NationStates Jolt Archive

TO: Governmental Offices of the Directorate Nation of Kaukolastan

FROM: The Armed Republic of Templa

BODY: After much consideration, we, the Government and People of Templa have decided to ignore your ignoble idea of charging us to pass through your “territorial” waters. The Directorate has overstepped its bounds, and crossed into murky pseudo-legal depths. The construction of new islands and extension of old ones do not establish territorial waters. These have always been open waters, and though, in recent times, we have ceded to your designs out of courtesy, we will no longer tolerate this undo burden. These waters are historically international, and we will not bow to your whims on these matters. Our ships will not tolerate this piratical policy.

With this in mind, the Missionary, a transport carrying religious artifacts as well as Bishop McCormick bound for the Armed Republic of Kirkustan, will steam through and will not stop to be charged on her voyage. We will press through these international waters, and we will not pay these extortion fees. To stop this ship would be piracy in breach of International Maritime Law and an insult to God Himself, and we will trust in your good judgment not to make such a grave error.

Good day! I said good day, sir!

SIGNED: Michael Baker, Minister of Foreign Affairs

STOP.

OOC: A little on the Seabelt, to prevent accusations of godmod or wank…

The Region of the Directorate (and Alliance) exists on the Shattered Continent, a landmass in the northern-central Pacific broken long ago by plate tectonics. It has long settled, and is now home to several large nations, all allied in their goals. Due to the broken nature of life on the Continent, Marine travel has always been important, and one of the goals of the Alliance since days of Old has been to ensure naval security in the channels, seas, and bays that cut across the region.

These major naval passages would obviously be important for rapid trans-oceanic shipping, but they are also territorial waters. In order to get shipping around the Continent, several days would be added (considering the “size” of NS Earth would be something like Jupiter). Therefore, passage through the Continental waters would be needed.

The Seabelt System is the massive network of islands, constructs, bases, and depots, above and below the waters, staffed by the Directorate Defense Forces. Nations using the Seabelt are guaranteed safe passage by the DDF, and they are given access to numerous safe and economic ports of call. In the Seabelt, everything is cheap, and almost nothing is illegal. The only cargos that will be stopped are slaves, or weaponry being shipped for use against the Directorate. Other navies can pass through the Seabelt, but they cannot operate in anger, for these are Sovereign waters. There is a booming economy, based on the stopovers, refuels, and purchasing power of this mass transit. Any company, individual, or nation can buy land and run a business, and anyone can ship through in safety and comfort, provided by the DDF.

The fees are minimal, but can add up over time, with a volume fee of half a Centicredit per ton (roughly two cents per ton). However, compared to the benefit garnered, this is low, as more money would be lost moving around the Continent. Companies or nations can pay lump sums for a determined volume of shipping and drop off 10%. This is not extortion (okay, maybe it’s a tidy profit, but hey!), but is the running cost of the Seabelt System. Ships can utilize the Thermal De-Polymerization (TDP) facilities operated, and get a world cheap fuel cost of less than five centicreds per gallon; electrically powered vessels can receive a cost per megawatt charge averaging about two credits a megawatt. Nuclear and other exotic fuels can be negotiated.

The air and seaways in this system are the property of the Directorate, and unauthorized entrance into the Seabelt will be dealt with. Ships in violation of Seabelt rules will be impounded, crews will be expatriated. Repeated violation will lead to arrest and resale of goods. Violation of no-fire laws will result in seizure by DDF, with lethal force if necessary, but all attempts will be made to not utilize this level of force.

There might be some contention with the Seabelt from nations, however, in that the natural territories of the Directorate Nations do not quite fill in the entire Seabelt. Rather, artificial islands have been constructed, and small rocks expanded, to create overlapping waters that fill in even the widest swaths of seas between the allies (if the entire region is considered as a super-state, these would technically be territorial, as well). Nothing is illegal under maritime law, but some nations would, out of pride and self interest, try to protest this Seabelt. They have had no success thus far.

It appears there is a new challenger...

IC Reply Coming Soon.

OOC: As this is semi-closed, I've talked to Templa, and we've agreed that other players wishing to get involved will have to be aproved by both of us.

Taupran
Seabelt System

“You buy model?” The merchant held up the cardboard box to the open air, the high sun glinting from the laminated front. The chip-toothed salesman shook the container, the plastic parts rattling inside, and he pushed again, in broken Standard, “It real deal. Work great. Kid love. You buy!” He thrust the model ship at his customer/victim.

Staff Sergeant Gregory Masters, Kaukolastani Marine Corps, attached to the Directorate Defense Force, Seabelt Command, tried to fend off the jabbing merchant. “Hey, hey, listen; I don’t want the model-”

“You no like? It nice and pretty!”

“No, for God’s sake, it’s nice, it really is, and I just think it’s a little pricey-”

The merchant grinned wider, waving his hands theatrically. “I make deal for you, nice soldier man! Normally, ten credits, for you, seven!”

“I don’t-”

“Six!”

“Listen, buddy-”

“I have family, and they starving because of you!” The merchant thumbed up at the dwelling over the street front shop, and Masters glanced up out of reflex, seeing the red brick washed out in the tropical sun. He squinted, and lifted his arm, and the merchant continued, “You want my family to starve?”

“Fine, fine, here’s six credits.” Masters held out the chit, and the merchant snatched it, running it through the scanner.

There was a beep, and the seller grinned widely, handing back the chit and the bag with the model ship. “Thank you! It was pleasure! See you again soon, soldier!”

But Masters was fleeing back into the flow of traffic. Not if I can help it. It was always like this, on Taupran or any Seabelt Island Station. If you didn’t move fast enough, eyes front, staying with the flow of pedestrians, some merchant would snag you, wrangle you, and sell you fifty things you didn’t need. But that was the price of the economy of the ‘Belt.

There was a sudden honking of a horn, and the stone-paved street, and then a rumble of an engine. The crowd scattered, flattening up amid the hundreds of buildings, stalls, and alleys. Masterson sighed and stepped onto the curb, glancing back down the street. Sure enough, from the waterfront below, down the hill, a single white Landrover rolled in front of a cloud of dirt, blaring the horn constantly. Some of the crowd didn’t move fast enough, and the passenger leaned from his window and began to yell into the crowd in some foreign language.

As the SUV trundled past, up the slope and into the next level of the port, Masters turned to sea. Taupran, like many of the port cities in the Seabelt, was built up from the ocean to the jungles. From the massive dock works, the roads snaked up the side of the deceased volcano, through the jungle. At each hook of the road, it rose further into the trees, and each level of the city was higher and further back than the last, rising from commercial to residential and then to Control Tower, thrusting high into the sky. So, you could stand on any part of the road, and look up and back into the jungle, or down and out to the sea.

Masters was watching the boats in the bay, hundreds of them, hundreds of nations and peoples. He could smell the tang that always hung in the air in the Belt, the smell of ships and saltwater and productions and food, a collision of cultures that agreed to occupy this one stretch of sea without issue, under the banner of the DDF, that outstretched Eagle on the flag.

