Byrd Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I'll be on Steam later tonight after I get home from work.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Plus, keep in mind what the US might do if more of their neighbours went red. ;)

@Space Communist

One thing to keep in mind if you do pick up Mexico is that a few posts ago I had the Secretary of State in Mexico City on a goodwill trip to ease tensions between the two countries. I haven't revisited it since, but a chance for stable relations is on the table.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I'll admit I'm not a fan of the Native uprising. If we went through with it, this would be the third time a portion of the US attempted to break free in the last ten years. The US is finally at a point to where it's back to mostly being the country it used to be and I would really like to keep it intact at least for a little while. Plus, just from looking at the population figures of the US in 1980 only about .06 percent of the people in the census were Native Americans. That's a lot but not enough to take a significant amount of territory and continuously keep it out of enemy hands. Granted this is alternate history we're doing and this version of 1980 is different than the one we knew, but I still don't imagine a large enough Native force could pose enough of a threat to the US to get independence.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Fort Norman Cascadia Territory Hank Kelly sipped lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup and pined for DC. At the Campus in Alexandria they really knew how to brew a cup of Joe. These Army guys could kick serious ass, but their gourmet skills were severely lacking. Hank drained the coffee from the cup and tossed it into a wastepaper basket as he walked down Fort Norman’s beige colored corridors. A general fatigue was setting into his bones, unsurprising since he had been up for nearly twenty hours at this point. Hank had been in a meeting yesterday evening with the rest of the analysts in the Company’s Canada Section when he D/CO called him up to his office. As a senior analyst in the department, the Deputy had picked him to go up north for the op. He was able to leave the Campus and stay home long enough to eat dinner and pack a bag before he told Tiff and the boys he had to go away on business. Tiff understood. She had been a Company wife for fifteen years now. He caught a ride on a military transport out of Andrews Field at five this morning. Twelve hours in the air and a three-hour car ride and here he was, puttering around the military intelligence offices of the base and waiting for Pat and whatever he was able to find at Bragg. Yawning, he found a couch in an empty office off the main hallway. Hank checked the watch on his wrist before stretching out on the couch. He unknotted his tie and kicked off his shoes before he closed his eyes. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” Hank opened his eyes and saw Pat Connelly staring down at him with a smirk. “How long have I been asleep?” Hank mumbled to himself, checking his watch. Four hours had passed since he closed his eyes. “Damn… when did you guys get in?” “Ten minutes ago,” Pat said as he helped Hank to his feet. “Good to see you again, Hank.” Pat was Hank’s opposite number in the Operations Directorate. Hank rode a desk while Pat was an actual intelligence officer out in the field. The two men had known each other for nearly ten years and were practically neighbors since they lived two blocks away from each other Georgetown and their kids went to the same school. “So what did you get?” Hank asked with a yawn. “I think I got us a winner. They’re an A-Team with experience in the region from the war. High marks in all their fitness reports. Their NCO is solid as a rock.” “Good.” Hank tried to pat some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. He gave up and started tying his necktie back in place. “Give me a chance to get some coffee and I’ll be ready for a briefing.” Vancouver Arthur shifted uneasily in the small bed. Joanna stirred on his left and rolled over with her back to him. He looked over at her and felt something he couldn’t quite articulate. Was it love? Regret? Sadness? Maybe it was all three. He joined the Friends because they seemed to have all the answers he was looking for. They were smart and passionate, and they liked him. Alex and Chris liked him and Joanna… well, she was sleeping next to him in bed wasn’t she? He felt like he belonged to something. But was it something he wanted to be part of? Arthur had his reservations about the robberies and the bombings, but Alex had kept true to his word that nobody would get hurt. What they were doing was criminal, but it served a purpose. They had to show the imperialist they were serious. Their methods seemed to be working since the media was reporting general unrest in the territory. The Friends could be the spark that ignited the dynamite… but it was all in danger of being thrown