The spirit has barely vanished from view before James thinks, Frag this. Those things can move at the speed of thought or something, right? She should still be able to catch me when I surface. Besides, James can feel the weight of the Desert Strike pulling behind him, I don't think miss Wispy is all that on the ball. He submerges again and swims in the direction of the air boat's original course, the other spirit pulling him along at a nearly incomprehensible rate. Once or twice he barely misses trees, feeling their giant root structure against his chest and belly as he rears to the left and kicks hard. With the spirit behind him it's almost like piloting a boat, and he has to account for the drift.
Surfacing, James takes a moment to inspect the surroundings. He's about 250 meters out from their original course. If he was trying to lose himself, he'd head out straight, gunning the air boat for all that it was worth before changing course. Of course, if it was really James, on the run from something that had geeked his entire team, he might not pause at all. He sees a branch, just about a meter from the water line, stripped of moss, and another that's been broken. Zooming in with his magnified vision, he sees other signs further along on south, south-westerly course. He ducks again, swims another 200 meters, finds some matted grass and some sort overturned earth at a particularly narrow choke point. Going slow they can't afford any back-tracking.
When he surfaces next he can see the air boat in the distance, maybe . The female dwarf is on watch, her assault rifle at the ready. Tiring pose to keep, but she looks alert. And she's damn near geeked me twice, James adds to himself. He slips beneath the surface of the water, going another half-meter down from his regular depth. He swims as hard as he can for twenty-eight seconds, overshooting the air boat, and surfaces behind a Bald Cypress that's nearly as wide as an Americar, and begins to climb, his arms out as straight as possible so that the dry bag hangs freely and doesn't drag against the trunk, while the water-logged Ares Alpha hangs behind his back on a looped sling around his shoulders. He knows the slip knot will hold, but it makes him nervous regardless. At nearly eight meters up, he finds the perfect nest, and checks on the approaching air boat. It's going to be close, he thinks as he begins assembling the rifle, straddling one branch as he works.
The rifle whole, James quietly moves the mag into the magwell. Somewhere behind him a bull frog lets out a low croak, and he snaps it into position. The air boat is still one hundred meters out. That may be a new personal best, he thinks regarding the sniper rifle. He's decided to keep all his wireless off, so James is going to have to shoot the old-fashioned way. He looks down the reticle and frowns. The angle isn't steep enough. Sure, he could probably drop the troll, but the dwarf would have ample cover once his shots rang out. She may even be able to change course, and it's not likely that she'd slow down a second time. So he waits and focuses on his breathing, lining up his shot, doing everything short of pulling the trigger. Line up the shot, deep breath in, still your primary internal pump, breathe out halfway, and squeeze.
When they've closed to forty meters, James acts. The angle is right, a little steep, so he'll need to adjust there, but even without his gear James knows the trajectory of a.338 McDonnell. Not that he knows the face of his mother. Or if he has any brothers or sisters. He puts the red dot just below the trolls sternum and slightly to his left and exhales softly.
Clack! Clack!
Even with the suppressor the rifle's caseless and supersonic ammunition echoes out over the still swamp. The troll takes a half step back on his left leg, which begins to fold under him. James can see the look of confusion -- he doesn't know what's happened to him. His body jerks like a big game animal, all that mass and power poised to save itself, to strike out, to follow its survival instinct even as the damage was already done. As his knee buckles the realization begins to dawn on his face. It's a pained look, not sad exactly, or horrified, or resigned, but some combination of the three, and James is back at school, or maybe academy, learning about the .338 McDonnell
"The .338 McDonnell is a caseless variant of the .338 Lapua Magnum, capable of piercing standard body armor at ranges up to 1,000 meters. The round has a positive drop of seventy-six, point-two centimeters at one hundred meters, and who can tell me what the positive drop is at 200 meters?"
As the instructor drones on, James doodles on his electronic paper, putting the finishing touches on the brush of an Ares logo. To his right, he heard, "Psst," and turned to see a face very much like his own. The hair was lighter then, more sandy blond, but the eyes were the same, the skin tone, the way the face smirked back at him as he turned surreptitiously to acknowledge, Who? Who?
And then he's older, most be full-grown now by the looks of the men around him, and he's in the back of an Ares Venture, the troop door open and a parachute on his back. A minigun whines up front by the cockpit, and the aircraft tilts violently to the right as an explosion tears at the left rear panel, showering the interior with shrapnel. And there's that face again, so much like his own, and there's the man's body, in fatigues with an Ares Alpha in his hands, and a corkscrew of plasteel embedded in his thigh, red lights flashing overhead. The man, Who? Who? struggles to right himself, and his parachute if flapping from his back, no doubt opened by the shrapnel as well, and there's that same face, not sad, or horrified, or resigned, but that's as close as you'll get, and then the wind catches the parachute, and it deploys, and there's that face, and the drag, and the man being pulled out of the Venture, and a weak grasp for an anchor, and then he was gone, into the black night sky, and the face was the last thing James saw before he dipped from view, and then James rushing after him, jumping into the black himself.
And then James is back in the swamp, the troll's knee fully buckled, his back to James as he pitches forward into the air boat. The dwarf is gone. Must have jumped into the swamp as the first rounds struck home, and James adds two more for good measure, watching the troll's body jerk slightly from the impact. He blinks twice, shakes his head, and waits. What the frag was that?!The air boat continues its forward course, almost under him now, and he scans for weapons or explosives on deck. Nothing, not even the troll's LMG. He turns his wireless on and scans the areas for any icons. There are none except for a DocWagon beacon, which James also spots on the troll's wrist. Clever girl. Good for you, James thinks, assigning all credit for running dark to the dwarf.
James lifts himself up on the branches, activates his hydraulic jacks and leaps onto the surface of the air boat. Immediately, he drops the Ares Alpha, and takes cover behind the contraband, now splattered with the troll's blood. His feet slosh around as he notes a few holes in the deck of the air boat. Yeah, body armor, and then some. Still, at the present rate, James figures that he has a few minutes. Better get rid of the troll's body quick. He doesn't need DocWagon coming by any more than he needs to sink his new ride. James holds the Desert Strike at the low ready, and cuts the rope tethering the air boat. She'll need to come up for air sometime. First he accelerates, putting a little more distance between himself and the dwarf, and then he cuts the engine back on the air boat, waiting for the craft to drift to a stop.
After a few moments, James begins talking from cover, keeping his eyes on the lookout for movement. "Hoi. Forgive the assumption, but it appears as though you may be recently unemployed. Worse than that, you're out here alone, no comms access, no support, no tent. You know, I barely survived the night out here, and I was able to geek everybody above board. Everybody but you. So, maybe you'll do alright after all. Don't know that I'd want to risk it myself. I mean, what I saw yesterday made such an impression on me that I was willing to take on the odds of me against all of you just on the chance that I could get a boat and way home out of the deal.
"So, how about an employment opportunity? Short term work. Good pay, and a hot bed at the end of the night. A hot bed at home, or wherever else you want to go. Actually, home may not be the best place. Even if you do make it out of here, you're the only one not bleeding out, right? Don't think I even scratched you. Could be hard to explain. Missing product and all. So, how about some work then, eh? I'd like some questions answered, and I'd like a way on my way, wiz? You're capable, I know that. Smart too, I bet.
"Whaddya say, chummer?"