In the distance, over the shimmering seas and clanging bells, engines, and horns, a massive naval vessel was maneuvering in the channel, set against the green of another distant island and its mirroring ports. But the activity there was lower than the chaos here, for Taupran was one of the major headquarters of the Seabelt System, and one of the major ports. Billions of tons of shipping moved here, the DDF staged here, and there was a resident population over six hundred thousand, with a transient several multiples of that.

Masters inhaled deeply, breathing in the sharp air. He remembered when it was calmer; back then, there were only a few ships, and a couple regular over-flights. The population was just a barracks then, and a few batteries and a depot. But the depot was a port, the batteries were tourism, and the barracks was a booming Command Center. And the name of the game was chaos, tens of thousands of teeming bodies pushing past him, rushing about on bikes and rovers, landing at the airport in the upper island.

The sounds of the jungle still mixed with the sounds of the wharf, but these were almost overpowered by the sounds of the bustling economy of the belt, only broken by the regular docking horn blasts or a jet launch inland. Masters began to walk again, hiking up the slope, heading for the ski-lift station into the residential levels. He had lived here for nearly twenty years, coming here so long ago for a short tour; but he’d fallen in love with the color of the jungle, the smell of the sea, the clang of shipping bells, the rough and tumble work on the Belt.

As he rode up the lift, riding up over the streets below, watching the teeming masses, listening to the music of the many tongues. Masters reminisced a lot, but truth be told, he loved it here, on Taupran. Home was so organized, so regulated, so unnaturally perfect. There was no life there, nothing to be experienced. He couldn’t imagine living his life like that, planned from birth to death, serving in some secure role, “policing” a domicile populace that threw Military Balls more than training rounds. Out here, in the Belt, he had to worry about pirates, smugglers, criminals, rogue navies, everything. Every call was fast, some were brutal. Everyone was different; there were millions of angles, hundreds of paradigms.

His kids were born here; they could speak a dozen languages natively, from the transfer of goods that happened every day. On the mainland, they would be called ruffians or scoundrels, their business practices would be obscene. Their affinity with nature, their love of the ocean, these would be curiosities. The sailor’s language would be coarse. The quick talk would be offensive. The ability to knife fight blindfolded while toasted on Grind Alcohol would be criminal. But fights were common, and swindling was nature. And they knew how to deal with it. They were world citizens. And Masters was proud of them, he was proud of Stacy, he was proud of his rank and his house on the hill over the ocean.

Robbie would like the new model, and he’d gotten quite a deal on it.

He leaned back, relaxing, and his satphone chirped, playing a little island ditty. Masters pulled it out, flipped it open. “Sergeant Masters speaking.” The phone carried exceptional fidelity, but he wasn’t using the optional vidphone features… they cost too much.

“Listen, Greg, this is Captain Scerrin. We’ve got a situation here. Looks like someone decided that they aren’t going to pay, and they’re coming in Flags High.” The Captain spoke in that clipped Kaukolastani spin on Standard, the terse imperial enunciation of every sound.

“Lovely. When?”

“ETA Six hours, but they’re a bunch of religious fanatics. Might be trouble.”

“Ask some of Transis to go deal with it, that’s their field.” Masters grinned as he spoke.

“No dice, Sarge. This one’s coming straight to Taupran, and that means it’s out jurisdiction. This’ll be standard search and seizure. Get you team, come down to the Skimmer Pool, hop one out. Interdict them once they disobey port call orders, and then board, sedate, and inspect. Steer the ship into Taupran, place the crew in detention, and let Command handle negotiations.”

“Non-lethal, I assume? Risk index?”

“If at all possible, but be prepared for contact. They’ve got some muckety-muck inbound, so it’s a variable one to five, depending on his stuffiness.”

“Lovely. And we’re only sending out a Skimmer Team?”

“Sorry, Sarge, but Patrol Command doesn’t want to escalate by bouncing this to Fleet. You’ll have two cutters on standby, and if needed, you can get AV-12 support from Lantiz AFB.”

“Great, great.” Masters was grinning, even though he was complaining. “You know, I was about to start my day off?”

“Sorry to break the R&R, Sarge, but you’re the veteran Team for this.” There was a pause. “Where are your team members? We’ll need to do a full brief by 1800 hours.”

Masters actually did grimace now, glancing suddenly out the window to the town below. “Half a day into a break? God, Puck’s probably already in the brig, and Slick'll be in some brothel. Listen, I’ll round ‘em up, give my youngest his gift, and we’ll see you at the eighteen at the Skimmer Pool.”

“Uh… good luck, Sarge.”

“Thank you sir, but this shouldn’t be that hard of a mission.”

“No, about getting your boys to give up a break.”

“Yeah, that might be lethal. I’m gonna promise them a paid vacation for this, you know.”

“I know, I know. Just get them for me. Scerrin, out.”

Masters folded the phone back up. “I love this job.”

tag

tag

OOC: Whoa, how did I miss this? TAG.

Staring through the large, salt-streaked window, he reflected on the situation, his life, and his nation as a whole. All the while watching the white gulls wheel about whilst they cried out and searched for fish, gliding through the spray that flew through the air from the waves breaking against each other as well as the ship. This is totally insane. I can’t believe he seriously thinks they’d just roll over and die, just because he told them to. Hennrich Raichlen had spent most of his life on the sea. At eighteen he had joined Templa’s navy when it had consisted of only a dozen ships, and after more than thirty years of service, retired. However, retirement bored him, he didn’t like to golf and there wasn’t much else for retirees to do. So when the Temple Church offered him a job, he gladly accepted. The pay was good, and he didn’t have to worry about people lobbing shells and other explosive ordinance at him.

Yet here he was, captain of the Missionary, on his way to Kirkustan with a hold full of religious artifacts and a passenger list consisting of a bishop and his retinue of assorted monks and clerics. Add to that the bishop’s honor guard, and the man’s belief in his own holiness, and trouble clearly loomed on the horizon.

While the citizenry and soldiers of Templa referred to themselves as Templars, the churched culled the best and brightest of the armed forces and inducted them into its own military arm, naming them after the original order: the Knights Templar. An extremely stiff-necked organization, the Knights could at times be extremely arrogant, though they were able to back up there arrogance and boasting with quick action. On top of that, they were almost blindly loyal to the church. If given the order, they would stand there ground and fight to the last man, even against suicidal odds.
An earnest-faced young seaman broke the captain’s reverie.

“What is it?”

“Sir, they keep asking us to return to our sea lane. They’re threatening to send people out here to force our compliance.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. His holiness in there won’t change his mind.” Later, when Kaukolastani forces showed up, the only thing that was particularly surprising to Captain Raichlen was how long it took them to intercept the Missionary. One thing he did know was that the grand high poobah and his knights would not let this end peaceably.