off course. Everyone knew what VX was and what it could do. This wasn’t bombing an empty office building or even kidnapping some Army technical sergeant. VX was made for one thing only, and that one thing was killing people in en mass in a horrible way. Joanna shifted again, resting her head on Arthur’s chest. He thought of a third option while he listened to her steady breathing. So far, Alex had kept her and Chris in the dark about the VX option. He could force the issue, confront Alex and talk some sense into him, force him to abandon the plan if necessary. But then there was that gigantic man who wore sunglasses even in the middle of the night, the man with the fake name who talked slow and deliberate to cover up an accent. Who was he, and how had he gotten his hands on VX. More importantly, how would he feel if the Friends backed out of the bombing? USS Ranger Sixteen Miles North-Northeast of New York City Colonel Wallace Lee’s stomach did summersaults as he approached the jet waiting on the flight deck. Carrier sorties were nothing new to Wallace, especially jet sorties.Ranger and the three nearby aircraft carriers had been built just for jet sorties like this. The runway was more compact due to the jet engines achieving lift faster. While he was among the Marine Corps’ senior most aviators, he was still new to the jet technology like everyone else. The majority of his career in the Corps was spent on the prop planes. He had heard of the jet engine scuttlebutt for years now until it finally became a reality five years ago. Resting on the deck was the FJ Mark 2. It was so new it didn't even have a catchy nickname. It was a silver, snub-nosed little thing with two fixed wings that came off the fuselage at a severe angle. It didn’t look like much, but it could book it like nobody’s business. All the military eggheads and crash test dummies had done the work in the desert, but today would be the first time the Mark 2 launched from a carrier. Along with Wallace’s plane, the USS Eric Fernandez and the USS Saratoga had Mark 2’s waiting on their deck to launch. The sortie mission was to launch and fly over New York before landing back on the Ranger’s deck. Cameras present on the deck, inside the jet, and placed throughout he city would document the jets on their trip. That footage would be distributed to the media for national and international use. The message was a simple one: One more weapon had been added to the US’s ever growing arsenal. The flight crew helped Wallace into the jet and handed him his helmet. He strapped in while they prepared the jet and the deck for takeoff. “Ranger Actual to Linebacker,” Captain Lopez said over the radio. “How’s it feeling in there?” “Good. It could use a cigarette lighter, though.” “I’ll be sure to pass that news along to the boys at Skunkworks. I’m passing the mic over to Admiral Boyce.” “Colonel Lee? I’ll be brief. I just want to say good luck, we’re all counting on you. Boyce out.” Lopez signed off, leaving Wallace to go through pre-flight checks before he started the engine. The Mark 2’s single engine roared to life. Wallace took a deep breath and looked to his side. The flight crew had the hydraulic catapult ready to shoot him forward off the deck. He showed them the thumbs-up. The crew chief returned the thumbs-up and gave the signal. In the blink of an eye, Wallace and the Mark 2 were shot down the runway at high speed. He gripped the yoke with one hand, the throttle with the other. As soon as he heard the clank of the catapult bolt disconnecting, Wallace gunned the throttle and pulled back on the yoke. He climbed into the air and banked to the left, seeing Ranger and the rest of the carrier task force hundreds of feet below him. “Linebacker 1 to Linebacking corps. Linebackers fall in.” Linebacker 2, the pilot from the Fernandez replied with the affirmative, followed by Saratoga’s pilot Linebacker 3. The two FJ’s fell in behind Wallace. The three jets circled around the three carriers and watched their instruments. The uncertainty from earlier was replaced with excitement when he saw the speeds he was travelling. “Holy shit. Five hundred and fifty miles an hour, I’ve never gone that fast.” “Linebacker 2 to Linebacker 1, everything on my end looks good.” “Linebacker 3, I roger that.” “Okay, fellas. Let’s take these bad boys into the city. Tell ya what, last one back to their carrier is a rotten egg.” Wallace punched the throttle down and broke away from the other two pilots as he raced towards New York City. Senate Chamber US Capitol Building Washington, D.C. “’At the mention of his youngest daughter’s name, Mr. Bennet shook his head.’” Jim Sanderson, the junior senator from Georgia, read the words of Jane Austen with his syrupy South Georgia drawl. “’Although quite pretty, Lydia was a lively headstrong girl prone to a breathiness of speech and a most peculiar fondness for raising up the hems of her gowns to rub her lower half against objects and furnishings and, to the embarrassment of all parties concerned, young