06-20-2014, 12:59 PM
Jacques attention never left the video feeds of his men's cameras. There was nothing more he could do with the satellite feeds; CCD commanders were relaying that to their own troops on the ground now. His men were committed. There was no chance to outmaneuver his enemy now. They were dug in, and would hold as long as they were needed to. The longer the VTOLs and he remained, the longer they needed to suffer through.
He managed a brief grin at Dr Weston's quip, then nodded his farewell to both Michael and the good Doctor. He would likely see neither again; he had no desire to set foot in the CCD again. They had their mess to clean, and he had his own...and he did not know whom would have it worse.
The next wave of VTOLs took off, and once clear, the APCs that had arrived with the convoy bound from the prison were detonated. The Legionnaires had limited access to explosives, but they made do well with what they did have. Weapon systems were destroyed, engine blocks cracks, axles sheared. And then they were set aflame. There would be nothing the enemy could salvage.
The same was done with the crates of useless ammunition. Dumped into ditches away from the landing area, they were detonated in series, a row of manageable detonations scrapping the CCD mortar and rifle rounds. Rifles too were destroyed, and scraps of gear thrown into the burning vehicles; body armour stripped from the wounded, bits of uniform. Knives. Anything. The insurgents would find the airport to be naught but scorched earth and their own dead.
The VTOL Michael and Dr Weston boarded departed, and only Jacques and Lieutenant Colonel Romanov, whom stalked towards Jacques through the haze of smoke. "Mercenary! Who gave you permission to damage government property?!"
The man was angry over the destruction of the armoured personnel carriers and ammunition, and was backed by a more junior officer and a bloodied Sergeant. Jacques turned to face the three as they closed on him, but did not speak.
"Answer me, civilian. This is my command now!"
The man was larger then Jacques in stature and weight; mostly carried around the gut. He had likely been given his command more for administrative skill then martial prowess. Exactly what was to be expected of someone delegated to the unaccredited task of warden of a secret prison. Perhaps in his prime, the man had been more physically adept. The classic tale of washed out college football players in America. Remembered their prime, and no connection to their present wasted state.
Jacques' hand squeezed slowly into a fist, thumb brushing the grip of his holstered pistol. The screens on his Landwarriors were filled with the images of his men dying so this bastard would live. But they didn't do it for the Lieutenant Colonel. They did it for the civilians. For the cause.
"Sergeant! Arrest this man for acts of terrorism against the Custody of..."
His words ended in a strangled scream of pain as two of Jacques' knuckles impacted with the man's bulging throat. The windpipe buckled, and a few ounces more pressure and it would have collapsed entirely. The man's death would have been entirely unpleasant and slow; the only medics left were of the Legion, and they were already loading onto VTOLs to escape.
The large officer dropped to his knees, grasping his throat and gasping in pain and surprise. The Sergeant and junior officer both blanched at the display, and the young officer scrambled for his holstered pistol. The weapon had never been drawn in anger, if Jacques' hadn't missed his guess. The holster was brand new, without any sign of wear or tear; likely drawn from the armoury before they abandoned their prison.
Jacques glanced at the Sergeant; the man seemed reasonable, and with a half dozen Legionnaires at his back the man clearly saw how this would play out. The CCD had far more troops on the ground, but the LCol, junior officer, and the Sergeant himself would all be dead long before the firefight was resolved. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed the junior officer's arm, cursing him to stand down.
"Take this waste of flesh and quit the field, Hauptmann. Enough men are dying today for this man's indecision."
Had the LCol moved his men and the high-priority prisoners to the airport, or better still, the navy base to the southwest, when the call to evacuate high-profile civilians had been sounded, none of this would have happened in the first place, and his men would not have needed to hold and die so the evacuation could be completed.
The pair nodded their compliance, the young captain urged on by the more experienced Sergeant, and they grabbed the fallen Lieutenant Colonel Romanov and started dragging/carrying him towards the last of the VTOLs.
A few short minutes later, Jacques stood at the base of the steps into his jet, staring south. The line still held, miraculously, but it was fading fast. He could see movement in the darkness, of enemy combatants running on foot across the open stretch of ground towards the landing area where the VTOLs were escaping from. The enemy was beginning to break through, although thankfully the destruction wrought by Michael had hindered their efforts to get vehicles onto the airport.
"To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die."
One of his men informed him of their uninvited guests, and he glanced up the steps briefly before he lowered himself to one knee. He drew his knife and sliced the palm of his left hand deeply, before grabbing a fist of sand and dirt, working the soil into the open wound. "My childrens' blood stains this soil, Sergent. This night shall forever haunt me."
He stood, and turned to board the jet, accepting a handkerchief from the Sergent as he ducked through the low hatch.
"But we shall draw strength from this." He smiled tiredly to the Sergent, ignoring the two guests that would now be accompanying him to Sierra Leone. "Forward all video feed to the PR department, then scrub all the lost Landwarriors. I want those to be nothing but hunks of plastic. What has happened here will not be summed up in some few nicely polished buzz words for the media to spew on about."
He beat his good hand against the door to the cockpit, "Away. Sierra Leone."
The engines were already running, and the steps were drawn up, the hatch closed and sealed even as the plane taxi'd onto a stretch of runway still clear enough for the private jet to take off.
He walked deeper into the jet where some of his men worked to secure the equipment and stored mortars, past the wounded American and his tiger of a guard, ignoring them both as he jerked open the liquour cabinet. A bottle of very fine scotch was pulled forth, and a splash was dropped onto his bandaged hand which curled into a fist in response, then another splash was put to a glass. The bottle was secured, the glass taken in his bad hand, and with his good he grabbed an overhead compartment to balance himself. He remained standing as the plane took off, gazing out the windows that would soon show him his last images of his dying men, of Jeddah, and the fires of Mecca in the distance.