Tag

Crow's Nest Bar
Lower Docks
Taupran

“Three of kind.” The burly Slavic sailor tossed down his hand and grinned at his buddies. The three of them had come in on the Antonov heavy tanker that morning, and were spending a few days in port while the ship was refitted from a bad scrape with a reef.

His two friends, twins Vladimir and Mikhail, laughed and tossed back their mugs in unison, and all three turned to face the remaining opponent.

Silence fell over the table, rounding from the Slavs to the two DDF marines sitting across the table. The smaller of the two was still in the game, staring hard at his hand. The man was mousy, barely making five-four, with a massive cigar hanging from the side of his mouth. No stubble was on his face, and if it wasn't for the tattoo on his arm and the hard look in his eyes, you'd swear he was twelve.

The little man shrugged. He spoke from the other side of his mouth, the cigar barely twitching. “Man, ya got me. All I have is two pair.”

The Slav reached over for the pile of money-

“Of aces! Ha! Four of a kind, ya sonuvabitch!” The small man threw down his cards and grabbed the cash. “Sorry, pal, better luck-”

The sailor was not taking this. “You cheat! No way you win this many!”

“Cheat? Hell no, you just suck.”

The Slav didn't let go of the money, pulling it from the small man's hands. “I keep.”

“Like hell.” The DDF man pulled it back.

The Slav grabbed his arm, pulling him over the table and twisting. “I will break you.”

And the small man jumped over the table, tackling the Slav out of his chair in a crash of wood and glass and rolling coins.

Private First Class Ellsworth – “Puck”

Puck landed on the bigger man, looking like a mouse attacking a fox, kicking and punching and swearing, “Don't you fucking touch me!”

The twin Slavs grabbed Puck from their comrade, throwing the little man against the wall. Puck's eyes rolled, and his teeth clattered, but he stayed on his feet as they advanced on him, lockstep.

Back at the table, the remaining DDF marine stood up and followed. This man was massive, towering over even the large twins. His olive skin glistened where his bulging uniform had been rolled up, exposing tribal tattoos. He was native Geridian, having been adopted by a Kaukolastani soldier after his village was destroyed in some indigenous battle. He didn't speak much, letting Puck do the talking for him. Sometimes, Puck said too much, and had to get a thrashing.

One of the twins pulled back his fist, while the other lifted Puck by the hair.

Sometimes, people went too far.

And with a roar the Geridian hurled the entire table, already flipped from Puck's dive, at the twins.

CRASH!

The table and the two sailors crashed over the bar, Puck dropping to the ground. More of the Antonov's crew were showing up, jumping up from tables and bars, running to topple this Goliath that had suddenly lurched to his feet and felled their shipmates.

Two came running for the Geridian, but he whirled and grabbed the closer man, lifting him by the shirt and hurling the abruptly terrified Slav into his buddy.

Private First Class Brakkin – “Tank”

The crowd slammed into Tank, and he roared again, hurling another man down.

At the bar, a slim, good looking young Marine was working his charms on the barmaid he'd never met before. “... I mean, I swear I met you on Walden.”

She grinned and leaned forward. “Well, I was there for a while.”

“I must not have made that much of an impression that time.” He grinned self-depreciatingly. “Would you give me the chance to rectify this situation, ma'am?”

“I don't-”

“I've been looking forward to seeing you so much, I even put down money on a skimmer tour of the waterfall on the North side-”

“You didn't!” she flushed.

“I sure-”

Behind the smooth man, Tank was being dog piled by four sailors, and Puck was busy trying to rip them off. One of the Slavs tumbled away, and Puck jumped onto him, only to be piled on by another two.

The man shrugged. “I'm sorry about this. One second, please-” he grabbed a nearly empty bottle of rum and whirled, smashing it into the back of the head of another sailor who was running to attack Tank.
The man smiled winningly and turned back, placing the bottle back on the counter, “Now, where were we?”

Private First Class Leone - “Slick”

“You were about to ask me out.”

“Right. Well?”

“Sure.” She nodded. “See you tonight.”

“No problem. Now, if you'll excuse me...” He nodded his head to the fight, grabbed the bottle, and lunged into the fray, swinging wildly.

By the time the Constabulary arrived, there were eight of the Antonov's crew laid out on the floor, or over bars, or on tables, and four more in a rousing fist fight with three DDF marines. One blow of the whistle, and the fight stopped on a dime, the participants separating, bloody and ruffled – all except Slick, who'd somehow kept his hair immaculate.

“All right, break it up, you're all coming down to the station for some time in the tank!” The officer in charge tapped his shock baton in his hand. “You can't just get away with this kind of-”

And the emergency beepers on Tank, Slick, and Puck all went off simultaneously. The marines glanced to the officers, who glanced back, horrified.

Puck grinned. “Sorry, officers, but we've got an emergency.”

“It can wait, you're in violation-”

“No, sir, Code Forty-Seven Point Five states that DDF Action supersedes constabulary action. If you detain us, you will be in violation.” Puck placed another cigar in his mouth.

The senior officer scowled. “Let 'em go.”

The men filed past, nodding as they went. Puck stopped at the door and saluted, winking to the groggy Slavs. “Have fun in the tank!”

And they were gone.

OOC: I'm back! Oh, and more crew IS coming. (Two more.)

East Port
Taupran

The dense waters were cut suddenly, a blur of white and black and orange that shot between to moving tankers, bounding from the wake of the larger, skipping from the second, and then bursting free in a spray of whitewater. The souped up jet ski flashed away from the tankers as the horns blared, and flashed past two Port Authority cutters. The ski side slipped, hurling a wall of seawater over one of the cutters, and then rocketed into one of the Marinas.

BWEE-OOP! The non-soaked cutter flipped its sirens on, flashing light and blaring horns. The second followed a second later, the officer on deck picking himself up from the fresh surf that flowed over the cabin. He grabbed the microphone, “This is the Barker, we've got some asshat out here on a turbo jet ski, making bandit style for the tourist areas. He just dolphined the Santa Clara and the Heron, and splashed us. Permission to pursue?” Permission to shoot the bastard?

“Acknowledged, Barker, bring the joker in.”

The cutters roared off after the ski, rooster tails firing walls of spray behind them.

The jet ski, meanwhile, was banking through the marina, shooting between docks and staring tourists and sailors, a quick pop from a ramp, and the ski launched over the last wooden barricade, landing in the next harbor.

The first cutter followed until the ski jumped the wall, then slowed and began to pull back out of the harbor. The Barker, however, just roared through the deeper waters, skipping the marinas entirely, hoping to cut the ski off at the end of the East Port. The Officer waited. I'm going to get you today, you crazy son of a bitch.

The ski rocketed through the next marina, then the one after, building speed and popping from the waves. The driver, wrapped in a wet suit, yellow goggles over his face, was grinning a maddening grin, tucked down as he saw the cutter at the end of the marina series. “Here we go!”

