• Terrorist Strike
    BY: Divad de Sel
    CH1

    “Life is just another way of death… Death is just another way of life… Live with it… Accept it… Get used to it”- Captain Leonardo Arpegio of Black Death Recruitment, to Captain Ajun Murak of Black Death Technology, on his philosophy of life.
    Eastern Tip of Bermuda, Black Death Helipad, December 1st, 2010, 2400 Hours

    The Loud hum of the helicopters rotating blades in the cool, dark midnight, helipad, whipping the trees with a gust of air, the sand blowing from the beach’s coast, calmed Leonardo as he inspected his troops, behind his black shirt, pants, and hood, covered with gear and weapons as he paced back and forth in his combat boots, as the helicopter slipped behind the jagged rocks.
    Hhhmmm…acceptable. They won’t freeze when they see a gun on their head. They will kill and keep killing. But… will they save one of their own? That is the question… but that’s why they’re here. They are trained killers but they still have a lot more lessons.
    Moving swiftly he walked down the line of black armor and black gas masks. They were in the bottom rank so they had to wear the uniform presented to them for that rank. He of course was third highest rank with fellow others … he was the soldier recruiter for the organization. His black hood and armor making him look equivalent to a cold, emotionless, killing machine, his black back pack, weapons and belts hanging off of him. “You are elite but new. You may have acceptable skills but you are on a whole new playing field. Your tests will begin momentarily, but until you fail your first exam… welcome to the Black Death.”


    America, Washington D.C., Department of Homeland Security, December 1st, 2010, 2400 Hours


    The sergeant was angry. Rick had seen it before, and knew the sign that his sergeant Cal Iver was angry by the way he kept tapping his finger quickly against his legs as he sat down in the giant, comfortable looking chair behind the sturdy maple desk, the book that he was previously reading, open and face down on its pages.
    The sergeant was angry because Rick had answered a call about a possible suicide bombing threat in downtown New York. Apparently the call was a decoy and there was no bomb in downtown New York. Seconds later 678 people died in New Dakota. 339 Units of the NDPD, 339 civilians dead. 113 of those civilians were children.
    There were two bombers: an Iraqi telephone repairman, Al Skirhati Munad, and an American taxi driver, Tomson Gundero. The Sergeant was scolding him for letting it happen. How could he have known? The call might have been real and he would have prevented a catastrophe. It wasn’t his fault that instead the call was fake and a catastrophe happened elsewhere. At least that’s what he thought.
    He knew he shouldn’t doubt himself that he was right and it wasn’t his fault, that he took the right course of action. But still that was a lot of innocent lives lost for a moronic reason.
    The media was feeding like sharks on this info, scraping up whatever they could like starving wolves fighting over a piece of meat. Even entertainment was taking advantage of this. Franklin Jerrald, an American Idol contestant from New Dakota, gave a long speech with many fake emotional outbursts. People didn’t care about the lost lives; it was a popularity contest to them. Stars were trying to get publicity off of it, acting like they cared; politicians were trying to get more votes for the upcoming election by getting popularity for taking advantage of this situation.
    Rick didn’t even listen to the angry babbling of his sergeant. Personally he didn’t care. But it didn’t matter. The next few months would be the same besides the people trying to mooch off a tragedy. After that every thing would be normal. At least Rick Worlin hoped so.

    Mali, Safo, Mobile Base A-18, North of the Niger River, December 2nd, 2010, 1900 Hours


