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Clouds of smoke curled and rolled slowly, as if the tension in the air slowed them down and turned their movements to surreal, dreamlike parodies of the natural order of things. A single bare light bulb hung, suspended from the ceiling by it’s own power cord. The night seemed to lean inwards, battering against the frail illumination of the single dim light source. The new moon outside didn’t help to make it seem any better. On the simple folding table set up in the middle of the room, a handful of photographs, scattered across the table, betrayed a dark truth. Tesla, trying to blink away sleep, once again grabbed for a random photo and peered at it closely. "Shit." The two men on the other side, staring at photos as well, only nodded. "Anyone got a pad of paper and a pen? We’re gonna have to itemize every godamn brick in this ton that’s about to fall on us." The creeper who had gotten the recon photos said: "Yeah, right here…" As he handed a pad he’d gotten from inside his flight jacket, Tesla murmured: "Wingnut, right?" He nodded. "Thanks." Slowly, systematically, the three of them began to write down every tank, every heavy gun they could find – and rough estimates of the amount of infantry about to hit them. After a couple hours, they had about all the data they could get. Tomorrow, they’d spread out some maps of the surrounding area and try to figure out just how this army would be coming up on them. With any luck, they wouldn’t be expecting to face an army of their own. For now, though… "How long do you think it will take them to arrive, coming up from Mexico and moving this many men and all that materiel?" Her logistics man, next to the creeper – Wingnut, she reminded herself – scratched the dark stubble on his chin. "Aaaah, well, it would have to be at least a week, to move all of that stuff. And if we’re right about all those trucks in back being forced labor – probably all those disappearances we’ve been hearing about, I would give it a week and a half, two weeks at the outside. Should be enough time to get as prepared as possible…"
A couple days later, Tesla was admiring what defenses they had. She had her maps all spread out, and little slips of paper to represent all the various gangs and where they would be defending. The Indians, being mostly infantry, she had set up in trenches around the actual AVA command station, which would be central to the battle. It was where all the command, communications, and coordination would be coming from – if it fell, not only would she die, but the AVA defensive force would collapse into chaos. Someone cleared their throat next to her. "Hmm? Oh, yes, Mr. Sinclair…" She glanced around the area, hoping to see th other man she had asked to show up. "You did ask to meet me here right about now, right?" Lee seemed somewhat confused. She looked at him and gave him what was, she hoped, a reassuring smile. "Oh yes – I just need one more person." Somebody tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to jump and giving her an adrenaline spike she did not need on top of all the stress she already had. "Who in the!? Oh, you. Good." Gathering her wits back together and attempting to appear calm, she introduced the two. "Mr. Sincere, this is Wingnut. Wingnut, this is Lee Sincere." Wingnut’s eyebrows rose. "Lee Sincere of the Sincere gas corporation? I’m honored." Now it was Lee’s turn to raise his eyebrows. "Honored? If I don’t miss my mark, you’ve poached quite a few thousand dollars worth of gasoline from me." Wingnut merely grinned and turned to Tesla. "What did you want to see me for?" Shaking her head again, Tesla got to the subject at hand. "Well, you’ve probably seen that giant Zeppelin tied down to the west of the command center, right?" Wingnut nodded. She turned to Lee. "And you have probably seen the P-51 fighter plane that Wingnut is so fond of, am I correct?" Now Lee nodded. "Good. Why don’t you two work out a deal – I want Lee in the air and I want him safe. I have no choppers and I sure as hell have no fighter planes, so that falls to you, Wingnut." Wingnut considered, then shrugged. "Sounds good to me. Shall we, Mr. Sincere?"
Lee sincere stared in wonder at the blinking, beeping arrays of electronics that the AVA techies had jammed into his little relic of the first world war. My God, he thought to himself, they even managed to fit a basic radar system in here. He grinned and shook his head. His first mate glanced at him. "Whatcha thinkin’, Cap’n?" Lee just made a small, soft laugh and said: "Oh, nothing really. I’m just sort of amazed at having you, know, something from the first world war decked out with all this technology. You wouldn’t think of it, really… I mean, just the radar – the radar!" Suddenly, a certain speaker that had previously been dormant bagen to ping at regular intervals. He sat down in the swiveling chair in front of the radar screen and radio, grabbing the headset and jamming it onto his head. He watched the radar screen carefully – as the line that represented the direction the radar dish was facing swept over the area directly to the south, it revealed 3 huge blobs, making a pinging noise each time it revealed one. "This is the Sincere One to Wingnut, do you read me? Over." Wing’s voice, cool but alert, came in over the airwaves. "This is Wingnut, I read you. What’s on your mind? Over." Relief evident in his tone, Lee responded: "Wingnut, I’ve got three bogies, inbound. From the size of their signatures on my screen, they’re either helo’s or flying buildings. I don’t think they know about me or you, probably just reconnaissance and maybe some harassing. I bet them fifties you’ve got under your wing would cut em down right nicely…" After a second, he remembered to add: "Over." After a few seconds, a dry chuckle and "Roger that! Over." Lee glanced out the right side port hole and, sure enough, there went that old P-51, off to see some battle once more. It fit in nicely with the whole "past wars" theme that their tiny air force followed.
