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South Philadelphia, PE. 0200, August 2001.
At 2 a.m. the temperature was still above 85 degrees F. This time of year in Philadelphia wasn't known for it's nice weather but it's heat and humidity. This year the heat wave was worse than normal. Thirty people had died as a result of heat stroke, mostly the old and young, but still; it was hot. Generally people would retreat indoors to the comfort of air conditioning, or lacking that, a good strong fan. At night mothers would dab their children with wet rags, the extra moisture would serve to cool the little ones. Some people lived in their basements, while others headed for the shade. What it boiled down to was it was hot; damn hot.
Deacon thought little of the heat, concentrating instead on Manfred Heinrichs as he crawled through the grass at a snails pace. Heinrichs was a hate preacher in the Identity Christian Church and had gathered a like small-minded following here in the "City of Brotherly Love". They resided in a compound on the outskirts of the city where they could practice with full-automatic weapons and stockpile ammunition for the Apocalypse and the preceeding Total Race War. By preying on normal peoples fears and problems he was able to use people toward his own misguided ends.
But all that aside, the City of Brotherly Love often wasn't. What had attracted Deacon here was the rash of Hate crimes recently. Philly wasn't known for it's easy streets, but the mandatory 'One Gunshot an Hour'. Crime and gangs were everywhere and only criminals walked the street at night. Besides the normal criminal gangs like the Cryps, the Bloods, and the Latin Kings, you also had the uglier Race gangs. Skinheads, the Aryan Brotherhood, and the KKK were three of the worst here in Philly.
The police and officials were in a poor position to fight against this threat. Action they took was cited in recruitment literature of the Hate Groups as 'Jew Controlled Authorities crack down on Your Brothers' or some such nonsense. But the scared and the weak bought into it. Lawyers were threatened, and sleezy lawyers were retained by the hate groups to protect them in the courts. And worse was that all the members had vows of silence as strong or stronger than the Mafia.
In the end this left the little guy on the street unprotected, and if they weren't 'Aryan' they were in serious danger. The danger had exploded in the cities face recently after five church bombings, three drive by shootings, and six execution style murders in the last six months. Deacon had followed them in the paper and was now focused towards a goal.
South Philadelphia, PE. 0230, August 2001.
Deacon crawled on his belly at an appaulingly slow rate. He had started this crawl seven hours earlier far back in the light spruce trees that surrounded the Compound. Ha, Compound is a mis-nomer. And it was. What the Aryans called a Compound was really just an old warehouse in a suburban Industrial park they had taken over. The others had burned under "mysterious" circumstances since the Aryans moved in a year and a half ago.
The main road out to the State Highway was long and winding with a heavy steel gate at the end. The gate was always manned by three guards, and further up the road about 100 yards, there was a second guard shack that monitored the first with binoculars and sniper rifles. The road ran north and south, with the compound beind south of the State Road. The compound was a full mile off the road, which put it at the back of the old Industrial Park. About half a mile off the main road the Industrial park started, but the start of the compound wasn't reached for another quarter mile. The quarter mile of abandoned park was mostly leveled and clear except for some new growth of light bushes. The access road was crossed at ninety degrees every one hundred yards by side roads that branched out to support the small Industrial park. Behind the compound, at the very south, was a large berm with railroad tracks on the other side. Across the tracks was a large open field and broken stands of trees that went on for miles. It had formerly been farm land.
The compound itself was very clean and well laid out. It was composed of four large factory size buildings that formed one large square, including the service roads that crossed the main road. The main road split the compound in half and came in through a second large gate. The roads outside the buildings were also part of the Compound because a large earthen bern was constructed. It had a wooden wall above it that was topped by wire, and was only interrupted by what could only be called bunkers. Goddamn, its a wonder the Government lets this place bet by. Who am I kidding... They don't care as long as no law is broken. Deacon thought to himself. I wonder were Bunkers fit into local zoning laws...
As he came to a stop above an old sewer grate outside the compound he pulled up his nightvision binoculars and scanned the compound one more time. Clean, empty, and with lights only facing out towards him on the wall, they were disciplined if nothing else. Not disciplined enough. If there were lights inside the compound, or in the buildings they used dark shades to keep it from getting out. Damn paranoid bastards.