He banked left, into the new dock construction, weaving the poles and opening the throttle. The ski was slamming into the white topped waves like they were cement, jarring the operator's bones, but he just kept grinning, teeth pressed together. Almost there...

Ahead, a sunken pylon tipped onto a break wall, angling up, into the clear ski.

On the Barker the deck officer was staring. “No, he's not going to-”

The ski clipped the pylon, flinging up, over the wall-

Over the Barker-

The water crashed onto the deck again, and the officer ducked in reflex as the small craft slammed into the water on the other side of the vessel. The operator bobbed, the craft nosed and swerved, but it held, and the ski banked away, back into the maze of the port, and out of sight. The officer pulled himself to the console and cued the radio, “Uh, the perp is... away.”

In Jack's Small Boat Rental, a slim jet ski pulled up to dock, its operator hopping off and pulling his goggled from his face, laughing and holding out his hand to the small gaggle waiting. “Oh, you all so owe me some credits. Did you see that shit?”

Corporal Powers - “Ace”

Ace ran his hands through his soaked hair, slicking it back with the saltwater. “Man, that cutter jockey looked so fraggin' to-” He patted his chest, pulling a small beeper, which was blaring incessantly. “Oh, goddammit, can't I get some relaxation for once?”

Southwest Jungle
Natural Reserve and Tourist Section
Taupran

“Oh, that's it... yeah, just a little higher... bingo.” A man was lying in the brush between two logs, a set of field glasses and a little black notebook to his side. He reached down and notated his latest find. “One full throated swallow, looks like it's a mainland species.” He pressed the stud on his glasses, and a digital image was captured into the memory banks.

He looked again. “Nice specimen... very nice specimen.” The pencil moved again in the notebook. This book contained two sections: one for confirmed kills while sniping, and the other for birdwatching. For this man, they were nearly on par in import.

The camera inside the glasses snicked again, capturing another image. Another shutter motion, and yet another was caught.

And without warning, his beeper went off, breaking the jungle calm. “Oh, shit!” He gasped, diving below the logs, shoving the beeper into the underbrush and falling on top of it, trying to muffle the chimes.

On the beach below, the woman jumped back, and the man whirled around. “Did you hear that?”

“It was beeping!”

“I swear to god, Jack, if some pervert was watching us-”

“I'll kill him! I'll kill the little bastard!” The man stalked into the woods.

And the marksman and “birdwatcher” tried to shut down the thrice damned emergency pager, tucking it inside his jacket. He grabbed the glasses, the notebook, and bolted. By the time “Jack” got to the logs, there was no trace.

Private First Class Terrel - “Hoop” AKA "FNG"

Hoop staggered from the jungle, sliding down a slope into the port sector, vaulting a railing, and dropping into a cafe below. In the cafe, Masters jolted back in shock as Hoop, in full ghillie suit, landed four feet from him. The Sergeant demanded, “Hoop, what in God's name where you- never mind.”

“Sir, you almost got me killed. I was out enjoying the wildlife, and that beeper just let out it's bleat. I almost got mauled by a very violent mammal.”

Masters just took another drink. “Somehow, I think you're leaving something out. And yet... I really don't want to know what that is.”

Alone in his cabin, the captain of the honor guard sat cross-legged, hand in chin. His green eyes would shift back and forth, his right one twitching. He regarded two suits of armor. On the left was a replica of a full suit of medieval full plate, ceremonial armor which while nice and shiny, offered next to no protection from even small arms fire. On the right was his combat armor, all ceramic plates and Kevlar, which while offered decent protection with a maximum of mobility, unfortunately was not shiny.

He reached out and rubbed a thumb over the name tag reading ‘Lydre’. His family had served in every war or conflict that Templa had ever been involved in, and he hoped to continue that tradition. But that officious ass of a clergyman seemed hell-bent on destroying his house. A quick glance to the side showed a sword, given to him by a Kaukolastani soldier years ago. Such a wondrous gift it had been too. The man briefly entertained visions of involving the pompous cleric, his sword, and a great deal of blood. Then, sighing, returned to the decision before him.

He could choose the combat suit, attempt to repel the boarders that must surely come. He could choose the armor and stand guard over the cleric within. Or he could choose not to wear either and acquiesce to the boarders’ demands. The first two virtually guaranteed his demise, which would make the third the obvious choice. But if the Church took a dim view of things, he and his men could be excommunicated or even killed.

Nothing is ever easy he thought. Coravel fell back into brooding, watching light dance upon the suits. He rubbed his twitching eye; the damned contact was bothering him again.

Briefing Room
Skimmer Pool
Taupran

“Okay people, heads up, we've got a situation here.” Captain Scerrin tapped the remote to his thigh and then pointed it at the holodisplay. The captain has a pocked face and thinning hair, with gray in what remained. He was old for a captain, even a naval captain, and he knew he'd never make Vice Admiral, but that didn't keep him from being the proverbial taskmaster at Taupran. He didn't have much of a command, just a Port Security Taskforce, but world-be-damned, he was going run the finest, cleanest Port in the Belt. And no religious nut jobs were going to ruin his record. Even more so, no competent but wild DDF servicemen were going to allow said nut jobs to ruin his record. He would fill them in... personally.

As Scerrin motioned, every head in the room, from Sergeant Masters on down to the FNG PFC Hoop, snapped up and focused. The holodisplay hummed and hissed, releasing a fine spray that filled its clear chamber. Lasers activated and carved out a rapidly refreshing hologram in the steam. The map showed an incoming Bogey, and the locations of the DDF assets.

Scerrin continued, “Sonobuoys picked up the vessel at 1400 hours, and radar confirmed immediately following. Lidar from the CGN Galloway tracked unknown vessel into SeaBelt, and transmitted basic challenge. Vessel replied non threateningly but refused to heave to. The cruiser broke away after SEACOM transferred to us. They don't want this to be an incident, one which would surely be created if the Galloway decided to SSM a civilian freighter into oblivion.”

“Sir?” There was a moment of silence in the room as Puck glanced up, “Permission to speak freely?”

Scerrin raised his bushy eyebrows and glanced to Masters, who was vigorously shaking his head “no” in the back of the room. But Scerrin simply fixed his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Let the marine hang himself with his own rope. “Granted.”

“Why the hell are we interdicting a non-comply freighter? Why don't we just fly a V-30 over the thing, tell it to turn back or we'll put a Onager into it's deck? Civies will run or pay at the first sight of a Peregrine.” Puck leaned back, lawyer stance, arms cocked behind his head.

Scerrin simply smirked, “Well, PFC, that would be the case, if we were dealing with traders or even smugglers or pirates. But we're not. That's a Templar vessel out there, carrying some muckety-muck, and as a matter of pride, they're not going to stop. We'd have to make good on that Onager threat, and I think even your microcosmic brain can put that story together on the news.”

