The sharp clicking of typewriters and shrill ringing of telephones filled the cryptography office as overworked men and women labored endlessly to decipher the heavily coded Molsarian transmissions they intercepted. All in the hopes of getting something, anything, that could be used against the Molsarian forces and save the lives of their boys on the front.
A young cryptography officer tapped away carefully, looking back and forth from the newly intercepted transmission, taking an occasional sip of coffee from his custom made mug, a crafty cup made in the shape of his favorite science-fiction hero Rick Rogers, and putting it down next to his chess club championship plaque all while trying to make sense what appeared to be a jumbled pile of nonsense. Nonsense that is, until he finally finished decoding it. He held the paper in front him to read the demystified contents, and it was only then that it struck him what he had uncovered. His eyes practically popped out with his pupils dilating to the extreme. “Oh ye gods,” he muttered underneath his stalled breath.
He sprang from his seat, knocking it behind him in his hurry to get up. The noise startled some people around him, with everyone’s attention drawn to him as he started running out of the office and into the hallway, bumping into a secretary carrying a stack of papers, causing them to flutter all over the place in a chaotic mess.
Annoyed and flustered, she put her fists on his hips as she remarked, “Thank you,” in a sarcastic tone. He gave no apology and paid no heed as he ran through the corridors and hallways of the military compound, up two flights of stairs in record time, past several guards who tried to stop him, fearing there might have been an emergency, though his only response was an exhausted, frantic “I have to see General Vilner.” Followed by “This is important.”
No one stopped him then, not even as he stormed into General Vilner’s office, who was in the middle of a telephone conference and didn’t even acknowledge the unusual breech of protocol. The General continued talking on the phone even as the cryptographer tried to show him his discovery. Unable to wait any longer, he pressed down on phone’s cradle, abruptly hanging up the general’s teleconference.
The General closed his eyes for a moment before putting the handset back on the cradle, and then turned his steel-eyed gaze on the impudent cryptography officer. “For the sake of your career, Lieutenant…” He looked for a split second at the name tag on his uniform, “Bradley, that you have something important to say.”
The deciphered transmission found its way onto the general’s desk as he picked it up and read it. Slowly and deliberately, a small, barely noticeable smile appeared on the general’s face, a man who hasn’t smile in so long that many feared that such a thing would break it like cheap porcelain. “Interesting,” he said as he finished reading half of it, followed by, “Most interesting,” when he finished the whole thing. Putting the paper down, he looked back up at Lieutenant Bradley and smiled more widely. “Thank you…” he paused for a second, “Captain Bradley.” He saluted him slightly, pressing the intercom button for his secretary. “Warrant Chira, call an emergency conference. Immediately. We have some planning to do…” General Vilner’s mind then vanished into his own personal realm of planning and plotting as he already started to formulate a scheme to use this fortuitous event to its fullest.
Exactly one hour after he gave that order, four men of military bearing gathered together in a small, windowless, and soundproofed room. Two army, one navy, and one Strategic Intelligence Service major general, each representing the intelligence gathering branches of their service. Two of them checked and rechecked every nook and cranny for any possible hidden microphones. Once they were certain that there weren’t any, they took their seats to wait for General Vilner.
They waited with obvious impatience, tapping their fingers and frowning as they wondered what was the development that caused the General to call this meeting on such short notice? The only hint to it was a map of the Hal’nalava region, the very edge of the known world, hanging on the wall. Marked upon it were the positions of Union army, navy and air stations and those of the Molsarian armed forces. It was such a remote part of the conflict that they wondered if it was worth the all the resources and manpower thrown into it. Yet they insisted upon it, seeing it tied up far more Molsarian forces than it did their own.
General Vilner entered the barren conference room, bringing with him a plain manila folder which he placed carefully on the table before he firmly shut the door to the room. “Gentlemen,” started the air force intelligence office. “We’ve intercepted some extremely sensitive information, and if we play our cards right, we could deal a particularly damaging blow to the Molsarians by the time this week is done.”