With that one last look, he lifted the grate using a crowbar, slid it forward and then looked in the sewer. All dark. With no sign of traps or other deterants, he lowered in his ruck. It had been dragging between his legs for the last five miles, but looked in good shape. Then he lowered in the HK21E in its drag-bag. It had been modified with a better barrel and a large supressor, as well as a powerful scope to serve as a sniper rifle. But in a pinch it still spit out 850 rpm and functioned as a Medium machine gun.
Then deacon dropped into the tunnel and pulled the gate shut above him. He took out an adjustable mirror on an extension and a flexible shaft brush. He carefully adjusted the drag marks and roughed up foliage so they hopefully wouldn't attract attention. Then he used super-glue gel to attach two grenades to the lip of the grate. Their pins were removed and only the grate's presence kept them fron detonating. He then put a Claymore face up below the sewer entrance and wired it to the grate. Anyone lifting the grate would pull it's fuze. Now I just have to remember to come back and defuse these when I'm done, and be sure not to rush out this way.
0250
Deacon leaned back against the cool concrete of the sewer. Cramped but cool. ahhh The sewer was only three feet high, but this would be the fastest part of his insertion. It was a brisk five hundred yard crawl to inside the compound, then up and out through another sewer grate. Then these damn Aryan's get their uppits. As thought of their misery filled his head Deacon set about making sure everything had made it with him on his long haul. First he stripped out of his Ghillie suit, which left him wearing his Light Kevlar lined, Black IR Fatigues. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket he removed the green and brown face paint and applied black and blue. He pulled up his kevlar balaclava and neck-guard, then tested out his PNVGs. Good, batteries fine and IR light looks good. He then hung them by his neck.
Next, he checked his HK UMP (Universal Machine Pistol - roughly translated) as he took it off the chest strap. HK's newest submachine gun looked almost like an MP5, but it fired the big beefy .45 ACP (Automatic Colt Pistol); Deacon loaded it with .45 Super, which it devoured just fine. Squeezing the grip he got a reaffirming flash on the Optic readout in his eye telling him the Smartgun link was OK too. He snapped on its Raptor supressor and tested the laser targeting. Check. Then he gently cycled the action and put a round in battery. Check. After that he removed the magazine and put in one more round to bring it back up to full capacity. Next, ammo; he carried thrity fully loaded magazines on his chest, thighs, and on his belt. In their proper locations? Check.
Next he drew the HK USP Tactical from his hip and the Glock 30 from his shoulder holster. Both had their supressors on, and after a quick squeeze the Smartgun Links told him both had full magazines and one in the chamber. But he popped out the magazines and cycled the actions just to make sure. OK. Check. Finally he checked the pair of integrally suppressed Ruger Mk. II .22cal pistols. These didn't have smartgun links, so Deacon checked their magazines too. Each pistol had eight extra magazines for it, except the Glock. It had five ten round mags, and ten seventeen round mags. The later had extensions on them, but were needed because the Glock 30 had a full-auto conversion on it. Neat.
Blades next. The tanto on his belt was there, the folding tanto tip CQC knife was in his front pocket, as were the SAS stilletos on his wrists, ankle, and between his shoulder blades. Check.
After inventorying his grenades, sapper gear, and water he leaned back on the sewer again and finished another canteen of water. Leaving it with the empty ruck, as well as the thousand or so rounds to the HK21E, he began his crawl. The journey of one thousand miles begins with one step. What philosipho-jumbo crap.
As he moved in towards his goal he thought about the preceeding months. Fifteen times in the last eight months in twelve different cities he had waged war against organized crime and Hate Groups. Police and the media were confused about it cause and effects. But the bad guys end up dead. The Company on the other hand knew 100% what was behind it. The Priest had cornered him when he flew into Philadelphia.
"You can't keep such a high profile. You could attract attention to the Company!"
"I know, but if they catch me I won't talk. In fact I'll probably break out after I kill all the criminals in the jail!"
Then the Priest had told him he couldn't go. End of Story.
Heh, heh. Then I told him where to go.
0330.
Deacon sat below the grate inside their compound and drank another canteen of water. Damn, just one canteen left. Better hurry up. He peered around the camp using a flexible neck fiber-optic camera. Dead'erna door nail. A bit of a Wyoming accent crept into his voice as he wispered in the darkness. "Now I'm glad I figured these paranoiacs would weld this thing shut, er'else I'd have a long crawl outa here."