“Templar, sir? Aren't they buddy buddy with us? We helped 'em out in their little war and all.”

“We were allied, until the current regime came to power. They didn't want to deal with “infidels” like ourselves. Now, they're playing to make us blink. This is a level one to five variable threat index-”

“Holy shit!”

“-aye, indeed, it is a Holy Shit on that boat, but we've got to bring him in. You will intercept, transmit request to cut engines and prepare to be boarded. You will then disable the vessel when they do not comply, board, and use nonlethal means to subdue the crew. You will place a slave unit on the auto navigation system, and bring the boat into Taupran, where we will release the crew and impound the vessel.”

“Sir, I thought we kept violating crews?”

“So you want a shootout, Private? Command sure doesn't. We'll keep the vessel and return the crew.”

“That's retard, sir-”

“Private Ellsworth, you will keep your opinions to yourself on the decisions of Command.”

“Sir, I still have permission to speak freely-”

“Rescinded.” Scerrin stopped. “And I don't recall seeing you at drill yesterday.”

Puck, red faced at being taken down, even by a superior, snapped back, “Sorry, sir, I had anal glaucoma.”

It was Scerrin's turn to flush with anger. How dare this marine talk like that! “What did you say?”

“Anal glaucoma, sir.” Puck stared straight at him.

Masters was shaking his head feverishly “no” to Scerrin, but the Captain pressed on, “And what, in God's name, is that?”

Puck grinned suddenly, catching his victim. “Sir, I just couldn't see my ass coming in that morning.” There was a sudden blast of exhalation, a laugh that was stifled as it was conceived.

Scerrin's temple throbbed, and the Captain stated slowly, dangerously, “Private First Class Ellsworth, you are hereby demoted to Private. Upon completing this mission, you will be taking up a new role as head inspector for all three ports. I hope you know what the inside of a clean latrine looks like, because you're going to become very familiar with dirty ones.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What the hell were you thinking, Puck?” Slick asked as the Skimmer bounced on the waves.

“He wasn't.” Masters replied from across the open top craft, leaning back as the vessel jerked and shimmied in the water and wind. “And Scerrin busted him for it.”

Puck had a cigar shoved in his mouth again, and the tip was glowing red hot, poking out from under his “riot” face shield, the cigar steaming as saltwater sprayed onto it. He spoke from the side of his mouth with practiced ease, “Fuck it. I feel vindicated, cause I busted him with that anal glaucoma line.”

Riding on the back of the skimmer, PFC Hoop turned to Puck, “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“Who the hell asked you, FNG? Oh, that's right... no one.” Puck took another drag.

“Step off, buddy, I rank you now.” Hoop turned back to the water.

“Hey, stripes don't make a man – no offense, Sarge.”

“None taken.” Masters glanced out at the powerful wake.

The skimmer they rode in was a sleek design, one of the previous generation, with its front side intakes and modified single V-30 fan on the underside and diverter tubes. The needlepoint craft lifted up from the front as it accelerated under power from the fans, and then it rose in the back as well, the air cushion catching under down turned wings and holding the craft about a meter over the water, but dipping and rising constantly.

The skimmer looked like the bastard child of a hydrofoil and a VTOL, with its massive surface effects wing crossing the open top, and the directable airflow from the massive fan. It was designed to operate as a pump jet boat, then hydrofoil, and then to lift and “skim” at speeds in excess of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour. The pilot was encased in a bubble, and a massive clear windshield rose over the crew compartment, guarding them from debris or incoming fire. A pintle-mounted 12.7mm machine gun sat in front of the dead zone on the center “wing”, and two forward facing single centimeter naval railguns were under pilot's bubble.

There was space for six men, plus two operators, and a full load of assault gear. The skimmer could outrun and out-turn any naval vessel, and could deliver assault or interdiction squads rapidly anywhere in the SeaBelt. Every base maintained a full squadron of the patrol workhorses, and Command loved their flexibility against violators, pirates, and smugglers.

But riding in one was hell.

The open top, while nice to shoot from or bail out of, made the wind, even with the shield, a whirling dervish that battered the squad inside like a drunken Geridanian catching his wife with another man. Every man in the back wore the Contact Team shock helmet, with the transparent face shield. The shields were obnoxious, but they kept your face from getting bruised by chunks in random spray.

And it wasn't just the battering, it was the noise, the howling of the wind and the fan and the jets. Oh, and the fact that people could shoot in at you from the top.

Hoop looked to the sky, “Man, I hope they don't drop an anchor on us or something when we pull up to them.”

Masters chuckled, hearing Hoop over the squad comlink. “Don't worry, Ace'll move us quick enough. He's good at this.”

From the cockpit, safe from the wind, Ace threw back a thumbs up. “Don't worry about anything, FNG. If it gets hairy, I'll take off the governor and show you what this thing can do.”

Looking seasick already, Hoop's eyes widened. “It gets worse?”

“Twice as fast! Whoo-hoo!” Ace gave the engines a goosing, and the skimmer popped over a wave.

Hoop threw his visor up and puked over the side, the spray vanishing into the wake.

Puck smacked the silent Tank in the side, laughing, “FNG just popped.”

The huge man simply grunted and smiled.

From the cockpit, Ace called back, “Head up! We've got visual!”

They crested the next wave, and in the distance, they saw the Missionary chugging through the waters. Ace flipped a switch, and the skimmer settled down into the “slower” hydrofoil mode.

Master slapped his helmet. “Button up! Tank, get the fifty up! Ace, arm railguns. Slick, Puck, get ready. Hoop... don't screw up.”

“I'm new, I'm not stupid, sir.” Hoop was trying to recover from the seasickness.

Puck rolled his eyes. “FNG.”

And Masters toggled his radio. “Attention, Templar Vessel Missionary, this is Staff Sergeant Gregory Masters, Kaukolastani Marine Corps, DDF. You are in violation of sovereign waters. Shut down your engines and prepare to be boarded.” He glanced down to his squad, “Now the fun starts.”

Shaking his head, Coravel assembled his team in the main hold. He was wearing his combat suit with the sword and shield from his ceremonial suit, a mixture he hoped would keep his people guessing for they were not all going to take his decision well. "Well. It seems that the Port Authority has finally come to intercept us."

A voice in the back spoke up, "So we smash their faces in when they get here, right?"

Faintly, they heard "Attention, Templar Vessel Missionary, this is Staff Sergeant Gregory Masters, Kaukolastani Marine Corps, DDF. You are in violation of sovereign waters. Shut down your engines and prepare to be boarded.” Here, then, was the moment of truth.

"No. I have already spoken with the captain. We will heave to and allow to be boarded...peacefully. We cannot all-" it was at that point that all hell broke lose. Coravel stumbled back, falling from what felt like a kick to his mid-section. Then the entire hold was filled with suppressed weapons fire. After checking himself to assure that the Kevlar had stopped the shot, Coravel raised his shield, revealing the SMG strapped to the underside. He fired a sustained burst at his attacker, the one who had spoken up. The weight of the shield threw off his aim, but he still managed to drop the target.