Mildly intrigued, yet still a little skeptical, the four men waited for Vilner to finish. Vilner walked over to the map and picked up a pointing stick, bringing it towards the makeshift region capital on the Hal’nalava mainland. “As you all know, the Molsarian chief of staff, General Quriqus, spends most of his time here, probably figuring out the logistics in killing another 5 million people as we speak.” Genera Quriqus, better known as the butcher of Kagetashima, the axeman of Uolok, the cannibal of Kushen, and other flattering nicknames, was the Molsarian mastermind behind the war and much of the strategy of the war. He was also the single most hated man in the world, far more than even the Molsarian leader. “And as much as we’ve wanted to catch him in the open and rid the world of him, his underground bunkers have remained completely impervious to anything we can throw at it.”
He pointed to another location, far away from the capital, in the middle of a densely forested region. “Yet we have recently discovered that the generals have built themselves a little getaway over here.” He put down the pointing stick and walked towards the projector on the center of the table, continuing as he did so. “And the information gathered from the transmissions we’ve intercepted tell us that the General, along with several other high-ranking officers, are going on a three day vacation at the hunting lodge.” With the lights turned off, he placed the first slide into the projector, showing an aerial photograph of a luxurious hunting lodge, built in a typical ruling class Molsarian architectural style. “This, gentlemen, is where he will spend those three days and three nights, traveling there by air on his personalized L20 armed transport plane. We have the Brothers of Fire to thank for that photo.” The Union Forces frequently allied themselves with anti-Molsarian criminal elements, in this case air pirates. The Brothers of Fire were trusted as they had hated the Molsarians well before the war and operated exclusively against them, and valuable as they were some of the craftiest aerial fighters around.
The four officers continued to listen patiently, their skepticism gone as far as the value of the information was concerned, but they were still quiet curious as what course of action General Vilner had in mind. “Gentlemen, my proposal is very, very simple. Take this opportunity… to kill Quriqus.” He then retired to his seat, waiting for their responses.
“How do you propose we do that, General Vilner?” asked Army lieutenant general Allcott. “We don’t have any fighters with that kind of range, and the Brothers of Fire have no craft capable of carrying out the attack, if we had the means to tell them about it without the Molsarians catching wind of it.”
“That is if they can pull off anything other than raiding Molsarian aerial shipping.” Added vice-admiral Tytus. “Also what of defenses? General Quriqus never goes anywhere without a small, fast attack force following him.”
Listening carefully, General Vilner responded. “The Molsarians do not have any aerial defenses in the area. No flak or heavy guns. We might expect some field guns and machine guns emplacements, but those were placed to defend against the natives of the region. The only airstrip found is the one near the hunting lodge. We can expect perhaps the usual fighter escort that accompanies all high-ranking Molsarian officers during flights. Though in the case of Quriqus, we have reason to believe he will be escorted by crack pilots from the 4th fighter brigade.” Vilner paused and thought for a moment. “Petros, do you recall project A91?” he asked SIS major general Petros.
“The new firebomb we’re developing?” said major general Petros. “It has shown a lot of promise, though we would require some field testing to insure maximum operational efficiency.”
Vilner switched off the projector and switched the lights back on, once again bringing the map of the region into focus. “During this time of year, it doesn’t rain very often in that region, and forests tend to be tinder dry, and along with prevalent winds towards the hunting lodge, forest fires can be quite devastating.” A somewhat self-assure smile formed on his face at that moment. “And since a normal bombardment of the region would not guarantee that General Quriqus would be killed. As he could be anywhere, and as such, setting fire to the entire area would not only destroy the lodge, but if he’s caught in the middle of the forest, he’ll be burned to death. Even in the unlikely chance he makes it to his aircraft, it would take a while to get up to altitude and speed and could be shot down easily at that point.”
While most of the officers felt that it seemed like a fairly sound plan, they did wonder how Vilner managed to think up of it so fast… and still wondered just how he managed to pull this off. “I reiterate my question,” said Allcott. “How are we supposed to deliver A91 over the target area? It’s far out of range of the bombers we have in the theater, and don’t have the time to relocate any of our superbombers for the job.”
“On top of that, fitting the A91 requires a fairly modified bomb bay at the moment,” said Major General Petros.
