NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: A buddy and I wrote an opening to a book. This opening was quite good and destructive for a setup, but we never got around to making the rest. Now, it will still be a book eventually, even if I have to write it myself, but for now, any nation that needs a devastating incident can use this one. Please post any interest (or, Hell, post a critique). Open to any self-destructive Nation. The next post has the scenario itself...

EDIT: To be clear, this is plague outbreak being "contained"...

23:30
State Route 34
Near Burlington, Iowa

“Status?” Captain John T. Fitzpatrick asked quietly into the comm unit microphone hanging inside his hood.

Fitzpatrick stood next to an old Bradley IFV, one hand placed against the refitted Chobham Armor, the other tugging on the black plastic suit that covered his whole body. He was sweating under the heavy level four chemical warfare suit, and he had an itch on his nose. Of all times. He wanted to take off his helmet and itch that stupid spot, but he wouldn't dare.

Fitzpatrick glanced up into the clouded night sky, trying to see the moon and stars from behind the thick clouds. I need a cigarette. He watched the sky for a second longer, hoping for a glint of light, a break from the gloom, a hope of redemption. Fitzpatrick turned to face the Mississippi River, saw the rubble of the destroyed bridge creating swirls of muddy, sickly water in the shallow corpse of a formerly great river. Fish were washing up dead on the banks.

A wavering voice whispered an answer to his query, echoing through his comm unit. “Approximately two hundred vehicles inbound from east side of river. They're coming right at us.”

Fitzpatrick turned to face the soldier next to him. The Sergeant was seated in the back a Humvee, the green glow from his laptop screen reflecting from his transparent plastic hood and leaving his hollow expressing more haunting than before. Fitzpatrick glanced at the satellite feed. The blue dots (his unit) were in a shallow arc, cupping the exit to the highway where the bridge used to stand. A column of red dots was approaching rapidly. Fitzpatrick placed a hand on the noncom's shoulder. “Keep it up.”

All along the river bank, Marines waited. M2 Bradleys and Humvees sat ominously against the dark sky. In the air above, the steady thumping of helicopters mirrored the soldiers' racing pulses. Fitzpatrick climbed into his Humvee and spoke over the comm net.

“Marines, ready.” the words slipped out of his mouth, and he closed his eyes to hide the anguish.

The rotor's thumping became more insistent as the Longbow Apaches and Little Bird helicopters moved into position. The engines on the vehicles revved to life, and the sounds of weapons loading echoed across the silent, dark night. With a series of tiny roars, blue pilot lights ignited on some Marines' weapons, and larger ones on the barrels of old KV-5 tanks.

Fitzpatrick swallowed back some bile. The comm net was filled with the murmurings of the Marines. “God help me... Forgive us... Oh God, Oh God... Please, not this...”

Fitzpatrick interrupted the chatter. “Cut the chatter.” He crossed himself and waited, his hands shaking.

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Daddy? What's wrong?” The family Expedition passed a “Bridge Out” sign.

“Sit down, Sally.” David Rotiller told his daughter softly. “Put your seatbelt back on.”

His wife had the map open. “There's no other way across the -cough- river. We're stuck!”

Rotiller shook his head. “The Miss is low right -cough- now, the drought, you know. We can try to find a shallow -cough- spot or a make-shift bridge...” he cursed himself. He doubted himself, but he had to look out for his family. He may have been old fashioned, but he views that as his job as husband and father. He tugged on his collar and wiped away the sweat.

The air conditioning was on full blast, but everyone was sweating. The baby had stopped crying a while back. Rotiller told himself his son was just asleep, but he didn't want to check into the backseat.

Behind his red SUV, hundreds more trucks, vans, and cars lined up into two columns, their lights painting a glowing star field in the mirrors of his Expedition. He rounded a corner on the highway and faced the destroyed bridge. On the opposite bank, there were lines of blue lights, bobbing and distorting in the night. The bridge wasn't just knocked out, it had been blasted apart.

Rotiller glanced down at the Mississippi. It was shallow enough to drive through. He'd never seen the river this dry. He coughed again, jerking in his seat. He grabbed a Kleenex and held it up as the red mucus lunged flew up from his lungs. He winced in pain as the tearing sensation ripped him inside. His wife looked over, concerned. He shook his head and pushed the accelerator.

“Daddy, what are those lights? What's that noise?” a steady thump filled the air.

Rotiller tried to sound calm. “Nothing, sweety. We're at the Mississippi River. Did the school teach you anything about it?”

“I can spell it! -cough- M-I-S-S-I-S-”

A booming voice echoed across the convoy of civilian vehicles, descending from a loudspeaker in the sky. “This is a restricted area. Return to your homes immediately. We are doing everything we can to help you. Please, turn around, or we will open fire!” Little Sarah tried to ignore the scary voice, furrowing her brow and thinking hard.

“S-I-”

Rotiller slammed glanced into the back of the Expedition. The baby lay in a pool of blood. He narrowed his eyes, glanced at his wife. She nodded nervously, and he slammed down the gas pedal.

“P-”

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fitzpatrick closed his eyes. “Weapons free. Open fire.”