The grate had been welded shut, so he assembled a lightweight aluminum stand below the grate to support it's weight. Cloth pads sat between the tripod and the grate. Then Deacon used a powerful Nitrogen-Phosphoric acid solution he squirted out of a crook-neck bottle to disentegrate the welds. Nice. I'll have to remember to thank Neko. This is much better than Magnesium. For obvious reasons.
Grabbing the heavy grate and placing it noiselessly on the pads he had on the floor, he then broke down the tripod. Sweeping outside the grate for motion detectors or IR scanner just to be careful, but finding none he stood up, jumped out and crossed the 10 yards to the building in the blink of an eye.
0400.
Overhead the splendor of the Milky Way unfolded in the clear night sky. You could even see the Spiral Arm we sat in as a hazy purple belt if you concentrated. Mercury, Mars, and Venus were all visible as well as a few low government satallites if you knew where to look, but it was all lost on Deacon as he proceeded with his plan. Slowly stepping around the outside of the building he made his way to the door. Opening it after oiling the hinges with a shot of WD40, he was inside and bathed in complete darkness. He donned his NVGs and began sweeping the rooms. This first warehouse building served as an armory and storage facility for the Groups stockpiles of weapons, food, clothes, and medicine. Each room was checked and every occupant was killed with one clean shot through the heart. Deacon = 25; Bad Guys = 0.
04450.
As dawn was approaching fast he crossed the main road to the northeast building and snuck in through a back door. On the way he shot down three sentries. With them down it was an indeterminate amount of time until he was noticed. Gotta go, gotta go. This building went much faster. It had barracks; thirty more for Deacon. A caffeteria had seven, and eight were watching infomercials in a common room. No time to make your deaths more painful. Ugh. Infomercials.
0520.
As he went out a west facing door he could see the first rays of sun coming up behind him, so he decided to trot around the perimiter and remove the guards from the compound. Ten were in those bunkers, and ten more were sleeping instead of being on patrol. As he got back to where he started he entered the next building. It was the south east building and upon entering he knew he was lucky. He came in the radio room. The operators didn't even have time to look surprised as his slugs turned their hearts into patte'. This building only took fifteen minutes because of the two vast assembly halls, that served as meeting hall, gymnasium, etc. This is going to be a run away victory for the good guys, and no ten run rule. Deacon = 108; Bad Guys = 0.
0535.
Unmolested now, he went to the next building. It was the main building and the largest of the four. Two stories an with many garage doors, it was hopefully where he would find Heinrich. He approached the door carefully and entered after listening at it for a minute. Inside he shot six cooks and then four more in the shower. As he crossed from the kitchen/mess hall side through the garage he encountered no one. But leaving the garage he did find the stairs leading up. Heinrich you're mine now. Climbing stair, espically wooden stairs was dangerous. They creaked, you were bottlenecked, and exposed. God I hate this part. He slung the HK UMP around his neck and drew each pistol. One pointed up the stairs, the other swept the garage for anything. Each step was agonizingly slow to slowly bend the wood without creaking it. Ten minutes later he was at the top, unscathed.
Upstairs were a dozen apartment type rooms that had occupants that needed bullets. Then two entertainment rooms, an armory, and a TV room, but that later four had no occupants. With three quarters of the floor searched he had narrowed down Heinrich's possible locations. Moving down what felt like a main hall he headed for a door he hoped Heinrich would be behind.
0600.
Standing outside the door he heard no activity beyond but was wary of an ambush. Stepping in quickly he immeadietly recognized the canvas mat as some style of Dojo, then he saw Heinrich kneeling facing the front of the room. "Whoever you are, you are very good. As a Master of Aikido you know I will kill yu.." BBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRAP!! Whatever he was going to say, it was cut short as Deacon unloaded the thirty round magazine on the UMP at him. In a flash the man was up and spun to the side. The first ten rounds missed!!! Focusing his anger Deacon walked the hose of bullets into the mans chest. Two more were wasted as he moved the hose, but their eighteen brothers and sisters in pain weren't. Then the action dropped home on an empty magazine. Heinrich was good, but you can only dodge so many bullets, Deacon thought as he walked over the the body on the mat. Reloading in less than a second, he then slung the UMP. The halo of blood leaking out into a pool around it gave it an errie quality as the suns rays started to fill the room from the east.