    Commander Brokan Humadin was not amused. Nobody could tell it by looking at him because of his calm features…and the black sunglasses over his hidden, steady eyes. Even if they knew about his discomfort, they wouldn’t have bothered him because of the browning by his right hip, slightly loose in its holster for easy access, in the case of a “minor” situation. The cause of his uneasiness was the threats against the Prime Minister of Mali, Luvrak Varon, which have been occurring rapidly this month. Coincidentally, this is the same month of the minister’s visit to Safo. Thus the security of his team, and thus his irritation.
    The commander and his squad were at a mobile base, just south of where the minister would give his speech. The speech would be about the improvement of political and military operations and technology. But first the Prime Minister would talk about making future improvements for the areas that have been getting a lot of attention from terrorists. Ever since the death of Osama Bin Laden when his boat sunk in the Caribbean, new terrorists have been created and they have taken his place. If his followers were to join one of these cells, than they would be made a high ranking officer in their ranks. And they’d have more influence and more tricks.
    “Tanks?” Humadin asked, naming something for the Prime Ministers protection. A soldier at a computer console held his thumb up to tell that the item was there. Tanks, check. “Rockets?” Another raised thumb. Rockets, check. “Helicopters?” Yet again another thumb. Helicopters check. He didn’t need to ask if the jeeps were there because he had to get here by riding one. “Submarines?” No answer. The soldiers looked up from their tasks and glanced around the room. One soldier who was still on his computer, looked up, and frowned. Thumbs down. Then the commander was in boiling hot rage. Even tough the river is far from Safo, a boat could launch missiles, or jets, and head toward this location. It was important that all bodies of water near Safo had ten subs to inspect on coming vessels.
    He finally recognized the soldier at the computer console from its glow in the dark light. He was Chief Petty Officer Franj Decour. He was a good friend to the commander, but nowadays mistakes weren’t good in the military.
    Usually he would just be fired, but under the circumstances that Franj knew military secrets, he would be executed. Humadin hovered his right hand over the browning and said grimly, heavy with regret, “Desole.” He pulled out his gun and shot two rounds into the head of Franj Decour, ending his life in a few seconds.
    “Une Biere , deux.” As the closest trooper got the beer, Brokan Humadin slouched into the nearest chair and put his right hand to his temple. When the trooper came with the beer, he snatched it and started draining its contents. “Prenez-moi ces sous-marins maintenant,” He yelled at the soldiers, This is going to be a long millennia, he thought as he put himself back under control.

    Sargasso Sea, Tropic of Cancer, the Angler Fish, West of Bridgetown, December 3rd, 2010, 1500 Hours


    As Naval Captain Baxter Herman looked across the deck, he noticed a sudden slumping in the men. “ You.” He merely said pointing to one of his slouching crew members. “ Me?” The scraggly haired teen replied. “Yes you slacker, now what’s wrong with the men?” the captain asked demandingly.
    Now he noticed the eyes staring at him and the boy, watching their conversation with tired, baggy eyes. They all looked ill and grim, some pale, and some green. “Sir, we haven’t slept in days,” one of the older members of the crew said to his far left. “Well I’m sorry if you’re to busy partying at night, but now you have to do your work, so get to it!” The captain yelled at the small group of men and women in their black suits and gear.
    “And don’t even think about starting mutiny, because even if you kill me you’ll all be blown to pieces in a matter of seconds after my death.” He stated this because he knew that they were thinking about killing him. And, after a few examples from the past, no one would dare even think of doubting his word. So he let the consequences sink into their tiny minds. He didn’t care about his boss or the company he worked form, It was very good pay. “That’s right, don’t even try it, I know what your plans are, and I’ve-
    BANG
    -ugghhh, ugghh.” The teen had slipped a gun from his sleeve and shot him in the stomach, blood spurting out of his lower intestine as he gasped and gasped trying to breathe. He fell to his knees and crumpled to the deck, his head pounding to the floor, his eyes wide open in anguish and terror, the speeding beat of his heart the only noise in his head.
    The angry and yet satisfied faces of the grinning crew hovered over him as dark spots crowded his vision, leaving him blind. If only he had been nicer. His heart stopped and the captain stopped breathing.

    Sargasso Sea, Tropic of Cancer, the Angler Fish, West of Bridgetown, December 3rd, 2010, 1500 Hours


