Everett, Washington D. C. 0915 hours29th AprilAs the sleek black vehicle came to a halt, Agent Thomas could not shake off the ominous feeling that Tony and himself were slowly descending into an enigmatic labyrinth. Each new piece of information they unearthed seemed to lure them further into a web of mystery, a realm porch where their understanding reached an unsettling abyss.As they stepped out from their vehicle, their eyes were instantly drawn to the , partially cloaked in the sturdy shelter of the overhanging structure of the unassuming safe house. Crowne and his lovely spouse, Clara lounged with ease, indulging in relaxed conversation.An unmistakable shift rippled across the couple's faces as they noticed the two guests. Before long, Agent S emerged from the shadows, his curiosity piqued by a mere glimpse of Thomas' vintage automobile. It was abundantly clear that something was not right. With a casual flick of his hat, Thomas greeted the gathering in a manner reminiscent o
Rochester, New York. April 29th. 1030 hours.Derek again checked the gauges and buttons that adorned the control panel within the cabin. This was no ordinary task for him; it was a well-practiced routine. The imminent arrival of Train Eleven weighed heavily on his mind as he scanned the glass doors ahead. Like worker bees, the passengers hurriedly filed in, their faces devoid of emotion, as if controlled by some unseen force, their sole purpose being to reach their desired destinations with unwavering punctuality.A faint, high-pitched squeal pierced through the confines of the cabin, confirming the radio's activation. He deftly picked up the receiver from its specially designed cradle on the control panel, handling it with a sense of purpose and determination.It was Jacks typically low nasal voice: 'Base to Eleven. Over.''Eleven to Base. Good morning, Jack. ' Derek emitted with a smile. 'Base to Eleven. You never try sounding formal.'Derek chuckled: 'Eleven to Base. You should
The Amazon, Brazil.0945 hours.15th June 2020.His epic journey through the depths of the Amazon Basin following the whispers and legends that spoke of the hallowed grounds known as Chula, proved to be a grueling quest. It demanded every ounce of strength and determination as he forged his way through treacherous pathways, strewn with jagged rocks and tangled thickets. With unwavering resolve, he pressed onward, driven by an insatiable desire to lay eyes upon this enchanting sanctuary.He had set off on his own, left abandoned by the indigenous companions who feared the wrath of the revered Chula deity if they dared accompany an unworthy soul like his.Armed with the knowledge bestowed upon him by the locals, he had diligently followed the sacred path to the hidden shrine as well as a meticulously drawn map, a precious gift from his esteemed archaeologist friend, Dr. John Bismarck. The enigmatic fate that befell the good doctor after his expedition to Chula which was shrouded in mys
London, United Kingdom2147 hours.5th February 2001Thelma MacDonaugh gently lowered on an iron straight-backed chair at the outdoor bar of the Mews observing the crowded streets enveloped by the apparent zest of excitement which characterized the London metropolis.A stewardess carrying a tray walked slowly through a group of occupied tables in a cramped area. The space used to be Chloe's apartment, one of the cozy living spaces within the Mews which she transformed into a bar.The plain-looking stewardess halted at her table, after cautiously placing the bulbous glass of dry martini and a small chinaware bearing a cheese pattie, she gingerly made her way to the internal recess of the bar reserved exclusively for smokers.Thelma had known Chloe for almost a decade now, since their encounter at Cambridge University. Her managerial astuteness was not in doubt as she had grown the business to an enviable status despite the fluctuating British economy. However cordial their relationshi
Kabul, Afghanistan 1601 hours12th April 2012.The Muezzin's voice emanated from the towering minaret of Kabul's Central Mosque located some five kilometers away from the cobbled highway where six Humvees rapidly hurdled their way through the deserted, war-torn city. The call to prayer woke him from his reverie They had been patrolling through the suburbs of the city and up till now, the potential of likely skirmishes was nonexistent.He clicked the radio to life and emitted, a sense of exertion evident in his jarring voice: 'Scorpio, how are the boys back there?'Scorpio was the moniker for Private Rogers Thompson, his sidekick who was manning the third Humvee within the convoy. His reply was hasty: 'We're all good. Can't wait till we get to the base and while out, Captain.'The mirthful remark of the boys was evident from the background.Rogers was quick to toss a quip into the conversation: 'soon Is never a term for a group, more for goons.' He bellowed out in laughter despite
Kabul, Afghanistan 1712 hours.12th April.The Humvee at the rear was in the line of fire. The salvo of lethal slugs from the two drones flying parallel to each other was too heavy for the vehicle to contain. Its tough steel exterior was critically damaged till it lost its resistance to the horrendous blitz of hot lead. The Humvee exploded, exuding a ball of fire that engulfed the vehicle.Crowne whimpered at the sight. Smith paused for a second, lowering the M134 by the sheer impact of the ballistic.Shards of burning metal and flesh splayed in the air.Crowne recognized the game plan was simple for these birds - pick each one of them out like flies floating in a cup of tea.Crowne yelled at Smith menacingly:'Fire!'The petrified officer swiveled the weapon in the direction of the drones that drifted through the ensuing inferno and were charging relentlessly at them. He pulled the trigger, slugs pillorying the arid air and heading for the drones. The UAVs exhibited an evasive act
CHAPTER FOURKabul, Afghanistan.1301 hours.April 17th.Director MI-6, Bullard 'Brain' Harris, expressed an indifferent countenance as soon as the helicopter gracefully took flight from the massive HMS battleship, its powerful rotors slicing through the air with an unmistakable hum. As it ascended, the aircraft seemed to defy gravity, rising higher and higher into the boundless expanse of the sky. The sun's golden rays bathed the sleek fuselage, accentuating its aerodynamic curves.The pilot, a young RAF officer, Richard Maple, skillfully manipulated the controls, effortlessly maneuvering the chopper through the invisible currents of the atmosphere. The sound of the rotors reverberated, echoing through the surrounding landscape as if announcing the helicopter's dominion over the sky.From its elevated vantage point, the world below unfolded like an intricate tapestry. The sprawling landscape appeared miniature, long stripes reduced to mere lines, and buildings to mere
Kabul, Afghanistan.1505 hours.April 17th.The eight Humvees, rugged and imposing, navigated their way along the sandy road within the confines of the secure military base. The vehicle'srobust tires gripped the loose sand, leaving several deep tracks in their wake.A cloud of fine sand billowed behind the powerful Humvees, swirling and dancing in their slipstream.The interior was filled with the distinct hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the suspension, Bullard took quick glimpses of the surrounding landscape, dotted with other military vehicles and structures which amplified the sense of purpose and controlled chaos. Amidst the vastness of the military base, the Humvees moved with an unwavering resolve despite the challenging Afghan terrain.After ten minutes, the eight Humvees shrouded by a visible envelope of dust came to a slouching halt before a modestly constructed bungalow.The men disembarked from the vehicles, led by the General as they all trooped into the buil