Lesser Scythia
13-04-2005, 00:27
The Baraeyn-Arehiah Audubon Express Tunnel wired its way through the Irish lowlands, emptying the thousands of vehicles into the industrial capital of Ireland. The canal that trailed behind it was full of commercial shipping vehicles and government couriers.
The smaller black limo sped down the tunnel, the passing lights creating a strobe effect against its shiny finish. The vehicle shifted gears, switching to the passing lane. The right turn for Cape Jtrahn whizzed by, and it was gone. Twenty more minutes going 150 kmh and it would be pulling into Port Areh.
The sprawling, efficient airport sprouted terminals from a long oval centerpoint. Narrow strips of concrete spiderwebbed away from each bough. No less than six control towers monitored the mass of the only Irish international airport.
The two northermost terminals were IRAF property, trespassing strictly prohibited. There was even a tall wire fence running down the territory that split government and public section. The enormous cargo planes running trade missions with Scotland and Whales had 12 hangars to themselves, nose section risen in the un/loading stance.
Another long strip revealed the two helicopters used by the Government, and another that showed the perfect organization of the Irish jets. Several mid-sized private planes circled above, waiting for military clearance. Slowly, one by one, the planes cleared and landed smoothly, parking in the main courtyard between the two IRAF terminals.
Quickly, the black limo raced out from one of the smaller hangars. Two patrol vehicles drove out with it, bulletproof tires thudding heavily on the concrete.
Instantly, two of the combat helicopters rose in the distance and flew towards the small congregation of military vehicles.
A brief pause, before:
Hundreds of missiles screamed from the old russian designs. The limo twisted into black carnage, the patrol cars exploding on impact. One of the planes throttled the controls away from the choppers, but two missiles connected with the tail of the Boeing. A tall, angry cloud of orange rose into the air.
After finishing the other three craft, the rogue helicopters rose and fled. The long wail of an air raid turned on in the international airport. Three minutes two late.
The smaller black limo sped down the tunnel, the passing lights creating a strobe effect against its shiny finish. The vehicle shifted gears, switching to the passing lane. The right turn for Cape Jtrahn whizzed by, and it was gone. Twenty more minutes going 150 kmh and it would be pulling into Port Areh.
The sprawling, efficient airport sprouted terminals from a long oval centerpoint. Narrow strips of concrete spiderwebbed away from each bough. No less than six control towers monitored the mass of the only Irish international airport.
The two northermost terminals were IRAF property, trespassing strictly prohibited. There was even a tall wire fence running down the territory that split government and public section. The enormous cargo planes running trade missions with Scotland and Whales had 12 hangars to themselves, nose section risen in the un/loading stance.
Another long strip revealed the two helicopters used by the Government, and another that showed the perfect organization of the Irish jets. Several mid-sized private planes circled above, waiting for military clearance. Slowly, one by one, the planes cleared and landed smoothly, parking in the main courtyard between the two IRAF terminals.
Quickly, the black limo raced out from one of the smaller hangars. Two patrol vehicles drove out with it, bulletproof tires thudding heavily on the concrete.
Instantly, two of the combat helicopters rose in the distance and flew towards the small congregation of military vehicles.
A brief pause, before:
Hundreds of missiles screamed from the old russian designs. The limo twisted into black carnage, the patrol cars exploding on impact. One of the planes throttled the controls away from the choppers, but two missiles connected with the tail of the Boeing. A tall, angry cloud of orange rose into the air.
After finishing the other three craft, the rogue helicopters rose and fled. The long wail of an air raid turned on in the international airport. Three minutes two late.