Agents of Metal Pt.2

Agents of Metal Part 2 Lasse Öörni 1 2 NaNoWriMo 2009. Edited later. May contain strong similarities to actual above top secret operations, organizations, fnords and trigger phrases, and the document may also have been tam- pered with. Read at own risk. Dedicated to the memory of Urho, the fish king. 3 4 1. At some point the fire had started. There was total chaos. The locks of the wooden bar- racks had been blown apart by gunfire from shotguns and assault rifles, and the trainees were pouring out in confusion. But the primary target still lay ahead. The administrative building. Where the identities and evaluations of the trainees were stored. That was first class knowledge. If the Agents could bring that knowledge to the public, and cross-reference the records – mostly boys of young age – with lists of known missing persons, then they could prove the existence of SCEPTRE. The Sectarian Chosen Elite Privileged To Rule and Exterminate. A ruthless secret organization with vast resources, unknown but sinister motives, and expertise in mind manipulation techniques. It had been a perfect full moon night when the raid had started, but now smoke was blotting out the moon- light. And that was worrying. The riflemen in the four guard towers had been eliminated first, but out in the surrounding forest there could still be – A sniper. The sudden crack of a rifle pierced the night. 5 To his right, an Agent fell. The electromagnetic ar- mor, combined with the traditional Kevlar, could pro- tect to some degree, but if the round was of heavy caliber, the hit could have been fatal. But where was the sniper? He panned left and right, but there was no immediate answer. Life and death, no time to lose. No way to freeze the passage of time and ponder. Therefore, the answer was to go forward. To hope that the sniper would not hit him first. In essence that was blasphemy. To say that his life was more important than that of his fellow Agents. But what else was there to turn upon to? This raid had been messed up from the start. Though the objective was important, the mission had not been planned with nearly enough thoroughness. It was possible that none of the Agents would make it out of here alive. But if SCEPTRE's operations in this facility would be termi- nated for good, even that was something. Therefore, forward. No time to lose. The administrative building lay straight ahead, a concrete monstrosity built two stories high. Another sniper shot cracked. A heavy caliber, at least 7.62. But fortunately, that was a miss. He glanced back- ward. There were still three Agents in full fighting con- dition. They reached the relative protection of the concrete wall. Surprisingly, the doors were unlocked. No need to blow the locks with gunfire or plastic explosives. A trap? The hallway beyond was unlit, uninviting and grim. But from somewhere above came the faint yellow glow of fire. “Night-vision goggles on,” he grunted. 6 The Agents behind him agreed, nodding their heads, and with quick motions the goggles were strapped on. In the green-black light, the scene before their eyes seemed even more unreal. The laser sights of their automatic weapons – four of them total – cut like fear- some scythes through the blackness. The documents they craved would be with high like- lihood up on the second floor. Therefore, there was no choice but to ascend. And it was possible someone was waiting. Someone with overwhelming weaponry and overpowering, total evil. But still, they were Agents. Agents of Metal, sworn to kill or die for Freedom, Metal and Might. That would count for something. That had to count for something. The stairwell was close to the entrance. They left the main hallway, climbed the first set of stairs and rounded the corner – a solitary black op in dark com- bat fatigues appeared, but was cut down by the si- lenced clatter of automatic gunfire. He was dead before he hit the floor. Now they were on the second floor. There were office rooms both to the left and right: there was no telling where the next black op would appear. He trained his weapon – a M4 carbine – to the right. Unfortunately, that was the wrong choice. From the left, a woman – definitely a black op too – appeared. A narrow face, short-cropped black hair. And her rifle trained as well. Aimed straight for his head. No, lower. His neck. There was a muzzle flash, a deafening report, and he was plucked from his feet. He fell, his vision tilted, even as his fellow Agents advanced and returned fire, but he was left behind. 