Heinrich looked up at the ceiling. His mouth gasping for air like a fish out of water, but he lay still and did not more a muscle. Probably a shot hit the spine. Lucky me; not lucky him.
"Who are you?" the dying Aryan gasped.
Deacon stepped over him, filling his vision, "You'll never know." Then he swung out the Glock 30 and flipped the switch on the back of the frame to make it full auto. Squeeqing the trigger he walked the 17-round magazine down through Heinrich's face and upper chest. Then he left the room.
On his way out, he grabbed some oversize pants and a big shirt to put over his combat gear. Now passable as an Aryan, he walked down to the garage/motor pool. Carefull not to run into any stragglers he hot wired a Jeep and headed out to the sewer grate outside the compound.
Rolling through the dusty field he reached the sewer entrance, defused his own handywork, and retrieved his HK21E and equipment.
"Damn, no one is even going to know what did this." The sadness that it could be blamed on the UN, or Zionist Occupational Government really hit him hard. "Well, they've got water in there and I've got 1000 rounds for the HK... looks like I'll wait," he said to no one in particular and proceeded to gather water from inside the camp. He set up an ambush out by the gate, after silencing the guards who were pretty confused their radio calls weren't being answered.
State Highway 28. Headed away from Aryan Compound. Day Two, 1000.
Whew. Good ambush. And I left one wounded to tell the story. Deacon thought to himself as he rolled away in his stolen Jeep. Looking like just any other Aryan on his way into Philly to pick up some groceries, he paid a good deal of attention to his rear-views. When a Yamaha ZMaz motorcycle cruised up behind him, he knew it was good or VERY bad. Keeping his speed constant but with his right hand off the stick shift and on the UMP, he waited.
As the ZMaz matched his speed and took up a position off his drivers side seat he got another good look at the driver. Wearing heavy black leather pants and and ultra athletic cut bikers jacket to accomodate his massive shoulders, Solo perched on the ZMaz like a Hawk on a humming-bird feeder. Deacon could see the beefed up shocks to accomodate his six hundred pound weight. Unhelmeted Solo's short hair waved in the breeze, but he couldn't see his eyes behind a pair of mirrored Gargoyles. "Pull over!" he shouted and pointed at the side of the road.
Deacon had no where to run, so he might as well try and talk. Easing the Jeep onto the side of the road, Solo stood on the brakes and pulled to a stop behind him. Both got out/off of their vehicles at the same time. Deacon with his UMP and Solo unarmed. Facing each other at twenty yards, Deacon wondered if this was how it would end. They had been through alot togther. No time to blink now.
"The Priest sent me to find you."
"Well here I am."
Solo took three big steps towards him, "So, watcha up to? He said bring you back, but that ambush I heard looked alot more fun."
Deacon smiled and lowered the UMP. As he turned to get back in the car, "Common, I'll show ya. It's a helluva plan." Solo picked up his motor bike and dumped it in the back of the Jeep. Then he dropped in beside Deacon, considerably yawing the Jeep in his direction.
Deacon drove for another twenty minutes out of town in into the back country of Pennsylvania. Then turned down a dirt road and then off into the field. Solo looked at him with concern, but Deacon just smiled. He's probably thinking 'Did Deacon set an ambush for himself and me because he knew the Priest would send someone after him?' but I didn't. I'll let him stew. Then came to a stop behind a big black ID'less and decalless Chevy Suburban. Deacon got out of the Jeep and climbed into the Suburban, tossing his gear in the back. "Common," he said to Solo.
Solo climbed in and glanced in the back. The normally spacious interior was filled and maybe MAYBE two people could squeeze in the back. "Shit Deac, got enough?"
Deacon looked him right in the eyes, "You know if I don't have it, we'll need it."
"Righto!" Solo said as he cataloged the gear in the back. Ammo boxes of four different sizes, at least twelve total. Tool boxes in five sizes, twelve total. A floor rack that added eight inches ontop of the normal floor in the back. Seven rifle cases, and four polyethylene crates filled with something essential. "What you got in all that?" he asked after scanning it for a minute or so.