officers…’“ Sanderson stood next to his desk and read while a skeleton crew of clerks sat at the dais to record the words. From the entrance of the chamber, Russell watched Sanderson with a scowl. The Southern filibuster was now in its twentieth hour. Before Jim, Louisiana’s Jeff Murphy and Mississippi’s Barry McCall had spoken until their voices were raw. Jim taking part in the filibuster was particularly galling to Russell. Jim had taken Russell’s seat in the Senate after he had resigned to be Vice-President. It was on Russell’s recommendation that Governor Taliaferro had appointed Jim. Russell had promised to help him out this summer in the special election to serve out the rest of the term’s four years, but that was off the table. Both Jim and Herbert Tallmadge, Georgia’s other senator, had sided with the Southern bloc in the filibuster fight. It made Russell look weak that he couldn’t control the people from his own state. Fuming, Russell stalked off from the chamber and made a beeline to Wilbur Helms’ office. The two Secret Service agents assigned to him tried to keep up as Russell rushed down the marble halls. The ancient solon was standing behind his desk preparing to leave for the day when Russell burst in. Helms smiled, showing a full mouth of his yellow teeth. “Come to surrender?” Helms asked brightly. “I am a good winner, Russ. I won’t require you to bend the knee.” “You misunderstand, Wilbur. I’ve come to accept your surrender.” Helms cocked a gray eyebrow upward and sat back down in his chair. It took him a moment to comprehend what Russell was saying. A leathery hand scratched his slicked back silver hair while he spoke. “That a joke or something, son? Because I don’t rightly get it. From where I’m sitting, I hold all the cards. I got eight other senators that can get up on that floor and speak until their goddamn gums bleed. The entire legislative machinery of the United States government is at our control.” “It is,” said Russell. “And that’s why you’re gonna stop. You’re gonna come to the realization that, with the current state of global affairs, hijacking the government’s ability to create legislation is tantamount to treason. You’re gonna realize that in most of the world, you and the rest of the Southerners would have been hanged for trying to pull this shit. That’s why you’re gonna do the right thing and call the filibuster off.” “Make me,” snarled the old man. “Use all your power at your disposal to make me do it, you son of a bitch. At the end of the day, I do not give a flying fuck about this military bill. I do not want you and your goddamn Yankees interfering with my state. It ain’t personal, it’s politics.” Silence settled in as the two men stared at each other. Helms’ steely blue eyes refused to blink or look away as Russell stared forward. Finally, Russell blinked and stepped backwards. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “’Warm bucket of piss,’” he mumbled. “What’s that, son?” “’Warm bucket of piss’, isn’t that what you said the other week about what the Vice Presidency is worth?” “That’s right,” Helms said smugly. “There’s truth to that. Constitutionally, I can’t do jack squat to convince you to do the right thing. But… here’s the thing about almost all the men who end up becoming the Vice President. They were all experience politicians. They didn’t have power, but they knew what to do with it if they had it. It’s the same with me. There is not a goddamn thing I can do to convince you in my role as Vice President. But as a politician.” Russell sat down in the chair opposite Helms and leaned forward with his arms on the desk. He started to speak before chuckling. “You know, Wilbur, we both grew up pretty close to each other. Where I’m from in Georgia, Lavonia, is just a few hours away from your hometown in South Carolina. Edgefield, right?” “That’s right.” “Back when I first got to the Senate, I took a trip down there one weekend. I knew who you were and knew all about what you could do for me in the Senate. I wanted to learn more, so I went searching. I found something mighty interesting, Wilbur. I found Catherine Turman.” The old man’s face turned so white so quickly that, had it not been for his wheezing breaths, Russell would have thought he had just died. A smile crept onto Russell’s face as he pressed on. “You remember Catherine? Swell negro lady who teaches school at the colored school in town. She looks more on the biracial side, you ask me. Funny thing about that, there is no daddy listed on her birth certificate. Her momma was your housekeeper back in the day.” “Russell—“ “She got a fine education down at that negro college in Columbia, Benedict College right? According to her, it was a memorial scholarship as part of the Wilburn Helms Foundation. The thing is, I don’t remember you having a charity like that, especially one that gives scholarships to negro gals. Apparently, that same foundation helped Ms. Turman’s mother out after she left your employ.” “Russ, please—“ Russell smiled and leaned back. He thoroughly enjoyed the desperate tone in the old man’s voice.