7 Cold and dead. The camera-equipped Agent sunglasses still recorded, showing a sideways view of the floor. The woman, the black op, was now far gone, disappeared to the maze of office rooms. A shadow fell on the floor nearby. Then there was an abrupt shaking motion and the recording cut to white noise. “I was there too,” Blackhand said. So at least that much was clear. Blackhand had been there, years ago, when Ian had been rescued from SCEPTRE's assassin training camp. Ian grimaced from the pain in his back as he rose to sitting position on the steel-framed bed. The wounds were from getting hit by grenade shrapnel during an encounter with black op troops last night. The TV screen in the Agent infirmary was now blank: Blackhand had his full attention. The veteran Agent had also been injured on the mission, but not as severely as Ian. A bandage was visible from under the sleeve of his dark shirt. “So, did you get what you were looking for?” Ian asked. “The documents? Unfortunately not. SCEPTRE had enough advance warning to burn down everything in the administrative building. We only got the list of codenames from the guards' quarters. And –” A heavy silence hung in the air. “He was lost. John – or Ranger as he liked to be called – was gone by the time we got back to where he was hit.” “The SCEPTRE got him?” “Yes,” Blackhand said. “There never was a proper 8 Agent burial. The body was lost to SCEPTRE's hands.” “Those bastards.” Ian's voice was filled with con- tempt. “Indeed.” “But of course it wasn't all for nothing. In addition to you, many trainees were recovered,” Blackhand spoke, his voice growing softer. “As a whole the mission was still a success.” “So you just have to accept –” “The loss of comrade Agents. Yes. There's no other way. Ranger was much liked, much beloved, but from that moment on we had to learn to live without him. That's the price we pay for waging our war against SCEPTRE.” “Fuck.” Ian had not exactly wished for the profanity to es- cape his lips. But this was all getting too much. This pompous war both in the past and the present, the Agents' mission... It was all shit! Ian no longer had any idea what he had gotten him- self into. Just ten hours ago, he had been on the Agents' stealth helicopter, heading back for the headquarters after a near-fatal mission. He, Jo and Blackhand had recovered encrypted information from the bowels of a SCEPTRE underground hideout, Ian had killed their head of Security, codenamed Suhrim, and Sarge had ar- rived with the chopper to extract them just in time – But what did all that mean? Nothing? Ian wanted to think no more. Partially, he was ashamed of his own thoughts, of questioning the Agency. His wish to watch the recording had certainly been a mistake. Blackhand had men- 9 tioned of its existence earlier, the day before they took off, and Ian had not forgotten. Blackhand had not ar- gued the wish of a recovering Agent and had fetched the innocent, shiny disc from the archives, after asking just once if Ian was a hundred percent sure. Now Ian just wanted to sleep for a long time, though he was unsure whether sleep would come. Thankfully, Blackhand left the room without saying a further word. Ian must have dozed off for a few hours: it was close to 6 PM as he woke up. The combination drugs used to boost recovery had a mild psychedelic effect in addition to the sedative one: the dreams had been incoher- ent, but not that much nightmarish. That was surpris- ing, considering last night's mission. And the recording. The memory of the recording made his mind turn instantly sour. The disloyal thoughts and the guilt over them returned. Ian understood now that those thoughts had possi- bly been on the back of his mind ever since arriving to the HQ and listening to Blackhand explain the Agency's history. But Ian had denied them, blanked them out, buried them under the initial shock and awe of joining. And there had been no real opportunity to reflect: the training, the preparation and then the mission had oc- cupied him fully. But now, until he got up to his feet again, there was plenty of time. Was it that in the bottom of his heart, he disliked or even hated Blackhand? His uncompromising, stoic and martial persona. Was it that simple? Or something else?A sudden wave of paranoia flashed through Ian's mind. Had Blackhand been honest, by saying that no in- 10 formation besides the codenames had been recovered from the training camp? Did they in fact know Ian's true, pre-assassin training identity, but were withhold- ing it? Keeping him in the dark just like SCEPTRE had done? No, he decided.

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