"It would take too long to explain."
"Where we going?"
"Chicago."
"That's at least five hours. Fill me in."
Deacon exhaled heavily, "ok."
Chicago, IL. Day Three, 1400.
In the Irish part of town there were alot of pubs, but this one had to be Ian's favorite. If he didn't already own it, Deacon thought. THE CRAZY IRISHMAN the sign loudly proclaimed in bright red like Ian's hair. Deacon got out of his Cadillac Seville with V8 32-valve Northstar. Solo stood on the other side, in the same clothes he'd been wearing when they last met-heavy black leather bikers pants and jacket with black boots.
Solo walked around the car and stood beside Deacon as they looked up at the big dumb sign, "You think he's in there?"
"If I know Ian he is. It's noon somewhere." Both walked in, open their own door of the two double doors. Once inside Irish rock and roll assaulted their ears and smoke burned Deacon's eyes. Solo's lungs quite moving as he switched over to internal oxygen.
"God I hate smoke," Solo said.
Not distracted like Solo, Deacon's eye was immeadietly caught by a tall, long legged Asian lady sitting at the bar in an absolutely devistating tight red dress. One look at the high-heeled glossy leather black boots she wore and he knew he found Ian. She looked over at Deacon and nodded as if she noticed his eyes on her for too long; more appropriately, a pair of eyes that lingered on her too long without thoughts of lust. She then did a passable imitation of smiling that would melt most men's hearts.
Deacon walked over towards her with Solo in tow. "Where's Ian?" he asked.
She wasn't even bothered he made no small talk, "In the pool room doing the DOTFA."
"What?" Deacon looked confused.
"The Dance Of The Flaming Asshole." Deacon winced. Partly at the thought of it, and partly at the dead pan manner in which she delivered the news.
"Up to his old tricks again?" Kham nodded. "Well if I miss him, which I doubt, tell him I've got a job that includes blowing things up." She nodded again.
Deacon then walked away through the light late-lunch crowd, leaving Kham and Solo in silence. Passing the rest of the bar, the bathrooms, and some cigarette vending machines he got to the pool room. Being greeted by a raucous crowd of drunken Irishmen means getting a lot of beer spilled on you, and in here, unlike the main bar there is nowhere to hide. Deacon's cheap suit took the abuse and no one got hurt. Being six foot tall also meant you could see over a slouching crowd of drunken Irishmen, and it only took him a second to find Ian. Standing bent over on a pool table with flaming toilet paper stuffed up his anus, Ian jumped around and danced with bar girls, standing up only fast enough to get a quick drink before the flames ignited his pants around his ankles. Dear God, I am in hell.
Pushing through the drunken crowd of young men and women bumpin and grinding to what passed for rock and roll, he made his way to the pool table Ian was dancing on. Gently taking the hand of the young lady dancing with Ian, he pulled her over to him. "Excuse me," Deacon said, "but would you get my friend and I a couple of beers."
She looked up at him through blood shot eyes as it dawned on Deacon that these people weren't getting an early start on the evening; they were still going from last night. "Why shure laddy!" she said slapping his rear and taking the twenty he pressed in her hand.
"Agh!@!@! What the fuk was dat!!" Ian growled in his horribly think Irish accent.
"Me getting drinks," Deacon replied.
"Agh, OK. But don't let them be the last!! Agh ha ha!"
"Nice Dance. Wanna blow something up?"
"It's not a dance, it's a tradition. And what the hell are ya askin' me that for?!?" Ian said with a crazy gleam in his eyes.
Deacon looked confused, Ian should know why I'm asking him. He's the companies leading demolitions expert. "Because you're a demolitions expert," he replied.
"Agh, know that. But all yu need to doo is tell me what to blow uup."
"Oh." Deacon felt like he was missing something here, "Let's go."
"Right!" Ian said as he jumped down, and pulled the flaming toilet paper from his ass. "Agh! Ough!! Fell the burn!! Shit. Crap," and dropped them on the floor. He pulled up his pants and the young gal returned with their beers. Ian drank his as she fell into his arms and they started moving with the music. Deacon just stood there. "Ough, Lassie, that DOTFA makes de burnin' of hemroids a welcume relief, Agh." Everyone around them started laughing at Ian's joke. Deacon just stood there. Ian looked up at him, "What? Right now!! Agh?"