“There is one HB-41 in the theater that is capable of carrying the A91 in its bomb bay,” said general Vilner, beginning to smile as he almost expected everyone else in the room to be shocked, “and it will only need half of it. As the aircraft will require much more fuel to make the journey, the other half of the bomb bay can carry a standard internal fuel tank. Additional drop tanks can be loaded onto the wings.”
Army major general Tobais raised a finger, but Vilner returned with another gesture before he continued. “And the Brothers of Fire have in their possession a tanker aircraft that could easily refuel the bomber before it makes to the target. It will have all the fuel it needs at that point to make the attack and go the long way back to avoid Molsarian flak and fighters.”
Tobais managed to cut in. “And which bomber are you referring to? What crew will be on this mission?” He wondered who would be insane enough to be able to go on this mission, and which bomber had been so extensively modified in such a short period of time. Air Force policy, strangely enough, did actually allow the crews to make some modification to the aircraft, but he never heard of anyone going so far as practically turn it into a unique variant.
“Gentlemen, the crew and aircraft I propose we send…” he paused for a second, his smile now complete. “The Brazen Brawler, with its usual crew, if we can even call them that.”
Though they remained completely silent, and as unaffected as they could, though Tobais rolled his eyes. “You’re joking, right?” he said, not bothering to hide his disdain for the choice of crew. “General, by any right, those men should never have even been permitted to think about joining any of the armed forces, let alone being on the front lines.”
Allcott shifted in his seat a little. “I would have to agree, while they make for good propaganda, I don’t think they’re up to this one.” He didn’t seem quite sure of that answer, and his mind drifted off as he remembered hearing the reports coming out of their unit.
“You realize that these people openly referred to the entire Joint Board a bunch of braindead morons,” said Tytus. “And practically make it a point to bend or the break the rules as often as they can.”
Vilner continued to smile. “Indeed, and I remember the none-to-flattering painting one of them made of me, personally. Yet for all this, these men are the single most effective and brutally aggressive sons of bitches that we have. They’ve never failed at a mission or wavered in the face of near impossible odds. On top of that, even though their official mission count is 79, they have conducted 15 other special missions, around 13 solo, all of them successful.” He pulled a cigar out from his shirt pocket and started to smoke it. “Though if any of you know of any other crew that are capable of this, and available on such short notice, please mention them. Or if you have any other plan available to destroy this monster.”
Petros raised his finger, and opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t utter a word. It was as if the words were revved up and ready, but simply refused to leave his mouth. He instead put his finger on the table and tapped it. “There has been another crew, I believe of the 31st bomber group. They’ve managed to fly over 23 missions successfully with good effect.”
“Yes,” said General Vilner, “And the aircraft had to crash land seven times, abort their mission three more times, and of the crew you’re referring to, only 6 of the original 12 actually made it to the 23rd mission. Currently, from what I’ve heard, both pilots are suffering from severe combat fatigue and need time to recuperate before their next mission, by which then, our window of opportunity would have passed.” He blew out a healthy stream of smoke before putting his cigar down on an ashtray. “Also I should mention that the Brazen Brawler is… a very special aircraft, going far beyond the mere modifications made by the crew. Though it only appears to have those special qualities when they’re in it.”
“What do you mean, General?” asked Allcott, speaking for everyone else in the room.
Vilner took another large drag from his cigar, relaxing a bit before blowing it all out again. “Gentlemen, in the past four years of this war, we’ve noticed that some people have certain… abilities, that go far beyond what is even considered humanly possible.”
“We’ve heard of these reports,” said Tytus, “I have to admit, I had a very hard time believing them myself.”
“And you have reason to believe that the crew of the Brawler are… gifted?” inquired Petros, not fully convinced. “Most of these gifted people generally do not affect their combat effectiveness, or even have much bearing on the war effort.”
Vilner nodded. “At least four of the crew, and two of them have what is known as a ‘contagious’ ability, meaning their friends and those around them can acquire it when they are in their presence.” He placed the burning cigar on the ashtray, and reached into his folder to produce the files of four of the Brawler’s crew. “Senior Airman Carlos Sebastian ‘Radiohead’ Leschhorn: Noted ability to manipulate and hear radio waves through the air with astonishing clarity, even if they’ve been broadcast on encrypted and distance broadcasts that could not be picked up by fairly sensitive equipment on station. He has, on multiple instances, jammed radar, halted enemy communication, and communicated completely securely using low-grade radio equipment.” He stopped there and started with the second file. “Staff Sergeant Eturo ‘Bull’ Mergh: Unnaturally fast reflexes, though according to him time just seems to slow down till everything appears to have stopped. He could carefully aim a gun and fire it to destroy anything and see the bullets in flight all the way. People around him reported attaining similar reflexes if he ‘approved’ of them.”