A.J. could feel that telltale spice of adrenaline, the ever-so-subtle increased heart rate, and the anticipatory heightening of breath that came with heading into battle – especially so heading in from the cockpit of a plane. He moved the flight stick in small, experimental circles – and the nose of the plane followed exactly. That’s right baby… Spot on… He, not having the benefit of radar, was going to have to spot the choppers with the good old Mark I eyeball – and that suited him fine. In fact, he would probably see them first – they’d be watching the ground. Bet I can take one down before they even see me. After a minute or so, he saw them. Little more than black specks on the horizon at first, they soon grew into ugly black blobs, the rotors that threw off such massive radar signatures just blurs on top. They were in line-abreast formation, two fat ones on the outside – probably Hueys, he thought – and a skinny one in the middle. Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, they must have gotten their hands on a snake. Then, he noticed, faint against the blue sky, something that scared the shit out of him real fast – the trail of smoke that appeared behind an air-to-air missile. Before he could think about it, his well-trained hands flipped the plane upside down in an overhead somersault, then rolled it right side up again, and adjusted the heading straight into the sun. He squeezed his eyes shut and, after ten or so seconds, rolled down and out of the sun’s blinding light. He looked over his shoulder and was glad to see a smoke trail as the heat-seeking head sought to blow up the sun… Then, grimly, he put his sights on the skinny little chopper, aimed a little up to give the shells space to fall, and squeezed the trigger. The airplane bucked a little and a line of tracers, dim in the bright midday sun, arced out in a line to meet their target. Some, of course, missed – but he kept the tracers on target as the distance closed, rolling this way and that to avoid shells coming from the attack choppers chin-mounted minigun. He zoomed past and immediately pulled up into a high overhead loop, intending to come back down on the helo’s from the direction of the sun. As they came into view, he saw – with great satisfaction – the attack chopper end it’s downward spiral as it collided with the ground. The sound never reached him, but the explosion was quite impressive from the low altitude at which they were flying. I feel like a Nazi taking down miniature B-17’s, he thought to himself. He didn’t know whether to be amused or mortified. It didn’t much matter: war was war was war. He cut down the other two helicopters as they attempted to turn and run – it was cruel, but they would have undoubtedly done the same, and he wanted the invaders to have as many surprises as possible.
"Senor! Senor! The gringos know we’re coming! They just shot down our helicopters!" The communications officer was so surprised he forgot to use the words "Generalissimo," and "Sir." The Generalissimo – so shocked he didn’t care about the lack of an honorific – stared at the man beside him in the back of the truck – his command truck, which had been modified to accept a large number of pieces of communications equipment. "What? How can this be!?" A thousand thoughts ran through the commander’s mind, foremost amongst them: If they are this well prepared, can we possibly win against them? He paused, terrified. "Generalissimo, what shall we do? Sir?" This was the communications officer, again, now remembering to use the correct form of address. He shook his head. "Advance as normal, but tell our anti-aircraft crews to be on the alert. This is, of course, the same pilot that attacked our fort – they have no real airpower. If he wandered into range of our SAM batteries with such an ancient aircraft…" His underling saluted. "Yes sir!" The communications officer resumed his work, and the Generalissimo returned to his work of groping the army’s most talented purveyor of pleasure. He hissed in pleasure.
"Well, shit. I don’t know if I ought to let you guys do this." Tesla doubtfully eyed the group of men in front of her. First and foremost in her mind stood the sullen creeper. True, he had just downed a couple of birds sent out by the Mexicans… But still, he was from Hell’s Finest, for God’s sake! Some of the stories that came out of towns that particular gang of creepers visited… Some of the towns they visited that didn’t have anyone to take a story out… Shit shit shit. One of the men standing a little to the left of the creeper stepped out a little. "Bishop Singer, right?" she said to him. He nodded, then said: "Look, ma’am – we’re all of us experienced fighters here. If he turns on us, maybe even with the help of a couple of his buddies, chances are good that at least 2 of us would come out of it alive – and all the truckers." Tesla shook her head. "That aint good enough. I will not send five men out to a likely death to retrieve a mythical cache of weapons from the heart of one of the most-feared gangs of creepers out there! I will not! I need every vigilante, and even some of the creepers that have showed up, to defend this country until the United States Army, such as it is, can get here! Do you understand?" Once again Bishop shook his head. "Do you really expect me to believe that if we died, it would affect the outcome of this battle? Both you and I know that’s a lie. We also know that this cache may very well give the Mexicans a turn for the worse. I mean shit, the man said that he had a couple twelve inch artillery guns, and ammo to fire ‘em all day. If there are no guns there, no great loss-" Tesla winced at a man calling five lives "no great loss," even if he was close to right in this situation "- but if there are, we need to know!" Once again, she gave the group facing her a good long look. Experienced and tough sons of bitches, every last one of em. And the truckers – fifteen of them, with eighteen wheelers to match – weren’t spring chickens either. She sighed deeply. "Fine, go, just make sure you come back alive."
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