"Yes, now."
"Agh, crap." Ian said as he finished his drink, then Deacon's seeing he was just holding it. "Letz gu!"
They both walked out of the pool room and into the main bar room floor.
Kham looked at Ian and just shook her head.
"Agh! Whut's amatter now? Eh??" was all Ian said.
"Ok, I've got a small job. I filled Solo in, and he'll fill you in. It's a small job and not Company related. It's my own personal vendetta, so back out now if you want."
Kham looked him square in the eyes, "Will I get to make things bleed?"
A shiver went down Deacon's spine as the contemplated the exact wording and how it was different that 'Will I get to kill things,' then he answered, "Yes."
"Then I'm in," she said in a voice sweetern' sugar.
Ian looked at him, "Youuu kno I'm givin' up the DOTFA for ya!" Deacon nodded. "One penguin turned to the other penguin in the bath tub and said, 'Hey pass me the soap.' The other Penguin replies, 'What the hell do I look like a Radio?'"
"Is that a yes Ian?"
"No, I was just bored with your story so I made up me own!! AGH!!! But I'll go cuz I kno you won't blow up anythingk right without me!"
"Great. Solo will show you what we need and I'll meet up with you in two days at the target."
Everyone nodded, except Ian who was finishing his drink while Deacon spoke.
Wyoming Rockies. Day Three, 1800.
After using Blacknet to get in touch with Kid and Greerson, he was thankful at least one of them was on down time. Kid was in Thailand chasing after Vietnamese Shapechangers, so that left Greerson. Driving down the long winding road along the bottom of the valley headed towards the hill Greerson's house was on, he knew Greerson could hold off a small army as long as he had a bunker that could protect him from any artillery. As he came to the switchback roads that led up the mountain, he marvled at the simplicity of it. No vehicle could take these turns fast. That means Greerson could shoot them at will as they slow down to make the turn. Deacon looked out the passanger window and couldn't even see up the mountain to Greersons, but was sure Greerson could see him.
After five more minutes he came to the crest of his hill. Covered in trees, a large, beautiful, redwood log cabin could be seen in the heart of the wood. As he brought the suburban to a stop under the shady canopies of the trees the front door opened, and Greerson walked out. He had what looked like a M1903 Springfield bolt action rifle on his arm. Deacon got out and felt the soft crunch of pine needles under his feet and felt the suns warmth on his face. Up this high in the mountains it was a full seventy degrees and in the heat of the day. Greerson was sitting down on rough cut wooden furniture on the houses porch. "Greetings Deacon," he shouted from the deck.
Deacon waved and shouted back, "You too. Nice day." Then began walking over towards the house.
"Forget the smalltalk, what do you want shot," Greerson asked with one leg crossed, and the M1903 cradled in his arm.
Deacon made it to the porch and sat on the sturdy wooden rail, opposite of the houses main door from Greerson. "A personal job, outside Company lines, though I've not been barred from the target. But we can expect no support from the Company."
Greerson stroked his long beard and looked out at the mountains. "What's the target. What are the ROEs. What are your requirements."
Deacon definetly liked his professionalism as opposed to Ian's. "Target is a KKK and White Power rally outside Chicago. Specifically their leadership. Their security will be low and from range you'll be able to walk up, shoot, and leave. Only one ROE: zero friendly fire is acceptable. I require that ten marks be put down with head shots in under five seconds. After that, it's your ammo."
"Damn. I hate Illinois Nazi." Greerson shook his head then looked towards Deacon, "I'll do it." They both sat in silence for a minute or two. Deacon was wondering what Greerson was thinking. Greerson was planning out the mission in his head, then asked, "Have you seen the ranch yet?".
"Not in person, only from Satallite." Deacon answered.
Greerson grinned, "Then let me take you one the tour." He stood and slung the rifle over his shoulder and started to walk down the stairs off the porch. "Ah, let's start inside first." Greerson then turned around and headed inside.
