal status. The Gulfstream's failed engine comes back to life with its nose pitching up, just in time to pass through the last bank of clouds.
Sitting back down, Artis finally sees what looks like a haphazardly constructed runway about five miles ahead. Jack drops the plane's flaps and activates its landing gear.
Folks. This is your captain. We're coming in fast. Please stow all traytables and bring your seats to their full upright positions. This isn't going to be pretty.
From the comfy interior of his truckcab, Pelican can see the Gulfstream's landing lights off in the distance.
Peter watches the learjet touch down in what appears to be a slightly unconventional approach, then throws a vintage East German NVA winter coat over his suit and grabs his "life insurance" gun case. Jumping out of the truck, he makes due haste towards the landing strip.
I can still taste the cash I'd earn as freelancer, and they send me away from Fractal Intelligence to work with the mavericks. Sometimes I really wonder why I haven't jumped ship yet...
The Gulfstream lands, skidding and bouncing over the first hundred feet of runway. Going heavy on the brakes and full reverse-thrust tames the bird as it comes to a stop just short of the treeline.
(while taxi-ing towards Pelican's position)
Thank you for flying Dalton Air. We hope it's your next choice in covert, fly-by-night travel. It is 17:25 local time and the outside temperature is a balmy minus fifteen Fahrenheit. On behalf of the Captain and crew, have a pleasant stay in scenic Siberia. Don't eat the yellow snow.
The plane idles up to within 20m of Pelican's position, coming to a full stop and killing its outer lighting.
Seeing the man enter the block and look at the apartment building, Yuri speaks softly into his radio, which then disappears into a pocket. "<It seems we have landed us a fish. Be ready.>"
As Brian looks around for watchers, a man ambles out of a shadow across the street from the entrance to his destination.
"<Evening, comrade,>" he says in native Russian. "<Could you spare a light?>"
As he moves closer, Brian gets a good look at him. The man appears to be pushing 50, but seems to be in good shape. A long, black overcoat hides most of his clothes, but his shoes are black, leather and well-worn. His face is unremarkable, but there is both intelligence and cunning in his eyes. He runs a hand through his receding, dark-blonde hair, as the other holds an unlit cigarette.
CrazyIvan