The fighting seemed to be dieing down, and it was a minute before Coravel realized that it was because both sides were dispersing throughout the ship. He looked at his gun and cursed, his idea of strapping it to his shield had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he couldn't reload it. Tossing it aside, he drew his ceremonial sword and held it in a two-handed grip. Others had followed his lead, grabbing up swords and spears for the confined spaces. Loose-hanging objects swung forward before settling back, they had stopped. He motioned and they split up, they needed to resolve the situation before being boarded.

Skimmer

When the first shot rang out, Hoop hit the deck, and Masters swung his rifle up to the boat above. Ace slammed the throttle down, and the skimmer goosed over the waves. Tank just stared at the ship. The giant man narrowed his eyes, and spoke a curt phrase. “Not us.”

Puck nearly choked on his cigar as the boat kicked, but instead, he knocked it into the swirling ocean. “Fuckin' A!” Then Tank's statement registered. “Not us? Then who?”

As if to answer, a body fell from the ship, crashing into the water in front of the speeding skimmer.

“The fuck?”

Masters spun to Puck, whose mouth was hanging open. “Get on the horn, Marine! We've got a situation here.”

Puck tapped his headset, activating the satellite uplink. “Taupran Command! This is PF- er... Private Ellsworth. We've got... a situation here.” He winced as he waited for the reply.

There was a crackle, and a reply, “This Captain Scerrin. What the hell did you do, Ellsworth?”

“Do? I didn't do anything! It's not my fault!”

“What's not your fault, private?”

“They're shooting, sir!”

There was weighted silence.

“Not at us, sir!” Puck clarified.

“Come again, marine?”

“Sir, they're shooting each other.” Another body flipped into the water as the freighter came to a slow halt. “And they're doing a damn fine job of it. This is fubar, sir.”

“Roger that fubar, marine.” There was another gap of silence, this one confounded. “I'm going to bounce this up, but I think this falls under serve and protect clause. Take that ship down.”

The coms closed, and Puck glanced up to Masters. “Sir, they want us to go onboard as police and protect the crew.”

Masters scowled, “Protect who, Puck? There's at least two groups on there.”

“He didn't say.”

“Damn it. Okay, standard boarding plan, but don't shoot until they shoot-”

“Sir?”

“-at us, Private. At us.”

“Right, sir.”

Master called to Ace. “Boost us, Marine! Ready, team!”

The skimmer engine roared, the turbofan booming as the skimmer rose over the water under full power. Like a small VTOL, it ascended the side of the deck, drawing parallel and level with the Missionary's top deck. Tank spun the topside machine gun to cover the deck. Slick and Puck leveled their neurodart rifles, special airguns loaded with a powerful sedative. Hoop drew up his EMSR, flipping the switch on the capacitor, the long range electrogun humming as it readied. Masters took the safety off the dopagen gas grenade launcher, spinning the cylinder to check the 40mm tubes.

The deck appeared level, and the team hit the ship.

On the deck there was a general melee going on with both ceremonial and improvised weapons. Man struggled against man under a withering hail of gunfire from both sides. Coravel pulled his sword out of another opponent with shaking arms covered in blood to the elbows. by chance he happened to be facing the right direction when he saw a craft full of soldiers appear at the rim of the ship. he also the big .50 cal trained on the deck.

Oh shit, he thought. "Disengage! Disengage! Diseng-" he slipped in the blood that pooled about the ship. That accident nearly ended his young life as his falling body intercepted a shotgun blast meant for someone else. The pellets tore through the Kevlar from his neck down through his right shoulder, causing him to drop his sword. His one thought before he lost conciousness from bashing his head onto the deck was: How the hell did they get a shotgun on board?

He would not remember being dragged and then carried to the bridge. He would not conciously remember the sounds of fighting and the cries of the wounded and dying working their way closer to the bridge, though they would haunt his nightmares for years to come.

When Coravel fell, he was not the onley one to see the ship, and several members of both factions trained there weapons on it before firing. After several minutes of intense fighting both factions withdrew, one to the bridge, and the other to the aft. But the sounds of fighting could still be heard from below as foe battled foe in blood smeared companionways ridden with corpses wearing Kevlar, plate, or in some cases a curious hodgepodge combination of the two.

Deck

There was a moment of deceptive calm as they first leveled with the deck. Templars fought and died by each other's hands, and the Kaukolastani Squad had ringside seats to the carnage. Masters glanced across the deck, and his eyes met those of a young man, dressed in a shining cuirais. He saw the confusion and shock, and he watched the young man try to yell for calm.

And he watched as the young man was gunned down, the shock turning back into confusion. And Masters never broke his gaze until the other man fell behind the boxes.

Then all hell broke loose.

Belligerents on the deck spotted the skimmer, and the gunfire crashed in. Bullets cracked through the air, and skipped from the struts of the skimmer, as the tangos shot it out with each other, and the DDF team. Masters felt automation take over, and he heard his own voice. “Fire!”

The grenade launcher coughed in his hands, jerking up as it hurled a forty-millimeter cannister into the center of the deck. There was a slight pop, and a white smoke, thick as a cotton swab, filled the air. Masters fired again, rotating the launcher to cover the next section of the ship, and he let fly another grenade. The air was hazy now with the dopagen, the powerful sedative slowing the reflexes and numbing the minds of the enemies. They would sleep well, and they would sleep hard.

The helmet visor Masters wore cleared the smoke for him, showing a combined aspect view of the engagement. Enemies were shown in glowing outlines, with movement enhanced and indicated, and weapons identified through real time tagging. The squad's status was displayed in the corner, and positions were relayed via retinal-cued HUD. As Masters broke the launcher open, sliding more rounds into the cylinders.

Beside him, the squad was scything through the enemy. As the Templars began to droop, to stagger and stumble, and to blink stupidly with foggy minds, the team opened fire. The neurodart rifles sizzled and cracked as they hurled their tri-prong darts out, punching through the soft Kevlar armor of the tangos. The electrical rifles spat the stinging rounds, and those struck fell like marionettes with strings cut.

Hoop stood behind the line, using the EMSR as a long range tazer. With each “shot”, twin UV lasers lanced out, ionizing columns of air. Behind the lasing came the pulse, a quick jolt of electricity that rode the columns easier than wire. One tap, one bolt of quiet lightning, and the metal armored heavies went down sparking and twitching.

But Tank held his fire, keeping the fifty caliber machine gun trained, but not opening up. They would try to avoid casualties. Well, they would try to avoid more casualties.

The last of the tangos on deck toppled into a mast, sliding to the ground with a dart sticking through his armor, but below, there was the ringing of gunfire and the roar of screams. Puck jumped onto the ship, still tightening his gas mask. “Jesus Christ, these people know how to throw a party.”

