[b]?????[/b]

They were going South. Julio could see the sun's glare glowing through beneath the hatch separating the cockpit from the cargo bay, indicating that the plane was heading in a southerly direction. The bomber had been airborne for some time now; it had surely covered a great distance by now. Without any landmarks to see outside the windows - all painted over in thick gray paint - Julio could only guess the aircraft's heading and it's location. It had been maybe two hours? Three? Forty-five minutes? He had no concept of time anymore. That unknowable space of time he had spent in Arratzu's walls had ruined his mind's timekeeping ability.

He worried it had done more damage than that. The melange of drugs they injected directly into his brain, that horrible truth serum, very probably had a myriad of deleterious side effects that his interrogator had neglected to warn him of. And what of that antidote, the counter-drug they administered to keep Julio's mind from being destroyed too prematurely? What if that had been administered sloppily by his captors? Could it be possible that trace amounts of the truth serum remained in his very brain, left unchecked to slowly warp his mind until he was left an empty husk, a zombie? He had experienced frequent headaches, inexplicable twinges of stinging in his head, even random spasms of his digits and legs; all things he didn't remember experiencing before Arratzu. He wasn't sure if this was just hypochondria or if his fears of lingering truth serum were justified.

"You were in government." His neighbor, Joaquin, spoke up, giving Julio a friendly nudge to the elbow. "Got any ideas where this thing's going? There some sort of secret prison for political prisoners that I'm not aware of?" He asked in jest.

"South. Maybe West." Julio spoke up, galvanized out of his anxious thought. He nodded over to the yellow glow of sunlight shining into the fuselage from underneath the cockpit door. "We're flying into the sun. I imagine we're heading somewhere into the Mediterranean. Portugal, Italy, maybe Malta? Perhaps they've outsourced dedicated facilities for political prisoners to sympathetic countries?"

"Political prisoners?" Joaquin gasped in sarcastic, pretended surprise. "I thought we were all here because we had that virus!" Julio couldn't help but laugh; it was the first time he had laughed in as long as he could remember. Never before had Julio appreciated a sense of humor like Joaquin's, even under such bleak circumstances.

"I remember the voting for the authorization of funding the Ministry of Health's quarantine program. I see now that much of that went to financing the interrogation facilities we saw back at Arratzu. It makes you wonder what else we were bankrolling in the Senate under the guise of seemingly-innocuous legislation; just how many Arratzus we naively allowed to exist."

"Consider this, if it makes you feel any better. Look around, at all these people on this plane, get a sense of who they had to arrest and lock up back there. You have a [i]few[/i] people like you, Senator. People wanting to rock the boat, that really threatened the way things were starting to work in Madrid. It was only natural that they'd come after you. But then you have the other, what, nintety-nine percent of people who are on this plane. People like me who didn't give a shit about the powers that be. People whose regular work and daily routines were such a threat to this delicate order that the powers that be have built up over the years." 

"Our dear Prime Minister, Senor Sotelo, has made way too many enemies too quickly. Both at home and abroad, he's pissed off too many people and he's realized this. Arratzu is a way of disposing anything or anyone that can challenge him; but it's inefficient and sloppy as all Hell. Sooner than later, someone like you - someone who understands that things have to change and drastically at that - is going to catch wind of this. It's inevitable. Someone's going to figure out what Arratzu is, just what this quarantine is actually about, and there's going to be no amount of suppression that will keep the angry masses down. Arratzu is going to be death of that asshole Sotelo and I just wish we could live to see it."

"What did you actually do to get here?" Asked Julio. "What was it you did that was so threatening to the government?"

"I challenged the quarantine orders being procured by the Ministry of Health. You see, I was part of Madrid's Police Department before this whole situation. I discovered that the Ministry of Health was not only issuing quarantine orders, but actually taking these individuals suspected of being infected, all independent of any judge or input from the Ministry of Justice. Naturally, I came to the conclusion that these false arrests and had no legal merit. I spoke with the families and friends of those who were forcibly quarantined, and they couldn't understand why there would be any risk of them possessing that virus... it wasn't long before I was rounded up for [i]quarantine[/i] myself."

Sooner than Joaquin was allowed to continue, the bomber banked sharply and without warning onto its side, jerking the prisoner's down to the Earth to the right side of the fuselage. Prisoners seated in the right half of the cargo bay slammed against the hull as the propellers groaned and protested against the sharp maneuver. Above the anxious whelps and cries of the other passengers, Julio heard an angry hissing from outside the plane building rapidly to crescendo, followed immediately by a jarring blast and the sound of an explosion to the left of the aircraft. The concussive force of the blast rattled the plane to the core, throttling each and every rivet holding the craft together and jostling Julio's insides. Warning beeps from instrumentation in the cockpit complained angrily from the damage the airplane had sustained. An angry, roiling blaze could be heard roaring just outside the left half of the airplane. The propellers choked and groaned against the fire consuming the left engine pods before they surrendered with a popping sputter. Julio's stomach lurched up as he felt the plane begin to lose altitude.