Deacon walked in and was immeadietly amazed. He cabin was probalby just three rooms. To his left were two doors; probably one for a kitchen, and the second for a bedroom or pantry. But decorating the main room was what amazed him. Decorating the walls were over fifty rifles. From old Brown Bess muzzle loaders to Kentucky Long Rifles. An old Marlin 1856 lever-action probably in .45-70 was right next to a Henry rifle. Several old Mausers, were by a pair of (one old, one new) Lee-Enfield .308s. A SSG-90, was beside a M14. There were four Garands standing in the corner, beside what looked like the "big boys" wall. There was a 14.5mm Russian Anti-Tank rifle, with a new Barret M82A1A Anti-Material Rifle, with a Austrian Anti-tank rifle, and one that escaped explanation at the very top. Deacon was drawn to the unknown and Greerson followed.
"What's that?" Deacon asked pointing at the big gun.
"That is a beauty of my own design. It's a 20mm that shoots the same ammo as the Vulcan and all it's offshoots. So ammo is plentiful. It has a five round single stack magazine. Plus the gas system pushes a mass down the hand-grip to offset recoil."
Deacon just nodded.
"That's for when I REALLY want to reach out and touch someone. Now let me show you that barn."
They walked outside away from the cars and into the forest. Deacon could see the barn, but apart from a few solar panels on the roof it was just a barn. When Greerson opened the door and they stepped in, his mind changed. The floor had been poured in one piece of concrete and looked very flat. It mounted about a dozen machines from Ultrasonic cleaning, to coating, to wood saws, to a vertical milling machine and a horizontal lathe in the back corner.
"I run a generator out back, but I've got a water powered generator I got from a techie that will run any one machine at a time. There's also a reloading station upstairs, with chemical tanks to make my own gunpowder."
Deacon smiled. Now this is prepared. "I like it. I like it alot."
For the next thirty minutes Deacon explained the plan and then left.
Outside Chicago, IL. 2200 Day Five.
Everyone sat in silence at their designated locations. Solo and Kham were each with Greerson and Ian, respectively, to provide personal defense in case something got out of hand, which Deacon didn't expect.
Deacon was watching the cross burning ceremony hit full swing. The KKK and the Aryan Brotherhood were chanting and yelling with enthusiasm as the Grand Wizard and other high ranking members came to the stage. Now was phase one.
Over their secure radios Deacon said, "Alpha Tango Tango." The Grand Wizard had just begun his speech when his head exploded like a watermelon. Then nine others on stage heads began exploding approximately a half a second apart. By the sixth shot the explosive reports could be heard echoing across the landscape. When the last body hit the stage floor Greerson came over the radio, "Target Touched."
"Roger Hawk. Perigrin Over."
"Agh, Perigrin here. Watcha ya want. I'm busy doin' my lass" A loud slap could be heard over the radio. "Ouch! Wuman!!"
Deacon was shaking his head. "Perigrin, Execute."
"Roger, Eagle." Ian said as he rubbed his arm as he pulled and turned the safety key out of the detonator box. "Yu know I'm just kidding right luv?"
SLAP!! Kham gave him her 'Stone Cold Ray of Death' look.
"That's what I thought," Ian smiled back. "Ah, u're just like a ray of sunshine." A short pause. "Fuk, noo. I mean a death ray wuman." Then he looked back toward the large KKK gathering and flipped the switch. "Uups, almost forgot." SLAP!! "Ouch!!"
At the same time, six MICLICS blasted off of their trailers. Ian had stolen U.S. Army MIne Clearing LIne ChargeS from a nearby base. Each rocket pulled a one hundred yard long streamer behind it. The streamer had two hundred pounds of C4 bundled onto it. Ian had modified it so all six would detonate at the same time after they had hit the ground. The U.S. Army uses them to blast a forty foot long path through minefields. The tremendous blast they create is so strong it detonates or destroys the mines. The shockwave is also visible in the air because of the massive compression.
Ian just smiled as all six arced up through the air. The six trailers were located at the six points of a star. Each trailer was aimed about 30 degrees to the right of the trailer two to its right as you go around the star counter clockwise. For the innumerate, or ungeometrical, the end result is that a star shaped pattern. Six lines make a six sides star. A six sided star is the star of David.
"Agh, I luv the bitter irony wouldnut you say lass?!?" SLAP!! "Ouch!!"
Deacon was sure this would fuel conspiranoiacs for a generation to come.
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