“I can’t do anything to get your cooperation as VP, you are right about that. But as a politician? I still know how to hit you where it hurts. Just imagine all the papers if this gets out. Wilbur Helms, the stalwart defender of Southern rights and segregation… has a half-black daughter. Not only that, but he's been running a slush fund to keep that half-black baby and the baby's momma up.” “Russ, son…,” Helms said, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “You can’t do that. It would ruin my career… my legacy! It would ruin… her life. This isn’t right, this is blackmail!” “It’s just politics,” Russ said with a wink. “And if you want this to stay buried, call off the filibuster and let the NEWI bill pass.” “You son of a bitch… You’ve known this for ten years?” “More or less. It’s always good to have something your back pocket when someone won’t play ball.” “This doesn’t mean any other civil rights bill will pass through this body. I would rather die than see that come to pass.” “Be careful what you wish for.” Russell stood and looked down at the wheezing, crying old man who just a few minutes ago said he had all the cards. “Cheer up, Wilbur. Catherine and her husband gave birth a few months ago. Let me be the first to congratulate you on being a granddaddy." Russell adjusted his tie and checked his watch. "I understand it’s almost too late in the evening to wake the rest of the walking dead that make up the Southern Caucus, but I expect I’ll hear that the filibuster has officially ended tomorrow morning, and the good men of the Senate can go about their duty of passing legislation. Have a good night, Senator.” Fort Norman Cascadia Territory “Operation Cruiser.” The chubby, middle-aged man in the wrinkled shirt and tie stood in front of Silas and his A-team for their briefing. Unlike the CIA agent known to Silas as Smith, this man looked more like an office worker than a Company man. He hadn’t even bothered to give Silas and the men a fake name, instead he just said he was Company and got right into the briefing. To the man’s right was Smith, sitting and watching impassively while he smoked a cigarette. “With the recent unrest in the territory, we’ve been given a green light for this joint CIA-DoD operation. Simply put, we’re terrorist hunting. These people who call themselves the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty have yet to hurt someone, but they will eventually. This activity falls under the purview of the FCB and the territorial police, but this is special circumstances.” “The FCB doesn’t trust the territorial police,” Smith added. “They’ll probably be spending most of their time mole hunting instead of trying to find the bombers.” “Technically Mr. Smith and I aren’t supposed to be here. A CIA operation on US soil violates our charter. That’s why this is a DoD operation. Since this is a US territory under military occupation, you boys have free reign to be here. Cruiser’s head, nominally, is the base commander here, Brigadier General Johnson. He’ll work with us and provide us with whatever we need, but for all intents and purposes this operation is being run by CIA. We provide the intelligence, coordinate with the Campus back in Alexandria, but you five will be the boots on the ground and Sergeant Crystal has the final say on any ground action, we’re committed to this being a joint command. Since you are soldiers, you are not held to the same standards as law enforcement. They have to make arrests and trials. You boys aren’t in that same boat. Simply put, if we find these terrorist first you have orders to take them out.” “Terminate...,” Smith said, before adding, “Terminate... With extreme prejudice."

DC Universe: Age of Heroes (Dead)

I don't think it matters to much if he's older than the rest because he's not a hero in the same way the rest of them are, doesn't really matter if he's been active before them but I can tinker with it. I thought I did a fair job modernizing the character since I kept major points of his backstory intact and I modernized the character without having to change much. He's a roaming bounty hunter in the comics, and he's a roaming bounty hunter here. The idea of transposing these wild west characters, with all the tropes and themes that come along with the genre, into a modern setting is much more interesting than just simple time travel. If this is what modern-day Hex looks like, what would modern-day Scalphunter or Bat Lash be doing? That's something I want to explore, the ideas and the mythology of the old west violently juxtaposed with our own modern times. As for fitting inside the universe, this a world where we already have vigilantes with superpowers and colorful costumes. A guy with a messed up face doing skip traces doesn't seem that far out of line.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I am a damn good stick figure artist if that helps.

DC Universe: Age of Heroes (Dead)

Throwing this out there.