    Rob stared down at the body lying crumpled up like a piece of paper in front of him, and took a look down at the hot, and heavy metal gun that he was still holding.
    The glow of the green screen in the computer in the control room now changed to a blue light, meaning only one thing- The boss knew what had happened. As they slipped through the doors, and cautiously glanced at the screen, they saw a white hood staring at them.
    My god I just shot the captain only two minutes ago. How could he have found out so quickly?
    “Congratulations, I was hoping that someone would kill that money grubbing fiend. So tell me, who blasted his intestines out,” the white hood asked, the blue eyes behind it simply filled with bored curiosity.
    Well he blow us up anyways… might as well not prolong the wait.
    “I did sir,” Rob replied staring at the figure.
    “Well fun, fun, for you, you’ve just been promoted,” the white hood stated as if he were talking to a child.
    “Excuse me sir?”
    “You’ve been promoted as I previously said,” he replied.
    “But why, I shot an officer?”
    “Yes, but this company isn’t concerned with money.”
    “Just what is this company anyways?”
    “Two weeks from now you will go to a certain area, the coordinates will be provided, and you’ll need to dress warmly, every thing will be explained there.”
    “But I don’t understa-“
    “You’ll see.”
    And with that the screen went blank.
    Rob lifted his head and looked around at the staring faces of his fellow crew. Harold Garrison was the one who broke the silence. “What do we do now- sir?” He had no idea what he was doing. How could he lead a crew of sailors who were out on a fishing trip for the port of Bridgetown? At least that’s what he used to think they were doing. Filled with doubts he decided what to do. “I guess we go.”

    CH2

    “This terrible tragedy has affected us all... all in negative ways of woe and sadness. We don’t want anymore dead. 678 innocent people shouldn’t die. If I am elected president, nothing like this will happen again in my country, when I have something to do about it”-Presidential Candidate, Senator Joe Downason, giving a speech on the New Dakota bombing to the press.
    America, Washington D.C., Phoenix Park Hotel, December 3rd, 2010, 1900 Hours


    As Rick walked through the door to his room, he dropped his bag to the ground, tossed his brief case aside, and slumped to his old, red couch.
    He was tired after the shouting Cal gave him. He also had to get through the humility of his fellow officers, snickering, and making puns about him behind his back.
    He didn’t care that they were making jokes about him, or the loud lecture. It was that no one cares about the bombing, and he was being blamed, although he had no way of knowing their plans.
    He plucked the remote to the TV off of the couch and started it up. He knew what the news would be about so he decided to skip it. Instead he went to Comedy Central and decided that some comedy would cheer him up. Apparently, John Stuart was on talking about how George W. Bush could have furthered advancement into terrorists, and how to stop them.
    He then decided to flip the channel to Comedy Central 2. Larry the Cable Guy was on. He didn’t mention the tragedy, so that was good for Rick. But once Larry finished a pun, the doorbell rang, annoying Rick even more, bringing him to the outside world. He pushed himself away from the table and trudged through the red carpet to the brown oak door. He peered through the eyehole and started removing the locks from the door. He pulled the door open and stared at the green eyes that had started staring at his.
    “What do you want Lisa?” The girl at the door was Lisa Darrows, who was also Rick’s ex-girlfriend. They had broken up about a month ago, two days after Lisa started living with Rick.
    “I came for the rest of my things.”
    “I mailed them to you tw-“
    “Well you might have forgotten something.”
    “I checked there’s nothing else.”
    As he opened the door more he noticed the arm of someone in a brown coat standing next to the door.
    “Maybe you did,” replied a harsh voice coming from the direction of the unseen stranger.
    “Who else is with you,” Rick asked out of curiosity.
    “Rick this is Chad, he’s with the police.”
    “The police? What, you think I stole something fro-“
    “If you didn’t steal anything then there’s no reason for us not to come in.”
    He moved away from the door and allowed them to enter. “Make yourselves at home.”
    “Don’t worry son we will.”
    “Don’t call me son.”
    “Alright just calm down.”
    As the two people walked in he shut the door behind them. As he turned they were already looking under couches, checking drawers, digging through trash cans, and peering behind objects. “Just what do you think I stole exactly?” “Nothing, just some family heirlooms.”
    “Really? I thought that every thing her family owned was worthless.”
    Lisa turned and gave him a cold glare and continued with her searching.
    This is going to be a long day, he thought as he began locking his door.