God willing, he would never step foot in the CCD again.
He managed a brief grin at Dr Weston's quip, then nodded his farewell to both Michael and the good Doctor. He would likely see neither again; he had no desire to set foot in the CCD again. They had their mess to clean, and he had his own...and he did not know whom would have it worse.
The next wave of VTOLs took off, and once clear, the APCs that had arrived with the convoy bound from the prison were detonated. The Legionnaires had limited access to explosives, but they made do well with what they did have. Weapon systems were destroyed, engine blocks cracks, axles sheared. And then they were set aflame. There would be nothing the enemy could salvage.
The same was done with the crates of useless ammunition. Dumped into ditches away from the landing area, they were detonated in series, a row of manageable detonations scrapping the CCD mortar and rifle rounds. Rifles too were destroyed, and scraps of gear thrown into the burning vehicles; body armour stripped from the wounded, bits of uniform. Knives. Anything. The insurgents would find the airport to be naught but scorched earth and their own dead.
The VTOL Michael and Dr Weston boarded departed, and only Jacques and Lieutenant Colonel Romanov, whom stalked towards Jacques through the haze of smoke. "Mercenary! Who gave you permission to damage government property?!"
The man was angry over the destruction of the armoured personnel carriers and ammunition, and was backed by a more junior officer and a bloodied Sergeant. Jacques turned to face the three as they closed on him, but did not speak.
"Answer me, civilian. This is my command now!"
The man was larger then Jacques in stature and weight; mostly carried around the gut. He had likely been given his command more for administrative skill then martial prowess. Exactly what was to be expected of someone delegated to the unaccredited task of warden of a secret prison. Perhaps in his prime, the man had been more physically adept. The classic tale of washed out college football players in America. Remembered their prime, and no connection to their present wasted state.
Jacques' hand squeezed slowly into a fist, thumb brushing the grip of his holstered pistol. The screens on his Landwarriors were filled with the images of his men dying so this bastard would live. But they didn't do it for the Lieutenant Colonel. They did it for the civilians. For the cause.
"Sergeant! Arrest this man for acts of terrorism against the Custody of..."
His words ended in a strangled scream of pain as two of Jacques' knuckles impacted with the man's bulging throat. The windpipe buckled, and a few ounces more pressure and it would have collapsed entirely. The man's death would have been entirely unpleasant and slow; the only medics left were of the Legion, and they were already loading onto VTOLs to escape.
The large officer dropped to his knees, grasping his throat and gasping in pain and surprise. The Sergeant and junior officer both blanched at the display, and the young officer scrambled for his holstered pistol. The weapon had never been drawn in anger, if Jacques' hadn't missed his guess. The holster was brand new, without any sign of wear or tear; likely drawn from the armoury before they abandoned their prison.
Jacques glanced at the Sergeant; the man seemed reasonable, and with a half dozen Legionnaires at his back the man clearly saw how this would play out. The CCD had far more troops on the ground, but the LCol, junior officer, and the Sergeant himself would all be dead long before the firefight was resolved. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed the junior officer's arm, cursing him to stand down.
"Take this waste of flesh and quit the field, Hauptmann. Enough men are dying today for this man's indecision."
Had the LCol moved his men and the high-priority prisoners to the airport, or better still, the navy base to the southwest, when the call to evacuate high-profile civilians had been sounded, none of this would have happened in the first place, and his men would not have needed to hold and die so the evacuation could be completed.
The pair nodded their compliance, the young captain urged on by the more experienced Sergeant, and they grabbed the fallen Lieutenant Colonel Romanov and started dragging/carrying him towards the last of the VTOLs.
A few short minutes later, Jacques stood at the base of the steps into his jet, staring south. The line still held, miraculously, but it was fading fast. He could see movement in the darkness, of enemy combatants running on foot across the open stretch of ground towards the landing area where the VTOLs were escaping from. The enemy was beginning to break through, although thankfully the destruction wrought by Michael had hindered their efforts to get vehicles onto the airport.
"To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die."
One of his men informed him of their uninvited guests, and he glanced up the steps briefly before he lowered himself to one knee. He drew his knife and sliced the palm of his left hand deeply, before grabbing a fist of sand and dirt, working the soil into the open wound. "My childrens' blood stains this soil, Sergent. This night shall forever haunt me."
He stood, and turned to board the jet, accepting a handkerchief from the Sergent as he ducked through the low hatch.
"But we shall draw strength from this." He smiled tiredly to the Sergent, ignoring the two guests that would now be accompanying him to Sierra Leone. "Forward all video feed to the PR department, then scrub all the lost Landwarriors. I want those to be nothing but hunks of plastic. What has happened here will not be summed up in some few nicely polished buzz words for the media to spew on about."
He beat his good hand against the door to the cockpit, "Away. Sierra Leone."
The engines were already running, and the steps were drawn up, the hatch closed and sealed even as the plane taxi'd onto a stretch of runway still clear enough for the private jet to take off.
He walked deeper into the jet where some of his men worked to secure the equipment and stored mortars, past the wounded American and his tiger of a guard, ignoring them both as he jerked open the liquour cabinet. A bottle of very fine scotch was pulled forth, and a splash was dropped onto his bandaged hand which curled into a fist in response, then another splash was put to a glass. The bottle was secured, the glass taken in his bad hand, and with his good he grabbed an overhead compartment to balance himself. He remained standing as the plane took off, gazing out the windows that would soon show him his last images of his dying men, of Jeddah, and the fires of Mecca in the distance.
God willing, he would never step foot in the CCD again.