"They shot us down!" Joaquin exclaimed over the terrified shouts of the fellow prisoners. "They must have been trying to fly us to China!" This time, Julio didn't care much for Joaquin's sense of humor. White knuckled hands seized the arms of his seat as he felt the plane tumble lower and lower.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! [i]La Cabeza[/i] come in, we are going down!" He heard shouted from the cockpit.

Julio felt the plane lurch upward one last time, and then another jarring crash as the tail of the aircraft smashed into the ground. A raucous screech rang through the interior of the airplane as the tail dragged across the ground, bringing the plane's belly down with it. The two working propellers on the right wing rattled and screeched as they were halted and ground down upon contact with the Earth. Then the belly hit the Earth in earnest, and the screeching scream of scraping metal was replaced at once by a deep, thunderous, bellowing sound like water being forced out of the way of something moving at tremendous speed. A positively fatal sound - Julio was certain that it would be the last thing he would ever hear. He ducked down into his lap and braced against the sudden impact that would surely end his life.

That impact came with a sudden lurch upward, and threatened to tear Julio out of his seat, but it did not end his life. Instead, it tore the nose of the bomber off of its body, as if it were made from wet paper. Wires and tubing swung down into the fuselage as the cockpit was torn off and shunted under the wing of the plane, eliciting a fresh round of panic and screaming. Before the prisoner's eyes - at least those whose eyes weren't clamped shut in horror - the front of the plane tore open to the world beyond, flooding the dim fuselage with orange light. Many of the blacked-out windows shattered in the crash, flooding the interior with light and dust.

So much dust and sand had poured into the fuselage as the aircraft continued skidding across the land. Julio could feel the plane grinding down to an eventual halt. The plane was twisting around against the wings, but even so, Julio dared not open his eyes. With one final bounce and a slight roll to the port side of the plane, it had at last come to a stop. At last, he opened his eyes tentatively, scarcely able to believe he was still alive. As soon as his eyelids opened, they were filled with dust. The air was completely laden with gritty, yellow airborne dust. He rubbed his eyes to squeeze the errant particles out of his eyes. All around him, the survivors coughed and wheezed as the dust invaded their lungs.

"Look, Senator!" Julio felt a familiar jab against his shoulder. "We made it! We made it!" Julio opened his eyes once again, as instructed. Some of the dust had settled, and he could see through a hazy veil the world beyond the wreckage. Through the hole in the fuselage where the cockpit had once been, Julio saw a trackless sea of sand dune stretching far beyond to a hazy mountain range far in the distance.

"I don't know where the Hell we we are, but it's not Arratzu and it's not wherever it was they were trying to take us. All things considered, I'm pretty pleased."

[b]Airspace over Port Said, Egypt[/b]

A deep, vibrating rumbling of the four propellers of a [i]Gargola[/i] bomber whirling in tandem was all that could be heard in the cargo bay. By the faint light of the fuselage's overhead bulbs, five spectral beings, clad in close-fitting black jumpsuits, picked through a wide assortment of tools and weapons splayed out across the floor of the aircraft in silent diligence. Munitions cartridges, grenades, pliers, screwdrivers, waxy blocks of plastic explosive, detcord, knives of every shape and function, battle dressing, antiseptic, battery packs, and more; every item was thoroughly inspected and placed within a heavy duffelbag. A tool for every conceivable task that their mission might require, and there was a great deal that would be required of them. The Spanish endeavor in Africa could very well hinge on that their success or lack thereof.

It was therefore only natural that the Cazadores would be assigned such a pivotal function.

They were the finest soldiers in the Spanish Army; the most thoroughly-trained warfighters in all the world. Whenever the Spanish Ejercito required a powerful expenditure of force delivered by an exponentially-smaller task force, or when discretion or delicacy was needed, the Cazadores provided the muscle for the diciest, most daring military operations. The training required for each of these five men to take part in this mission was daunting to understate. Brutal tests of endurance, mental stamina, and willpower had to be overcome. A year-long training regimen in the Spanish Pyrenees decimated all but six percent of enlistees. For those that withstood the hazing, for another nine years they were the property of the Spanish military. In exchange for their service, upon the conclusion of their combat career, they were assured handsome pay for the rest of their days. Their immediate families would be compensated, and would never pay a single peseta in taxes for their entire lives. In return, the Cazadores needed only to survive.

