Crimson America
05-05-2004, 11:57
The man sat quietly at the dinner table, sipping a cup of coffe darker than the night sky. It was four a.m., and he was tired. But, he had a shipment to get through, and planned on completting it. After all, he was getting well over ten grand for the fish. He looked out at his Dauphin bobbing up and down in the watters.
He wasn't facing the window when the sound of a heavy radial could be heard comming in. The airport was rather empty, and all the inhabitants of the small city slept. It was one of the few cities in the nation of Hollywood that was quiet this early. "Constable," the man at the table said, without looking at the plane rumbling down teh runway to an empty spot.
The woman behind the counter looked up, and then pulled out a $20 bill, and placed it infront of the man. "How do you do that?"
"When you spend as much time in the air as I do, you learn to tell planes apart just by their sound." The waitress nodded. Two officers, wearing police uniforms matching those of the Federal Officers Militia, out of Columbia, enterd the dinner, and each orderd a cup of the coffee.
"What brings you boys all the way out here," the waitress asked, looking at the men as she poured the cups of coffee.
"Prisoner Transport. Were bringing in a big one. Trial is gonna be held in Arixo, thats where he started. Coolidge is gonna be there, wants to see the trial himself."
"What he do?" the other pilot asked, not looking up from his coffee.
"Bootlegging. Violated God knows how many laws."
"Yeah, but shoulnd't it be up to Arixo what happens, I mean, you Columbia guys are trying to extend everywhere."
One of the officers looked at him, and shrugged it off. He wasn't gonna start a fight over it. After all, if no other nations would uphold the laws, then why not let Columbia take care of it. There was another loud rumbling outside, that soon disapeard into the night. "Brigand," the pilot said. Another $20.
"Its just Mike, the fuel pump guy. Going home for the night," the waitress said. The two officers finished their coffee, boarded their Constable, and took off into the night.
_____
Brett Santos wiped the sleep and tired out of his eyes. He had been up for about 20 hours now, flying into Arixo. He had had the Brigand he stole painted in ISA colors, and he now fought off the sleep depreivation of being stuffed in the cargo hold of a Constable. The corpse that had taken his place wouldn't mind.
The Brigand, with its large 20mm cannons and twin rocket pods, was one of the ultimate zeplin destroyers. It was heavily armored, and the twin rear firing 20mm cannons offered a deadly defence to anyone who tried to attack from behind.
He had loaded the two outer cannons on the wing with AP rounds, and the two inner cannons with magneisum rounds. He pushed the throttle forward as the five zeplins of Coolidge's entourage came into view. It was early morning, and he knew Coolidge would just be waking up. It came with the territory of once being the chief of his secret service detail.
He manuvered the Brigand past the other Zeplins, thier turret gunners probablly just as tired as he was, and lined up on the Presidential Zep. He pushed the throttle forward to its stops, and, when the crosshairs settled on the upper tower of teh zeplin, where the President's personel quarters were, he squeezed the trigger, and let the AP and MG rounds carress the air. He banked, not taking his finger off the trigger, and ran the rounds down the top of the Zeplin.
The AP rounds simply ripped holes into teh large airship, but the MG rounds ignited the fuel stores for the engines. A shockwave ripped through the zeplin, followed by an explosion that knocked out a near by escort zeplin. All the gunners saw was the ISA Briggand disapear out of sight as it dove towards the ground. With the President and Vice President both dead, there would soon be hell to pay.
He wasn't facing the window when the sound of a heavy radial could be heard comming in. The airport was rather empty, and all the inhabitants of the small city slept. It was one of the few cities in the nation of Hollywood that was quiet this early. "Constable," the man at the table said, without looking at the plane rumbling down teh runway to an empty spot.
The woman behind the counter looked up, and then pulled out a $20 bill, and placed it infront of the man. "How do you do that?"
"When you spend as much time in the air as I do, you learn to tell planes apart just by their sound." The waitress nodded. Two officers, wearing police uniforms matching those of the Federal Officers Militia, out of Columbia, enterd the dinner, and each orderd a cup of the coffee.
"What brings you boys all the way out here," the waitress asked, looking at the men as she poured the cups of coffee.
"Prisoner Transport. Were bringing in a big one. Trial is gonna be held in Arixo, thats where he started. Coolidge is gonna be there, wants to see the trial himself."
"What he do?" the other pilot asked, not looking up from his coffee.
"Bootlegging. Violated God knows how many laws."
"Yeah, but shoulnd't it be up to Arixo what happens, I mean, you Columbia guys are trying to extend everywhere."
One of the officers looked at him, and shrugged it off. He wasn't gonna start a fight over it. After all, if no other nations would uphold the laws, then why not let Columbia take care of it. There was another loud rumbling outside, that soon disapeard into the night. "Brigand," the pilot said. Another $20.
"Its just Mike, the fuel pump guy. Going home for the night," the waitress said. The two officers finished their coffee, boarded their Constable, and took off into the night.
_____
Brett Santos wiped the sleep and tired out of his eyes. He had been up for about 20 hours now, flying into Arixo. He had had the Brigand he stole painted in ISA colors, and he now fought off the sleep depreivation of being stuffed in the cargo hold of a Constable. The corpse that had taken his place wouldn't mind.
The Brigand, with its large 20mm cannons and twin rocket pods, was one of the ultimate zeplin destroyers. It was heavily armored, and the twin rear firing 20mm cannons offered a deadly defence to anyone who tried to attack from behind.
He had loaded the two outer cannons on the wing with AP rounds, and the two inner cannons with magneisum rounds. He pushed the throttle forward as the five zeplins of Coolidge's entourage came into view. It was early morning, and he knew Coolidge would just be waking up. It came with the territory of once being the chief of his secret service detail.
He manuvered the Brigand past the other Zeplins, thier turret gunners probablly just as tired as he was, and lined up on the Presidential Zep. He pushed the throttle forward to its stops, and, when the crosshairs settled on the upper tower of teh zeplin, where the President's personel quarters were, he squeezed the trigger, and let the AP and MG rounds carress the air. He banked, not taking his finger off the trigger, and ran the rounds down the top of the Zeplin.
The AP rounds simply ripped holes into teh large airship, but the MG rounds ignited the fuel stores for the engines. A shockwave ripped through the zeplin, followed by an explosion that knocked out a near by escort zeplin. All the gunners saw was the ISA Briggand disapear out of sight as it dove towards the ground. With the President and Vice President both dead, there would soon be hell to pay.