    Antarctica, Ronne Ice Shelf, Black Death Naval Base 0-5, December 4th, 2010, 0450 Hours




    When Rob finished docking his boat at the wooden port, he led his crew down the frozen ramp way and across the snowy streets, the white snowflakes falling everywhere in the cold night air, and into the building that had more people entering it that the other buildings.
    There were black gas masks every where he looked, as he walked down the white, smooth, metal corridors.
    “Where do you think you’re going kid?”
    Rob turned in the direction of the voice and saw yet another black mask staring down at him. “Uh… I was...”
    “I can’t stand an indecisive child. Seeing as how you don’t know where you are going, you must be new, and because you’re new you must go to sign up. It’s down the hall, to the second left, and to the right.”
    “Um, thanks?”
    “Why are you still standing here? Go, go, and go!”
    Rob hurried himself and his crew down the hall and to the second left as the woman continued shouting at them.
    As he walked to his new found destination, he glanced up at the ceiling and the fluorescent lights that were above him. He noticed that the walls, ceiling, and floor were so clean that they showed reflections.
    “Sorta like Star Wars, eh Rob?” Rob turned to see Harold turning his head around, mouth open, and eyes filled with wonder, like a kid in a toy store. He’d always been telling Rob of the days before the bombs. He was born in Arizona in 1968, and grew up in the desert. When space movies where became life, he was drawn into it completely. “Don’t get to excited Harold, for all we know we’ve been doing drug runs, Baxter might have stuffed the fish with smack for all we know.” He really hoped that it wasn’t something bad. He hoped that it might just be a fishing convention, or a cable repairman office. Who am I kidding? We’re wearing gas masks for Christ sake! Also, why would repairmen be right next to Antarctica? It’s just a frozen rock. And I don’t think that this would be the best place for a convention.
    Shaking off his uneasiness, he marched straight on through the crowds. As he neared his destination, two doors parted into the wall leaving a small hatch to walk through. As he entered he noticed small groups of black gas masks, two vending machines, some small white couches, chairs, round tables, a few potted plants, and to the far wall a receptionist’s desk. It looked like the small groups were talking, and laughing. Some people had even taken off their masks so they could chow down on a light snack.
    As he approached the receptionist’s desk, he noticed a tall, muscular man with a small black mustache, stone cold eyes, and tattoos all over. He leaned down on the desk, looked down at Rob and gave him the ugliest look Rob had ever seen.
    “What can I do ye for… string bean?”
    “Uh… I need to sign in sir.”
    He backed up and raised his eyebrow up quizzically. He lloked surprised.
    “Sir? Nobody around here calls me sir. And also, you don’t need anything here.”
    “But the lady sai-“
    “You don’t need anything here because you have everything here.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “This place is paradise.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because when I was in Cuba, I was homeless thanks to the new president of Cuba raising taxes. Every where the only people that had normal lives were the wealthy or powerful. Then, throughout the corruption and greed, the scandals and lies, some one took me out of there and brought me here. This place may be isolated, but it isn’t pierced by the outside world. No crime, lies, scandals, or greed. Also, there are fresh supplies. Here, religion is freely expressed; racism forgotten, prejudice abandoned, and political issues are expertly managed.”
    “Who are you exactly?”
    “Every one calls me Frank.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “My real name is Donasae Combrundero Gundregos Khaslatar.”
    “Okay then, Frank it is. So what is this company anyways?”
    “Oh, it’s not a company.”
    “Then what is it?” Rob was now filled from head to toe with confusion and doubt about joining whatever this was.
    “It’s a country. And with that let me just say one thing; welcome to the Black Death.”

    Antarctica, Ronne Ice Shelf, Black Death Naval Base 0-5, December 4th, 2010, 0450 Hours



    Sel Divad waited silently on the stage looking at his stopwatch and glanced toward the filling chairs of the arena, a sea of black body armor filling the unoccupied seats.
    It was five minutes to the start of the speech that would be broadcasted live to all computers and TV’s in every ship or base that belonged to the Black Death and was to far away for the commanders to make it. This broadcast was going to Giza, Cairo, Memphis, Virginia, the Rio Grande, and the eastern tip of Bermuda.
    Behind him, his second in command, Kahn, stood watching the growing crowd and the walkways for any snipers, while also checking that his own hand picked men stood guard at their posts. Ever since the world wide terror attack that came to be known as the Comet struck in 2008, this year has become a year where mistakes were deadlier than being a forest mouse in a nest of Eastern Indigo Snakes.
    Once he saw that all of the seats were filled, the cameras operational, and everything was quiet, he approached the podium, took a deep breath of the icy air and began speaking in a booming voice.