Captain Oliviero Jaco had survived. For ten years, he had served in Spain's most esteemed special forces unit. He had seen combat in Puerto Rico, the Tyrrhenian Sea. He had fought socialists in Helsinki and abducted military personnel in the Canadian Yukon. Since 1970, he had been sent the world over to see the will of three Prime Ministers meted out. Jaco's tour of duty was coming to a close. Were the hostilities with Ethiopia a month and a half later in coming to a head, he would be free from ever holding a weapon again. But the War for Africa was underway now, and there was no man more qualified for overseeing this mission, the final mission of his military career.

"Let's wrap up, everyone." Captain Jaco ordered, standing up and wiggling the duffelbag slung over his chest into a comfortable position. He looked himself over, ensuring the plastic anti-ballistic padding strapped over his jumpsuit was snug. He had become so accustomed to this pre-mission ritual, it was strange knowing that it would be last of his career. His comrades finished their gear inspection and stood up to sling their bags over their chests as well.

"Pilots tell me we're closing on the drop point." Jaco began, looking about the Cazadores under his command, briefly checking them over to ensure all appeared ready. "It's a six kilometer drop into an active battle. We'll have the cover of night, and the Armada has leveled any anti-aircraft capacity of hostile forces. That's a good thing, because we've got a small target to land on: one [i]ENS Aksum[/i]."

"How fucked are we if we happen to overshoot our landing?"

"Fairly fucked." Jaco stated plainly. "Good thing you won't miss."

"Understood."

"From there, we take the bridge and steam out of the canal and bail before the Armada reduces the ship to scrap metal. Any misunderstandings?"

"I hear you're something of a pirate, Captain. This is gonna be the second ship you've commandeered, no?" One of his companions chimed in.

"Right. I participated at the Battle of the Tyrrhenian Sea. We took the [i]Netunno[/i] and landed a hit on a Loyalist destroyer."

"Sounds like this should be a cakewalk in comparison."

"Hopefully not. I think we'd be out of a job pretty fast if any of this were easy." Captain Jaco dismissed as he glanced back to the cockpit and saw the pilot give the signal to prepare to drop. "Pop the hatch!"

The Cazadores stepped back from the center of the plane as gears beneath their feet winched a retractable door in the belly of the bomber up into the interior. A howling wind invaded the aircraft through the opening in the hull, buffeting them as they stood ready to drop down to the surface. As the bomb bay opened before them, an aerial hellscape burned several miles below. Fires and muzzle flashes demarcated the extent of the land in the encroaching darkness. Islands of clouds glowing blue in the moonlight would occasionally pass between the plane and the ground beneath, making the task of seeking out their target on the surface that much more difficult.

"I can't see a fucking thing for these clouds." A Cazador huffed as a puffy blue mass passed squarely between the plane and the city.

"Parachutes ready." Jaco ordered, ignoring the complaint. "When we pass through the clouds, release the chute. We'll glide around to find the ship if we have to. Stick close. We're not going to miss the [i]Aksum[/i]."

"With all due respect, Captain, I don't like the prospect of spending any more time in the air than we have to above an ongoing battle." Before the Captain could meet his response, the pilot turned in his seat and gave him a thumbs-up gesture. It was time.

"Safeties off!" Captain Jaco demanded. "Jump time!"

Without another word, the Cazadores flipped the safeties off their silencer-equipped carbines and stepped through the bomb bay into the swirling torrent of wind below. After the four others had gone before him, Captain Jaco pencil-dived through the bottom of the airplane and into the night. The howling gust immediately swallowed him and became a fierce buffeting setting every loose flap of his jumpsuit to flutter violently. He took a last glance up at the bomber rising farther and farther above him, watching for a second as the closing bomb bay doors shut out the warm glow of the aircraft's interior. With its strobes shut off, it banked hard and veered back westward toward Malta. They were on their own now.

The Captain redirected his attention back to his comrades, who he could see as faint, black silhouettes racing down into the moonlit cloud rising up to meet them. He locked his legs upright and held his arms against the firearm fighting against its strap to tumble in the wind, continuing his pencil dive and rocketing Earthward to form up with the rest of his squad. No sooner than he had formed up with his comrades, they pierced the upper surface of the cloud and tumbled through a hazy milkbottle for a few seconds. Droplets of moisture collected on his jumpsuit as he sank through the cloud, only to all wick off in the wind as they fell through the cloud's underside. As instructed, the others tore out the cord on their chute packs, instantly unfurling an elliptical gliding parachute. Jaco did the same and felt the familiar, reassuring tug on his back as his own chute deployed. He tugged on a pair of cables that descended from the parachute he dangled from, allowing him to guide his descent and bank to and fro.