Byrd's Sheet

Character: Jonah Hex Age: 31 Appearance: Powers/Abilities: No powers, but Hex is an expert tracker and hunter as well as an excellent shot. Weaknesses: Bullets, knives, poison, good looking women. Backstory/origins: Jonah Hex was born in the mid 80's and abandoned as a newborn at the Black Cherry Indian Reservation in New Mexico. All that was known about the baby was the name pinned to his diaper: Jonah Hex. He was taken in by a local family in the rez. Hex was a favorite of the family's patriarch and reservation chief, Thomas Eagle Feather. Eagle Feather taught Hex how to hunt, shoot, and track a wide variety of animals. While Hex lived with the Eagle Feather family, the Black Cherry Reservation slowly withered away around them. The poor Native Americans who lived there were leaving their once proud homeland to seek jobs elsewhere, those that stayed behind were old men and drunks. Thomas Eagle Feather, seeing his beloved reservation crumbling, succumbed to alcoholism and became a violent abuser as the years went on. When Hex turned 18, he left the reservation never to return. Unable to find work off the rez, Hex joined the Army. Hex served as a corporal in the Army, under Company CO Jack Turnbull. Hex's regiment was dispatched to Afghanistan shortly after he completed basic. While there Hex stumbled upon Turnbull raping and torturing a young Afghan girl. Hex and Turnbull fought, with Turnbull permanently disfiguring Hex in the fight. Using his assault rifle, Hex shot the man dead. He lied about the circumstances of Turnbull's death, saying the Afghan girl killed Turnbull with his own gun while he watched. Hex was given an other than honorable discharge from the Army and came back to America, unsure of what to do and where to go. It was while he was in Kentucky, drowning his troubles in a bottle that he found the answer. He was at a bar one night when he saw a man arrested by a bounty hunter. After a lot of thought and consideration, Hex went about applying for a bounty hunter's license. Now Hex roams the country, seeking out only the highest risk and highest paying bounties. If you're wanted by someone and they want you bad enough, Jonah Hex will find you. Arc ideas: 3:10 to Prarie Rose: On a skiptrace, Hex goes to an Indian reservation in South Dakota to find a wanted gambler. Things get... complicated when the man is found and he has dirt on the Rez chief. Treasure of the Sierra Madre Trailer Park: There's meth in them thar hills. Tracking a wanted man to the Ozarks, Hex must navigate an ever-shifting series of alliances with the local crime bosses in order to find the man he seeks. Once Upon a Time in the South: In Florida, Hex is in a race against both the feds and the mob to find a mafia capo turned stool pigeon who slipped away into the night with a cool five million in cash. EXTRA! Sample post. South Dakota The Prairie Rose Indian Reservation. It's where the government sent the Sioux to die. That night was the first time I stepped foot on any rez since I left Black Cherry all those years ago. I told Belle a thousand times I don't do Indian work, especially skiptraces. Damn woman went ahead and told them I was coming. She said the money was worth it. Once a whore, always a whore. I drove my pick-up down the road to the Prairie Rose Indian Casino. In the parking lot a bunch of teenagers tried their best to stare me down and look tough. One look at my face and they scattered, pissing their pants and running home to their mommas. There were a lot of long stares once I entered the casino. Blackjack dealers eyed me and flinched before they quickly go back to their business. Half naked drink girls dressed as squaws walked by and quickly looked away shuddering. A young boy with an eyepatch gaped at me while he pushed a mop bucket down the hall. This was a casino in South Dakota, so they had to have seen their fair share of shady looking white trash, but nothing like me apparently. "Who the fuck are you?" A big Indian with piercings in his nose and ears asked. "Lookin' for Red Crow." "What's your business, you ugly motherfucker?" I scowled and sucked my teeth, before tilting my hat back. He was big, bigger than me by at least two inches and thirty pounds. He also had ten years youth on his side. All things considered he'd whoop my ass in a fair fight. But since when do I play fair? "Nice earrings," said with a smirk. "Especially the ones on your right ear. When I was growin' up, I was told that only men of a certain...sexual persuasion, wore earrings in their right ear." The big man started to walk towards me. My hands instinctively went to the brass knuckles in my right hip pocket. Like I said, I ain't one for fair fighting. "Shunka, cut this shit out." Shunka stopped in his tracks and turned. A large man with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail with a cigar in his hands stood at the entrance to an office, a large scowl on his face. "Our friend here is the bounty hunter." "That's right," I said. "Name's Jonah Hex." "I'm Chief Lincoln Red Crow, welcome to Prairie Rose." I looked at Shunka warily. "Thanks for the warm welcome." "Shunka, search him for weapons. Then bring him back." Shunka began to pat me down, pulling my .45 from the small of my back, the switchblade from my left pocket, the