    Antarctica, Ronne Ice Shelf, Black Death Naval Base 0-5, December 4th, 2010, 0450 Hours




    As Rob and his crew made their way to the now filling stadium he noticed the giant thirty-foot screens protruding from the side of the stadium. He also noticed the people walking by the perimeter of the stadium looking in all directions with M-16’s on their backs, flash bangs hanging from the straps on their shoulders, and a pair of 9mm’s in each hand. They also had very complicated and strangely made knives on their boots, in their pockets, and in their belts.
    As he walked by, the sea of black gas masks and body armor rapidly grew. When he began his way toward the stadium there were only a few groups of friends talking and fooling around, but now as the stadium grew taller the Empire State Building before the Comet, the crowds became big enough to replace everyone in Asia.
    He continued on, stepped up to security, had all possible weapons removed, and went on to find a spot for him and his men.
    Once they were settled, Rob looked up at the stage and gasped at the face he saw- the only one not dressed in black besides the tall muscular man behind him- the faceless face of the white hood who brought him here.

    CH3

    “Today, we see the aftermath of the largest world wide terror attack in the history of 2008, the streets of almost all the cities on Earth burning in a giant roaring inferno, the streets resembling the images we imagine from books of Holocaust, Armageddon, the Rapture, or to simply put it the End of the World. The Outer Rim was a brand new satellite that all of Earth’s countries worked hard to build together, with every ounce of technology they had. But, Osama Bin Laden had captured workers at a base that held the satellite’s passwords. He sent us tapes of him saying to the prisoners that if they gave him the password they would be sent free. After only six of the original sixty were left they gave him the password. He beheaded them two hours later. He took the satellite and caused all nuclear devices to go off wherever they were with the push of a computer key. After the nuclear missiles were launched he set the satellite to land wherever it was over and self destruct. It landed next to propane warehouse and killed whoever the missiles didn’t kill. The only good news is that Osama died in the process”- News reporter Janice Burtman, survivor of the Comet.
    Antarctica, Ronne Ice Shelf, Black Death Naval Base 0-5, December 4th, 2010, 0450 Hours



    “Ladies and gentlemen from all over the world, good evening. Today is the anniversary of the Comet. Whoopie.
    I have called this meeting to tell you that the construction of our new satellite, the Medicine, will be launched tomorrow at twelve hundred hours.
    This new satellite will be equipped with state of the art security, brand spanking new weapons, and powerful armor.
    Now I know your wondering “what if another comet happens?” Well just for your safety I’ve taken the liberty of putting the password to control it in a safe. This safe requires a key to open it. The safe is bullet proof, and the only way you can open the safe is with nine thousand tons of dynamite. And that’s not a hyperbole. I’ve taken the liberty of secretly throwing the key into the bottom of the Amundsen Sea. If you want it you need to survive the pressure, hyperthermia, and let’s not forget the wonderful wildlife.
    Also, we will begin our conquest on nearby research centers and in cities, states, and countries two hundred and forty hours from now. So rest up, eat you vegetables, get your Remington’s ready, and then we’ll party.
    For those new members out there, Leonardo Arpegio of our Black Death recruitment will be stopping by to check on you in five days from Bermuda. If you’re good enough you’ll be a fighter in our ranks. If you’re not you’ll do something else. Your IQ exams begin on Monday, and to those of you new members who haven’t signed up yet please do so.
    Welcome to the Black Death, copyrighted Sel Divad, December fourth, two thousand ten, at o-four hundred and fifty hours.”
    Once he finished his absurdly long speech, Sel Divad caught his breath and walked away from the podium, feeling victorious but only letting the feeling last for a few seconds.
    Most of the pathetic creatures out there were pawns. Others he had no plans of sacrificing. To him, if one plan failed another would greet him. Every thing would work out. He just had to relax, be calm and patient.