Masters followed him over. “Can it, Puck. We need to secure the whole ship.” The team was hitting the deck now, fanning out through the smoke, binding up the unconscious crew. Masters tapped his air filter. “We'll lose our mobility advantage inside the passages, and someone's bound to have some breath masks.”

“Fuck 'em, and blow this shit.” Puck declared, thumbing at the fire going on below decks. “I ain't going down there.”

“We don't have a choice, but you're in luck. Puck, you'll take the bridge with me. Tank, when we cue you, blow the bridge glass. Slick, Hoop, take the main hold when we open it.”

There was a chorus of assent, and the team split. Masters dashed to the nearest gangway, and Puck followed. Behind them, the other two crouched by the close deck access to the main hold, grenades ready. Tank aimed the guns.

Masters reached the stairs to the tower, and began to ascend, scrambling up the metal, listening to it clang beneath his feet. Above, a guard stepped out, but Puck dropped him with a quick tap from the dart gun. The man toppled from the rail, slamming hard into the cargo netting, and Masters winced. That may have been a kill. Maybe.

“Sorry, Boss.” Puck hissed.

Masters ducked around the next bend. Above, he could see the bridge windows, and the crew inside. He raised the grenade launcher, and tapped his mic with his tongue. “Tank, break it.”

Below, the machine gun thumped for the first time, and the glass around the bridge shattered into crystal rain. The shards bounced from Masters armor suit, but he shouldered the launcher and fired three rounds. The grenades arced lazily through the now missing window, and he heard the pop of the detonators. Thick, heavy smoke began to billow from the missing windows, leaking and settling down to the deck below like oily fog. The machine gun fire stopped, and Puck charged.

The marine slammed into the door with his full weight, blasting one of the sleepy defenders away from his position, and swinging the butt of his rifle into another, sending him crashing over a console. The neurodart crackled twice, and then Masters was in the room behind him, the Sergeant's own neurodart pistol snapping. The two professionals, wreathed in the foamy white clouds, stood among the drooling and limp bodies.

“Sleep tight, ass holes.”

Masters stepped up to the deck controls, and toggled open the hold.

Below, on the main deck, and surface parted, as if to allow access to port cranes. The fighting inside the ship was now clearly visible, as the strike team looked down from the top of the ship at the combatants below. Slick and Hoop charged grenades, more dopagen, and flung them down into the hold, two each. They dropped rope next, and then flashbangs.

The smoke filled the chambers, and the thumps of the concussion grenades hit, and the two slipped down into the fray, firing as they rappelled down, lacerating the crowds below with single handed fire.

Masters tapped his commlink. “Command, bridge is secure. Installing computer slave program.”

“Roger that, Sergeant.” Scerrin exhaled heavily, hinting at more tension than he'd shown. “Good work. Clean up and come home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Masters turned back to Puck, who had just finished installing the override unit. “Alright, Marine, let's...” he trailed off.

“Sir?” Puck raised an eyebrow.

Masters pointed to the bodies on the bridge. “We're a couple short.” Ice hit his gut. “There should be more people here.”

OOC: Let me know if that's too much, and I'll retcon.

As soon as the windows blew inward they knew it was time to go. Two men gathered up Coravel and exited through one of the doorways while another moved to play rear guard. They suddenly heard a clatter and hiss as smoke grenades came through where the windows used to be. As the room filled with smoke the rear guard went back in, shutting the door behind him. As the trio moved down the stairway, the heard a crash as though the rear guard had been hit by a fridge.

The small group were met at the bottom by more of their faction. "We lost the bridge." said one.

"Alright, follow us. We'll hide out in the bow." They went down another flight, and walked toward the for of the ship. Along the way they stopped by a door labeled ROPE LOCKER. Opening it they revealed not rope, but instead a partially assembled Browning .30; positively antique, yes, but it would still be effective. What bothered them, was that there was supposed to be another.

They eventually made their way to the bow slowing once to sneak past a boarding party. Once they set up they pulled out gas masks and settled in. Coravel lay on the floor with a the more medically inclined of the group trying to staunch the bleeding. a pecular aspect of Templar vessels caused the compainionways to form an odd 'Y' shap in the bow. One branch was covered by the MG, and the other was held by another two people with MP5s.

Soon they could here boots clank on the grating, coming closer. Then the boarders revealed themselves, and the Templars opened fire. After a brief exchange of fire in which neither side managed to hit anything, the boarders withdrew to just out of sight. The Templars settled in for a long wait, because it was obvious they weren't going anywhere soon.

Hold

"Holy shit!" Hoop slammed against the interior corner of the corridor as machinegun fire raked the far wall.

Slick pressed to the wall behind him, tipping his head. "What did you see?"

"Couldn't get a good look." The gunfire kept thumping into the far wall, spanging and throwing stray rounds in random directions. "Christ!"

"Look again, FNG."

"Fuck you, I ain't poking my head out there."

"Come on, they gotta run outta ammo sometime."

The roar kept coming, in stuttering bursts. "They had some big old gun, looked like over a hundred years old. Big belt, too, plus two guys with subguns, and a triage."

"I thought you didn't see much?"

"Enough to not want to poke my damn head around the corner again."

"Chicken."

"You stick your head out there."

"Nah, I got rank on you."

The radio cut in, Masters' voice ringing clear, "Hoop, Slick, cut the chatter and clear that corner. Puck and myself will flank from opposite. BattleNet registered the wounded, so TFD is out. Send in the bot."

Slick nodded, pulling a small treaded toaster from his pack. Placing the dimunitive robot on the floor, he pressed the actuating toggle. The bot raised up onto its dual treads, a scanner assembly flicking out, and a single subgun barrel poking out from the glacis plate, looking for all the world like a pair of eyes and a cigarette.

On the HUD, the Scanbot data flickered up, and Slick moved his gloved hands in the air, interacting with the virtual command switches. The Scanbot rolled to the corner and poked around, transmitting back a crystal image of the scenario.

It may have been the absurdity of such a small appliance rolling on the floor, or just amusement, but it took the machinegun a moment to find the Scanbot, and that was all it needed to get it's images.

The raking gunfire blew the sensor masts off, and sent the bot spinning down the corridor in sparks and char.

Hoop winced at the carnage, and Slick jumped back, crying, "Skippy! No! You bastards!"

"It's okay, man, it's okay!"

Slick clenched his jaw, and got back on the radio, "Sarge, they've got this thing bottled tight. Recommend we TFD."

"You are aware there is a wounded, Slick? He's gonna be a human chia-pet if you bust that stuff."

"They shut Skippy, sir."

"I saw. Your call on TFD. We'll dope when you do."

"Roger."