brass knuckles in my right pocket, the .38 on my left ankle, and the Bowie knife in my right boot. "Looked like you had yourself a good time, Shunka," I said with a wink. "Fuck you, white boy." I followed Red Crow and Shunka back to his office. Lots of Indian artifacts, newspaper articles about the Wounded Knee standoff, some more articles about something called Dog Soldiers. I sat down across the desk from Red Crow and wait while he lit up another cigar. "Shunka, go find Bad Horse. I need to see him. " Shunka scurried off and closed the door behind him as he left. Red Crow took long, slow drags on his cigar and let the silence settle between us for nearly a minute before he spoke. "The lady from Central City tells me you're the best tracker in the country." "Belle'll say anything that gets her that finder's fee. I'm not one for boastin', but I'll say this much: Pay me to do a job, and it gets done. Simple as that." "Good. I like simple." Red Crow slid a piece of paper across his desk. It was a photo copy of a driver's license. A California license with a picture of a blonde man. The name on it said Bartholomew Alouysius Lash. Hell of a name, and that's coming from a man who had his momma name him Hex before she abandoned him. "That motherfucker cheated me. Goddamn card counter cleaned me out and ran out of here with one of my best dancers. That was a week ago. I want you to bring both of them back and bring back the thirty grand he cheated me out of. You get half of whatever you recover." A man once told me I had a talent when it came to reading people. He said that I could look into their soul and see what they were all about...but he was about three days into a meth binge and I had knocked out half of his teeth, so what the hell did he know? My instincts aside, I knew right then that Red Crow is a real son of a bitch. I think anyone who spent any amount of time with him could tell that. "Alright. Showed me where he was staying while he was here, and who knew him the best." Red Crow's a piece of shit, but at least his money is good. That's all that counts.

Colonial

Peadar suppressed a wet, hacking cough into his handkerchief. He looked down at the greenish phlegm tinged with yellow chunks and wrinkled his brow. At least there was no longer any blood in it, he thought with an acute awareness of how sadly thoughts like that passed as optimism these days. Peadar tossed the rag off to the side of his work table and stood up from the desk on shaky legs. He had never had what could be considered a strong constitution, but here in Uponhill he was constantly on death’s door. Fever and chills one week, bowel emptying shits the next, then consumption a week after that. It was a bit of a running joke in the community that while Peadar Browning was a fair doctor, he was a piss poor patient. “Physician, heal thyself,” he mumbled under his breath while he shuffled through the cabin. Medicine was never his calling. His father was a doctor and pushed him into the field. Peadar, never one to make a fuss, followed his father’s wishes and passed his studies with ease. In the realm of academia everything came easy to him, especially words. The sculpting of words was his true trade, something nobody here on Uponhill knew. Plenty of them had read the Bowrocker, he had once spotted some of the boys sneaking off into the woods withTales of a Country Wench, and old man Miller had a copy of A Kinsman’s Journey in the small library he had managed to cultivate in his time here. Yes there were many E.G. Rathais fans in the colony, but they had no idea the author and the sickly doctor were one and the same. The same thing went for Publius, the dashing radical of the all too brief civil war. That name, Publius, was forbidden from being mentioned or written in TIrna-Sorset and the lands under its domain. Peadar stared into the cracked and stained mirror above his dresser while thoughts turned to the night before his exile. Aenda, with all his noble and benevolent grace, had decided not to execute the good doctor after letting him languish in a dungeon for six months. Instead, guards forced him to the keep’s courtyard and placed him on a wooden stool. They held him in place, forced his eyes open when it became unbearable to watch and he had to close them, and made him watch as they took every single political pamphlet he had written as Publius, and it looked to be all of them from his vantage and burned them all in a great heap while they danced around the fire like he had seen the savages here do. They hadn’t killed him but they had killed his ideas. He was so close to the fire, the heat had dried his eyes out and made him unable to form tears even as he wept harder than he had his entire life. “Doctor Browning.” A voice at his door, followed by the pounding of fists on wood snapped him out of his daze. He opened the door and found young Blaine, the son of a smith. Even though he was a boy of twelve, he was already a hand taller than Peadar and a good two stones heavier. “It’s my papa. There’s been an accident, he’s hurt.” All thoughts of self-pity and sadness disappeared. While Peadar did not consider himself a doctor first, but he had taken an oath to heal those in need. Regardless of his lot in life, he had a duty. “Take me to him, son.”