    Mali, Uptown Safo, December 5th, 2010, 1200 Hours



    As Luvrak Varon sat in the blood red chair, he looked up at the soldier stating something about some seriously sick soldiers in a camp about two miles south of his location.
    Why didn’t they understand that they were worthless? It is only the important and powerful that he should be worried about.
    He made a brief gesture at the trooper and dismissed him. Once the door had closed and Varon heard the soldiers footsteps recede down the corridor, he pulled out his lap top from his desk, pushed his paper, pencils, files, and everything else away from the surface of its surface, and set it down.
    He opened up his secret folders and noticed that he was contacted three times from his commanders. He opened the files up and reviewed each one carefully, afraid that he might miss something important. Once he finished reading them, he began typing his replies to the three individual emails. He pressed the enter button and watched the window pop up, and his gaze stood there staring at the dark haired woman, staring at the harsh, cold eyes with a swastika on her right arm.
    “I see you’ve gotten my emails.”
    “I haven’t had the chance to with everyone visiting.”
    She tilted her head a bit; her eye’s staring frighteningly into his skull as if she were trying to decide whether he was saying the truth, or making a lie.
    After a long pause she began again, “Our satellites have found a weird radioactive signal along with a large amount of various metals and electricity.”
    He didn’t expect this. He simply stared at her wondering why she was telling him this even though everyone knew that after the Comet the North and South Poles had a large amount of radioactivity. “Why are you telling me this? A lot of people already know that. It’s even in history-“
    “That’s not all. There have also been reports of large numbers of different boats heading towards Antarctica.”
    Now he stared at her, stunned at the fact that people where actually living on that nuclear block of ice. When its radioactive levels rose, people had to abandon research centers.
    “Is there any threat in this to our plans?” He asked with fear. If anybody knew about his plans or if anybody were a threat to them, he would most defiantly be dead.
    As she explained everything slowly Varon knew that something bad was about to happen. Something that would make the morning sky as dark as the Crater, the spot in which the Outer Rim had fallen. It was also the deepest and darkest hole on Earth. A hole he thought went into the darkest part of the Underworld, Tartarus. Thinking of that infinite darkness he shivered a bit, now noticing that the screen was blank. He shut it and put it back in his desk. He stood up abruptly and walked to his mini bar. He fished out a ridiculously large bottle of rum and began chugging away.

    The Crooked Stars HQ, Camp Auschwitz Birkenau II Island, December 5th, 2010, 1200 Hours

    Meumdrid Auschwitz closed her laptop and shoved it back in her maple drawer. She pushed herself away from her desk and left her large, circular office. She strode in her leather boots to the main observatory deck of Lab-A. She stood watching through the dark one way glass as millions of workers began building machines, started animal experiments and her favorite of all… began trying to make the perfect soldier with humans. Some of the experiments were cyborgs, some robots, and some simply pathetic humans from France, America, Britain, and Canada. Behind her came the sharp and precise steps of lead general Tazui Ottawa. Meumdrid turned around gracefully and both Ottowa and Auschwitz gave each other the Nazi salute and continued observing the enslaved scientists. “General Ottawa I’m going to go check o their progress more closely if you don’t mind,” Meumdrid said to Ottowa with her patented cold and bored tone and a German accent. “I don’t mind at all, my glorious leader, you may do as you wish,” replied the scared Japanese soldier to the Nazi leader. With one final Nazi salute she walked down the stairs and came to the nearest scientist who was a Peruvian woman with black scraggly hair and small pink glasses. “You scientist, what is this that you are working on because it doesn’t look like the Proto-Bombs that I ordered you to make.”
    The small woman sputtered out her words with a quick haste, “I need more time, and we still don’t have enough napalm or nuclear battery acid. The delivery man was caught in a cross fire between the Armies of the New Bin Laden and the South Indian Resistance. His truck was blown off the road by a car side bomb and a fire started. He tried to run far away from the truck but he didn’t. The truck exploded killing the A.N.B.L’s and the S.I.R’S and the delivery man. But from that we have learned that the bomb was to dangerous to take here in case of an air attac-“
    BAM
    The woman’s head exploded in a shower of brain, gore and blood from the shot of her large, steel pistol which she liked to call Unit 9420. A few moments after she had shot the bumbling scientist a small clean up crew of two men came, wrapped up the body like a Christmas package, cleaned up the gore, and carried the body away to be turned into a small hidden bomb that would be designed to be draped in the streets and explode at the push of a button. The men in Unit 731 will love this, she said menacingly. While this was going on she saw out of the corner of her eye that the other workers weren’t disturbed by this and continued with their work. Leaving Lab-A, she quickly turned to Lab Unit 731 were she decided to watch the experiments on the dead puppet.