The officers listen intently, though they had heard similar stories like this, most of them would dismissed it as pure speculation up until this point. “Captain Arty ‘Sunny’ Kuang: Has the ability to enhance performance of those around him just by being physically present in the room, and things are far less prone to failure and are more resilient. Case in point: A broken down jeep miraculously operated as if it was brand new when he drove it and went back to being inoperable when he left. The Brawler also performed aerial maneuvers that would have resulted in stalls, spins, or the wings breaking apart under even optimal conditions.” He put down the paper, picked up his cigar for a quick drag before picking up the last file. “Technical Sergeant Gordy ‘Sliteyes’ Rishan: Has an uncanny level of perceptiveness and accuracy in aiming. Claim to have been able to see the details on a painting from 7500 meters in the air. That is unconfirmed, but what is confirmed is that, during training, he dropped a bomb into a pickle barrel from 9000 meters… three times in a row on three separate instances. Upon inspection, the bombsight was faulty on all three instances.”
Vilner neatly placed the files back into the folder and picked his cigar back up. “And are you also aware that there are suspicions that whatever is causing these individuals to be able to do what they do, might also affect materials?” Another puff of cigar smoke filled the air around him. “Oil obtain from the oil fields in Reives has been found to be 50% more efficient than oil produced in neighboring oil fields, despite the fact that, according to all analysis, it should have been of inferior quality. Iron and steel produced from ore mined in Westbara for some reason appears to be much lighter, yet vastly more resilient, again no scientific explanation found despite years of examination by top scientists.”
“And you’re saying that the Brawler has been made with materials mined from these… hotspots?” asked Tobais incredulously. The man had heard of theories concerning these gifted individuals well before the war, but was never convinced of their existence until recently, and this whole idea that the world they were had these ‘hotspots’ of gods know what did nothing but puzzle him. If General Vilner wasn’t such a high ranking officer, he would have dismissed all this as the ravings of someone who went off the deep end.
“Exactly.” said Vilner, without a single hint of doubt in what many people have labeled insanity. “And we have reason to believe any bit of equipment made from material gathered in those areas react differently when used by gifted individuals.” He waited for any other response, agreement, or argument to come from the officers in the room.
Allcott, still refusing to back with the idea of sending them on this mission, gave one final protest. “Would it be too much to suggest air dropping commandos to raid?” asked Allcott, trying to put something, anything, out there.
“We don’t have enough information on their ground defenses and guards to send in special operators there,” said Tobais, surprised at his own statement. He couldn’t believe was happening; he was actually starting to think Vilner’s plan was a good idea. “Unless, of course, you haven’t showed us everything.” He leaned forward in his seat, hoping that the air force general would pull out some something more from his folder.
“Unfortunately, those photographs are the only thing of use. The Brothers of Fire aren’t particularly proficient at this kind of reconnaissance, and in any case, the Molsarians might excuse spotting a single enemy aircraft flying over, but if they flew another mission, they might get the idea that something was up and Quriqus would more than likely cancel his vacation and spend it closer to his base, shooting little boys for target practice.” Vilner wasn’t entire sure how recent the photograph was taken, but only that it couldn’t have been more than a month old.
Petros basically gave up thinking of an alternate plan. “I guess as long they get the job done, it doesn’t matter. But I personally believe that the mission is a long shot anyway,” he said.
“I guess I concur as well,” said Tobais reluctantly.
“You got me, I guess.” Allcott admitted.
The rest stated their agreement to the plan, they spent a few more minutes working out some of the details of the the exact flight plan to get to and from the target. They went from discussing the big picture to calculating the altitude and speed at which the bomber had to be flying to optimize it’s fuel consumption, and almost felt like schoolboys again doing little math equations. Eventually they came to a fairly decent