Slick waited until the gunfire subsided for a moment, priming a TFD grenade. The Tactical Fungi Dispersal grenade was one of the most "unique" weapons in the DDF arsenal. When detonated, the grenade hurled spores of a rapidly growing fungi in all directions, saturating the air with a violently active genetweaked fungus. Upon absorbing moisture, the fungi would multiply and expand, filling every warm and dark spot it could find, such as the filters on a gas mask. Small enough to get in, it would grow inside and clog filters in seconds, and then, it would die, leaving gasmasks useless and choking. It had been used to great effect during the crisis in Transnapa City, two years ago. It would have to prove its use again.

Slick bounced the TFD grenade off the bulkhead, sending it among the soldiers.

POP!

It was a sticky, wet noise, as the spray hit walls, floor, people. Then the fungi began to grow.

Hoop chucked a dopagen grenade around the bend after, while Masters and Puck threw from the other side.

The choice was simple: choke to death on the fungi in the gas masks, blind and strangling, or rip off the mask and fall into a dopagen-induced sleep.

OOC: Sorry it took so long to post. Also, the Skimmer has a FLOSA scanner, so it's tracking motion/sound throughout the ship, and the HUDs on the team are showing such, in case your missing gun is being ported about by your other faction. The team would be aware of this.

They saw the first grenade come bouncing around the corner, the man on the machine gun tried to swat it out of the air and missed while one of the others threw himself over their wounded comrade. That was really the last thing they saw, as the companionway disappeared in a cloud of dark. It was almost like a smoke grenade except just seconds later the gas masks failed. They could hear what sounded like more smoke grenades going off and quickly decided that whatever gas or smoke out there was preferable to suffocating in their masks. Almost simultaneously, the masks were torn off and they quickly passed out.

Elsewhere in the ship, the other faction was much more organized. They had a full dozen men covering the one entrance with a mixture of submachine guns carbines and pistols. Two were manning the missing machine gun which was placed at the rear of the room. In a small room roughly the size of a walk-in-closet was the grand high poobah himself with one man armed with a shotgun.

Masters pressed the edge of the bulkhead, using the lip for cover, not daring to step around that last corner. He motioned, sending Puck and Slick up next to him, preparing for dynamic entry. Hoop was already on deck, to meet the Medevac vertol for the human chia pet.

There was just one small problem. Well, a dozen small problems, well armed, and holed up for a fight to the death.

Masters gave one last glance to his BattleNet HUD, seeing the moving figures and lines of attack. "If there's one thing they've got, it's tenacity."

"Two things, sir." Puck grinned.

"What?"

"You forgot obscene amounts of firepower. They have that, too."

"Right. Point taken." Masters shook his head. These people really wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, and he had the unfortunate job of convincing would-be-martyrs to live. They really don't pay me enough to be a suicide counselor with a gun.

"Well, they want firepower? We'll show them what a real military looks like, not this toy army. Puck, Slick, TFD at the ready. Chuck 'em on three, we'll spore and dope."

"Right."

"Gotcha, boss."

"One." Grenades came from clasps, pins pulled, soldiers prepared to throw.

"Two." Masters shouldered the launcher one last time, his finger sliding into the guard.

You know what would be funny? If someone fucked up and put Blade into the grenade, instead of Dope. You think you're doping someone, and all of a sudden, some raving psycho comes out of the fog. I mean, they're basically the same drug, after all. We just fixed it, and made it do good. That's what we do. We fix things... like this mess.

"Three."

The grenades clanged off the wall, bouncing into the chamber, detonating in a series of popping splats. The launcher chuffed, the dopagen flew, and burst into a cloud of thick white smoke, flooding the hallway. The team's view changed to combined aspect, giving a polarized, digitized view of the world, but one perfectly clear.

And the team waited for the gas to kick in, and to make sure the machinegunner didn't blind spray. Stepping into that would be bad. So they paused, and waited for counter-move.

After the TFD Grenade went off and the gas masks began to fail, the ranking soldier yelled for the men to rip the masks off and charge the door way. The Templars charged forward as the room filled with dopagen, firing as they came. The doorway became filled with fire for a few seconds before they began to pass out. The big guy with the machine gun had gotten halfway across the room, carrying it as he fired, the stand clattering to the floor before it jammed. Letting out a bestial roar he hefted the gun over his head and threw it across the remainder of the room where it hit the hallway wall. At that point he just sort of...stopped. He succumbed to the dopagen, but his muscles had locked leaving him in a semi-slumped standing position.

The machinegun fire raging through the corridor sent sparks and bullets bouncing from the bulkhead to Masters's side. He tried not to flinch as the gunfire raged, watching the figures on the HUD fall, one by one, into the dopagen coma. The last man, the machinegunner, was the only standing, and he was blazing a trail of glory into the realms of Morpheus.

And then the belt jammed, and Puck stepped out to finish the man with a blast from his neurodart rifle, but suddenly toppled, crying out.

"Puck!" Slick cried, and Masters grabbed the small soldier, dragging him back behind the barricade again by the foot.

"You hit?"

"Christ." Puck groaned, sitting up. "Goddamn machinegun."

The Browning was lying in the hall, where it had struck the man. "Fuck that thing." Puck declared, stepping out again.

The gunner was still standing when Puck got there, the first of the team to enter. He scanned the man.

"Hey, Sarge, dude's out cold, standing!"

"Lay him down carefully."

"I want to dance with him!" The soldier lowered the gunner down, resisting the temptation to just poke him over.

Slick glanced up from another of the bodies, "Sarge, no Bishop."

Masters refocused his HUD, calling up a schematic, glancing at the highlighted zones, identifying two signals nearby. He flicked his eyes, closing the map out, pointing to the highlighted silhouettes behind the nearby door. "Squad, that's our boys."

Puck grinned. "So, uh, the bishop is in the closet?"

"Yes, Puck, and he likes your ass."

"Ah, thanks, Sarge. I was an altarboy."

Slick commented, "You? You didn't burst into flames near the holy water?"

"Alright, can it. Barricade at the door, send a bot to open it. We'll nade when the bot pulls their door open."

"Can't we send Hoop?"

"No."

They ducked behind the doorframe to the main room, Puck to the left, Slick and Masters to the right. Puck hurled the spybot into the room, and it oriented, rolling to the door.

"Ready!"

The bot extended a mandible, yanking open the bulkhead, and the grenades flew.

The door was pulled open and the sole remaining soldier had a split second to decide whether to fire on the bot or attempt a shot at the 'nades. He chose the bot which was promptly flung back out of the doorway from the force of the impact. As the 'nades passed over his shoulder he turned and jumped passed the churchman, flinging himself atop the devices to smother them. The Churchman, perhaps understandably confused and frustrated by the day's events, ran for the door raising his arms and yelling something totally unintelligible. As his arms came up, the voluminous sleeves fell back to reveal a pair of black and semi-blockish handguns. He was charging the only member of the boarding team he could see, an average-sized man holding a grenade launcher. The churchman brought his guns in line and held down the triggers. He started near the man's knees intending to let the recoil bring the guns up to his chest. However, once the Glock-18s began to spat fire at his target, he discovered how hard it was to have anything remotely resembling accuracy while running.