Colonial

Should have a chance to post something this coming week.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Vancouver “Someone is fucking with this city.” Samuel McKinzey, Superintendent of the Cascadia Territorial Police Force scowled, his thick eyebrows threatening to consume his eyeballs. McKinzey chewed on a large, unlit cigar while he stood at the lectern in the CTPF’s conference room. Crowded in the room were the thirty detectives who made up the agency’s Criminal Investigations Division. Sitting near the back was Mark Echols, who doodled on a notepad with a pen while the chief spoke. “We’ve had three bank robberies in the last two weeks, and two bombings. All of them were claimed by these fucking people, these Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. Bunch of fucking terrorists! We’re goddamn lucky nobody has been hurt. I spent the better part of the morning with the FCB, they’re concerned about the crime wave here in this city and they personally blame us. You know why.” McKinzey took the cigar out of his mouth and let the implication hang. Unlike them, he was an American. He had been police commissioner in Baltimore and New York City before the government tapped him to run the restructured territorial police. “They think you’re all a bunch of sympathizers and humps. The FCB is sending a team up here to liaise with us, I assume that means they’ll be telling us how to do our jobs. Every department in CID is getting two Feebs to assist with cases. Here’s how it’s gonna work…” Echols tuned McKinzey out and instead kept focusing on his notepad. He wrote Sergeant Brian Shea in bold letters a half dozen times. “The Stiff in Surrey” as Braun had called him, was turning out to be a dead end. The US Army sergeant who went AWOL before ending up naked and dead in a field was Echols’ case and he was being stonewalled by the Army. He’d personally driven down to Fort Dixon to try to talk to the base commander and was told by a Major that the case was under Army CID jurisdiction, that Shea’s army records were unavailable to Echols without a warrant. He tried getting a warrant, but a judge had denied it after someone from the Army’s JAG division, even the Army needed lawyers, intervened. So now here he was with a case he couldn’t solve and no clear way to solve it. While he should have written it off, something was eating at him. Shea’s official rank was Technical Sergeant. Echols spent the day at the Vancouver library looking up information about Army ranks and came away with further suspicions. In the US Army, a Technical Sergeant did a variety of things from radio operations to mechanical work, to ordinance handling and disposal. It was the last part that gnawed at Echols. He had no way to know what kind of work Shea did for the Army unless he looked at his records, but it didn’t sit well with him that Shea’s disappearance and death came just before all these bombs and bank robberies started in Vancouver. He had been a murder police for fifteen years; he had learned a long time ago that he could rely on his gut instincts when it came to cases. And now, his gut was screaming that this murder was related to these Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. But he was getting help. The Feebs were coming. Maybe with some Federal muscle behind him, he could get the Army’s head out of their ass. He doubted it, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. ------- Fort Bragg, NC The two dozen soldiers stomped in formation down the dirt road. While they ran, Master Sergeant Silas Crystal ran beside them. At thirty-nine he was the oldest man here by almost a decade. Even with his age Silas knew he could keep up with all of the others, and plenty of them he could outrun. He was pushing forty but still felt twenty-five in the wilting southern heat. They took a bend on the dirt road that led uphill. The hill marked the third mile of their five mile run. Silas took in a lungful of air and began to lead the running cadence, the men chanting along with him. “One, two, three and a quarter. I've got a date with the CO's Daughter. One, two, three and a dime. I told him I'd have her home by nine. Even though she looks so mild, Man, oh man that girl is wild. But CO, CO, he's a sucker. He don't know that I love to ... kiss her. Three months later and all was well, Four months later she began to swell. Nine months later and out he came, a baby Green Beret bearin' my name. CO said with a big ol' grin, Be a good dad or be a private again.” The younger men broke out into laughter as they finished the song. Even though he had heard it countless times, Silas laughed along with them before he turned serious. “Okay, girls, let’s pick up the pace. Double time to the end of the run!” Silas sped up and pushed these men, already at the peak of physically conditioning, to dig deeper and go faster until it hurt. After all it was their job to do what others couldn’t. These men and their sergeant weren’t the usual group of grunts. They were Special Forces created during the last war to do things other units couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Silas and his squad ran several missions across the country and into Canada during the war. He was a career soldier, but the things they’d done in the war took what he knew about soldering