Looking down, Jaco saw that they didn't have much more descent to work with. Muzzle flashes flashed in and out of the night less than a thousand feet beneath his legs. He heard mortars whistle through the air and saw the resultant explosions manifest amongst the ruins. His comrade was right to be worried about this stage of the descent. A single stray bullet or mortar shell now would spell disaster for the operation, perhaps the war itself. They needed to get their boots on the [i]Aksum[/i] before a lucky Ethiopian bullet found them.

Beneath the Captain's feet, a storm of muzzle flares scattered the night. Their flashes sparkled against the water of the canal, allowing him to orient himself. He banked over to the water's edge and rode the parachute's descend Southward down the canal's extent. There, straddling the canal like an iron colossus, was the [i]Aksum[/i]. Spotlights from her fore castle scanned the broken cityscape around it for any sign of Spanish assault. He could see Ethiopians walking around on the deck, or standing guard down below on the edge of the canal. But in the forecastle, framed in the bridge's windows and illuminated by its lighting, were the ship's officers.

With one final tug down on the front of the cables, he guided his descent directly into the glass of the bridge's windows. He could see petrified shock on the face of the captain and his officers as the Cazador sailed out of the night toward them. He leveled his carbine and let loose a volley of bullets from his carbine into the bridge. With a dozen [i]thwips[/i] form the silencer-tipped barrel, the bridge's windows fragmented into a series of spiderwebs which shattered effortlessly against his weight as he crashed through the window and tumbled into the bridge amidst a pile of glass shards and Ethiopian officers. The [i]Aksum's[/i] captain, reeling from a bullet buried into his arm, reached with his good hand for a pistol holstered on his side. Before he could dispatch the Cazador, a black, gloved hand seized the African by the neck, his spent firearm dangling at his side. He pressed the Captain against the wall and pressed down against his throat with all his might. The Ethiopian fought viciously against his assailant until his windpipe collapsed under the Cazador's vicelike grip. Unceremoniously he allowed the [i]Aksum's[/i] captain to tumble to the floor, his face now a dark shade of purple. The bridge was his to command now.

As he made his way to the myriad of consoles at the vessel's helm, he witnessed his comrades come down onto the deck of the [i]Aksum[/i] amidst a volley of silent bullets. A hail of lead that was announced by no report, but fell upon the Ethiopian soldiers and clanged and sparked against the steel of the ship all the same. Under their withering fire, the remaining Cazadores touched down on the prow of the vessel. At once, they disconnected themselves from their chutes and took firing positions. Still unsure of what was going on, or even unaware that they were under attack, the Ethiopian soldiers on the bank of the canal came under a hail bullets coming down from the sides of their own warship. It was not long before unsilenced reports responded to the almost-inaudible [i]thwip[/i] of the Cazadores' rounds. Even so, many Africans had fallen in the confusion. The first strike had been played out to its full extent, the Ethiopians would now fight fiercely to keep the [i]Aksum[/i] or, failing that, scuttle it in the canal. Under the cover of suppressive fire, an entire regiment of Ethiopian soldiers could be seen fighting their way to the ship's gangplank to that end.

On the console beneath him, the Cazador saw the engine's throttle, a sliding lever pivoting about a semicircular base. Seizing the handle, he pushed the throttle as far forward as it could go. Immediately, the engine beneath him rumbled to life as its pistons were infused with diesel lifeblood. The [i]Aksum[/i] lurched forward as its propellers cut the water behind it into an angry froth. The gangplank slid out from under the Ethiopians as the ship steamed forward at full speed, spilling them all into the canal below. The anchor bit down into the silty bottom the waterway, but ultimately gave way under the force of the fully-throttled engine. The [i]Aksum[/i] charged forward through to the mouth of the canal, into the open maw of the Spanish Armada. With the boarding party put paid, his companions on the deck fanned out toward the superstructure and filed inside.

As the Ethiopian flagship advanced through the canal, it was jarred by a sharp bang ringing against the prow of the vessel, the aft point of the ship shot upward as the vessel literally screeched to a grinding halt. The ship had run aground on the debris planted by the Ethiopians. The Cazador captain pulled back on the throttle and threw the lever into reverse, hoping that the vessel would free itself from whatever obstruction was on the bottom of the canal, even if the propellers were far less powerful in reverse.

[i]//Captain.//[/i] He heard one of his men call out over the radio headset on his ears. [i]//We've run into a problem down here in the hold.//[/i]

"I saw. We've run aground on some debris. It's probable the whole canal has been littered with obstructions. It's going to take some time to reverse off of it. In the meantime, we'll need to hold our position and keep hostile forces from attempting to sink this ship, which they will attempt to do now that they have lost control of it."

[i]//No, it's not that. I'm afraid we have another problem.//[/i]

"And that is?..."

[i]//That the ship is rigged to blow.//[/i]