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“P- DAAADY!” the spelling cut into a scream as brilliant klieg lights and headlights flared on across the river. With a series of pops, burning flares lunged into the air, casting their pale light onto the convoy of home vehicles. Three Apaches descended from the sky, over the river.

The ground in front of the SUV exploded as a rocket immolated the roadway. Rotiller spun the wheel to the side, and the Expedition skidded sideways, then lunged down into the river basin. Seconds later, a hellfire missile clipped into the rear of the vehicle. The hellfire was designed to smash tanks, and event the clipping hit was too much for the SUV. The Expedition was shredded into whirling debris and tumbling parts and skipped into the river. The people inside simply vanished into the cloud of fire, shrapnel, and red mist.

//~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three Apaches roared over the column of still moving vehicles, their 30mm chain guns spinning faster than the eye could register, gouts of flame leaping from the barrels. Wherever the pilots looked, the guns turned, the turrets slaved to the pilots helmets. The gunner in the lead chopper pressed a firing stud. Beneath the wings, barrages of 60mm rockets roared free of their pods, leaving rows of burning rubble. Hellfire missiles lunged from their racks, slamming into groups of cars lined up on the killing field.

The first rows of vehicles were torn apart, and the follow ones piled over the first, flipping into the mined river. The Apaches came back around, spewing death and dealing fiery annihilation. Still, the desperate civilians came, trying to ford the dead river. Little Bird helicopters hovered over the banks of the Mississippi, their minigun pods tearing vehicles into chunks of scrap and greasy smears of burning remains.

Fitzpatrick sat in his Humvee as the roar of rockets and the buzzing of guns tore the night apart. Thankfully they his the screams. Maybe they'll turn back. Maybe we won't have to shoot any more. But the vehicles kept coming, though helicopters and mines, bullets and rockets, fleeing the death of the east. The first waves of civilians were coming up the banks on his side. “Fire!” he screamed.

The Grim Reaper swung his scythe across the leading ten vehicles as man-fired LAWs and the Humvee launched TOWs found their targets. The streaks from the missiles blazed across the hundred yards between the bridge and the troops, white-yellow trails begetting red inferno. But the next groups plowed past the burning corpses of men and machines.

The chuck-chuck-chuck of M-240 and Browning .50 caliber machine guns punctuated the night, every fifth shot a red tracer that tore a wound in the black cloth of night. The 25mm cannons on the Bradleys boomed, flashing white with streaks that impaled the approaching convoy. The vehicles died by the dozens, but they kept coming. The Apaches and Little Birds broke away, their weapons depleted, zooming into the night. The civilians kept coming.

Fitzpatrick stood up in his Humvee. “We must stop them! Green light on flame!”

The smoky heavens turned orange with the fire that reflected off of every surface on earth. The tiny blue lights flared into forty foot streams of burning Napalm that scarred the earth and turned the vehicles into human barbecues, cooking the poor souls inside. Hundreds of tongues of orange flame licked out, seeking to just touch the vehicles approaching.

Some did touch, and those vehicles were instantly consumed as their own gas tanks fed their demise. Some of the soldiers were crying in their HAZMAT gear as they saw the faces of those inside the rolling tombs. Still, more vehicles came, a human typhoon against a lethal breakwall.

Behind Fitzpatrick, he heard the deep thrumming roar of the KV-5's powerful compressors. Streams of fire lashed out, over his head, eighty feet long and two feet wide, rushing over the approaching vehicles in tidal waves of flames that splashed Napalm more than five meters from their impact points. All Hell's fury was unleashed in sudden wall of fire, sweeping back and forth across the river plain, five sources of pure inferno. Nothing came through the wall of fire. The KV-5s stopped firing, as did the soldiers, and the unnatural, echoing silence dominated the landscape. The last flare was falling down to the ground, and the carnage stretched into the darkness.

Off in the distance, the whine of jet engines could be heard. Fitzpatrick spoke again. “All Marines, fall back. Fast movers inbound!” The vehicles wheeled about and roared off into the darkness. His command Humvee reversed about twenty meters, then peeled out and spun forward, then followed the other Marines into the darkness. Fitzpatrick picked up his field goggles and watched back at the bridge site, trying to compensate for the bumpy ride.

There was a roar in the distance. With a blast of light, a wall of flame consumed the area, incinerating the remains of the civilians. Fitzpatrick felt the blast and heard the rolling boom almost immediately after. The two A-10s peeled away, their weapon racks empty. One of the pilots looked back and almost threw up. “Area secured and purified. Returning to base.”

Fitzpatrick placed his helmeted head in his hands. He turned to the comm Sergeant. “Contact command. Tell them the mission was accomplished.” He stared back into the oily darkness and the faint orange glow. “God forgive us.”

OOC: Because this is a TRSN post, here's my shameless plug...

The Universal Guide to All Things TRSN

History of the Terran Republic (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=94265&highlight=)
Starships (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=94198&highlight=)
Starship Weaponry (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=94238&highlight=)
Infantry Weapons (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=94229&highlight=)

No takers, then?

As no interest has been expressed, this post will be editted into nothingness at 3 pm tomorrow, barring interest. Thank you for your time.

Very nice... don't know if I'll get involved though...

GET TO SLEEP! :P

Okay, one post of interest gave it a few extra hours. But death is imminent.