to the next level. Later, Silas had showered and changed into his fatigues and in his office at division HQ when someone knocked on the door. “Sergeant Crystal,” Colonel Robertson said once he saw Silas snapping at attention. “At ease, no need to be formal.” Robertson was just a few years older than Silas but looked at least ten years older thanks to his full head of white hair and the thick white mustache he wore. The SOCOM structure was set up so that the people at the top were the only ones who really knew the order of battle, but Silas knew the colonel was high up in that order. “I brought a guest with me,” Robertson said as he came in. In his wake was a skinny man in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. Silas saw the sweat stains on the collar, pale complexion, the Ivy League class ring on his finger, and the impassive way he looked at Silas, almost through him. He had him pegged even before Colonel Robertson said the words that confirmed his analysis. “Silas, this is Mr. Smith from Washington. He’s with the Agency.” The Clandestine Intelligence Agency, the US’s foreign intelligence apparatus, had a complicated relationship with Special Forces. They worked hand in hand in many ways. They supplied the intelligence and the Green Berets provided the muscle. Brains and brawn. But several people inside the CIA thought they were their bosses. That led to plenty of bureaucratic sniping that Silas was thankful he had avoided. At least until now. “Sergeant,” Mr. Smith said as he and Robertson sat down in the chairs opposite Silas’ office. “The colonel was telling me about your team. I like what I’ve heard. Are your four guys still the same ones you served with in the war?” “Yep,” said Silas. “We went through some hell up north of the border, but we all made it through unscathed.” “Sergeant Crystal and his men are real familiar with that whole area in the northwest,” Robertson said before he leaned forward. “Silas, have you been keeping up with all that’s been happening up there in Cascadia.” “It’s turning into a goddamn war zone,” Silas said with frown. “Again. I read about bombings in the paper, some group claiming to be responsible.” “We have other information,” said Smith. He played with his class ring as he spoke. “Some intelligence has come to light. It concerns something worse than a few car bombs or bank jobs. Our people ran it up the ladder to your people, who are passing it back down the ladder to Special Forces.” “SOCOM has approved an operation, and I recommended your squad,” said Robertson. “You’re wheels up and headed north at 1900 hours. “I’m hitching a ride with you,” Smith said. “We’ll brief your team en route. Be sure to pack your mountain gear, sergeant. You’ll need it.” ------- Prince George Cascadia Territory Arthur pulled the car up slowly to the curb. Alex craned his neck around, looking for any signs of another car of person in the early morning darkness. They had driven all afternoon and night across the territory in the car Chris had stolen on the outskirts of Vancouver. None of their cars had the trunk space required for what they had to pick up. “Wait here,” Alex said softly. “Keep the car running.” He got out and walked down the sidewalk to a two-story brick building with broken windows and graffit tagged along its side. Arthur nervously tapped his fingers on the wheel while Alex disappeared into the building. Ten minutes passed before he emerged and waved Arthur further up the street and to a loading bay he backed into. Arthur got out the car and nearly jumped back when he saw the man standing at the edge of the dock. He wore a black trench coat and smoked a cigarette. His blonde hair was slicked back, and he had on large sunglasses even in the dark. Arthur put his height at six-two, a good five inches taller than himself. “Hello, Arthur,” the man said in a slow and even tone. “Alex has told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” “Umm… you too…” “Jones,” he said, expelling cigarette smoke. “Just call me Jones. I’m a friend, Arthur, a friend of the Friends, if you want to call me that.” “Mr. Jones has helped us out a lot,” Alex said from behind Arthur. “He’s where we get our guns and the stuff for our bombs.” “You’re quite adept at making bombs, Arthur. That’s what Alex tells me, anyway. Says you’re going to school for engineering. Is that where you learned to do this stuff?” “Not really,” Arthur said nervously. “I just… as a kid… I was always taking things apart and putting them back together. I just learned how things work. A bomb, at least the way I do it, is just like a clock radio or a television. Wire it just the same.” “So you’re a natural? Good. Come with me, Arthur.” Jones wrapped a large arm around Arthur’s soldiers and guided him into the building through the open bay door. Jones stopped short of a small crate sitting on the concrete floor and motioned towards it. “Open it up.” Arthur bent down and stopped when he saw the biohazard warning on the crate. Jones goaded him on and Arthur, his pulse racing, opened the crate. Inside was a metal container the size of a milk jug. “VX nerve gas,” Jones said with a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s not much, but it’ll be more than enough. If you can work wonders with plastique and wires, let’s see what you can do with this.”