Veiled Extraction: Shadowrun, #56, page 5
The crates were arranged on thermoplast pallets, tightly lashed down to ensure they’d remain stable. Sarge had given them a brief overview when they’d arrived an hour ago: each pallet was carefully balanced with a mix of large and small crates, and attached to a parachute that would deploy automatically when the pallet reached the preprogrammed altitude. “It’s not an exact science,” Sarge said, his cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke. “We’ve had pretty good success dropping ’em down into the complex, but sometimes they go a little off course. You’ll want to be prepared to defend yourself if that happens.”
The team would enter the Zone inside five of the larger crates. Each one was designed to carry two people, depending on size. Doris Wu had seen to the logistics: each magical researcher would be paired up with a security specialist, and additionally the team’s decker would ride with Wu in the largest of the crates.
The accommodations were far from posh. Winterhawk eyed the interior of the crate he was to share with Ocelot: it included a pair of narrow jump seats, both facing the crate’s wall where sliding panels afforded a view of the outside (as well as a place to shoot or cast spells from if the need should arise). Their gear, secured with tie-downs, and a stack of boxes marked with Ares logo, took up the remainder of the space. Tight quarters.
He glanced at Ocelot. “It won’t be for long.”
“Yeah, that’s what I keep tellin’ myself. You bringin’ Maya?”
Winterhawk indicated a small crate under one of the jump seats. “I didn’t want her to come, but she insisted. There’ve been quite a number of reports of spirits being disrupted when they try to get in or out.”
“So she’s gonna ride in there?”
“It’s heavily insulated, even more than our main crate. It should be nearly impossible to detect her. Once we’re inside, she’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t try to leave.”
“Okay, let’s move ’em out,” Sarge called. “Everything’s loaded up and ready to go. Get yourselves settled and strapped in. Takeoff’s in fifteen minutes.”
Winterhawk opened the small crate. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked Maya. She’d been hanging out on the astral plane; he felt her presence nearby even though he couldn’t see her. “Last chance to back out.”
“Somebody needs to look out for you,” she said, amused. Her shimmering form appeared inside the crate. She gazed up at him with luminous green eyes, then folded her paws primly beneath her and her plumy black tail around her haunches.
Winterhawk closed the crate and made sure it was sealed, amused by the absurdity of what looked very much like tucking one’s cat into a carrier for a trip to the veterinarian. He slid the crate under his seat, cinched the tie-downs securely in place, then took his own seat and strapped in.
Ocelot did the same, checking to make sure his weapons—a Predator and a Defiance T-250 shotgun—were easily accessible. The space inside the crate was too cramped for him to use his AK-97, but he still kept it lashed to the wall next to him along with his katana.
Sarge’s men closed the crate and several snaps sounded as they secured it. After a moment, dim lights switched on. Winterhawk felt Ocelot tense next to him—he’d never done well in confined spaces, and this place certainly qualified. “I could use a little trid spell to conjure you up an in-flight movie if you like.”
Ocelot didn’t answer, nor did his tension subside.
A few moments later, the crate shuddered and a muffled whining roar came though, and they began to move.
The comm crackled, and Doris Wu’s voice came through: “Comm check. Everyone getting this?”
The other groups checked in. “Loud and clear,” Winterhawk said. If necessary, he could cast a Clairvoyance spell so he could see what was going on outside, but he wanted to use as little magic as possible until they were safely inside, to further avoid the possibility of detection. He’d have to make do with the pair of small cameras mounted on the crate’s exterior walls. They had a limited field of view, but at least they provided a picture of their surroundings.
“All right,” Wu said. “Everybody sit tight, and we should be inside in less than a half-hour. We’ll regroup at the rendezvous point and make our plans for getting to Salem.”
The plane continued its rumbling approach, and a few minutes later they were in the air.
Winterhawk leaned back in his seat. It was impossible to get comfortable—there simply wasn’t enough room inside the cramped crate to stretch out his long legs, and his back ached from pressing against the unyielding wall.
It already seemed like they’d been in the air for hours, but a glance at his chrono told him they should be crossing into the QZ in about fifteen minutes. Ocelot sat next to him, white-knuckled hands clenched around the shotgun in his lap, eyes closed, his entire posture radiating stress. Winterhawk decided not to try talking to him.
Instead, he pulled his commlink from the inner pocket of his coat and studied the holo Olivia had given him. The dark-haired young woman gazed back at him with that glitter of challenge in her eyes; he examined her face, looking for any resemblance.
Victoria. My daughter.
The words sounded strange to him—strange and implausible. Oh, it was certainly possible, biologically speaking. He’d had his share of relationships, especially back in those days: most of them brief, intense, and without strings attached from either his side or hers. But the thought that one of those relationships had produced a daughter—and one whose mother had kept secret from him for nearly twenty years—seemed like something out of a bad trid show. Had Olivia taken steps on purpose to increase the likelihood of a pregnancy? He couldn’t believe she’d do that, but then, apparently he hadn’t known her as well as he thought he did, even back then.
Despite his intentions to keep his thoughts focused on the mission, at least until the drop got them successfully into the QZ, his mind kept returning to Victoria. What was she like? Her mother had said she was “just like him,” and hadn’t sounded happy about it. What did she mean? Victoria was an adept, she said. The files she provided described the young woman as a gifted athlete, the recipient of a scholarship to MIT&T, highly intelligent, but an indifferent student.
Winterhawk paged through the file, noting the numerous citations she’d racked up during her early school career for pushing boundaries and defying authority. He smiled a little; the old Olivia, the carefree spirit he’d known, might have stood for that kind of thing—perhaps even celebrated it—but the modern-day Olivia, the ambitious corporate power player, would find it as problematic as—well, as the restless mage she’d spent a few months with all those years ago, the one she’d abruptly broken things off with just about the time he’d actually considered that they might be getting serious for the first time in his adult life.
Nineteen years old. Speaking of adult lives: at nineteen, Victoria was no longer a child. That changed things too. He’d never wanted to be a father. He’d never enjoyed being around small children, and the thought of having responsibility for raising one of them terrified him more than any of the horrific magical threats he’d faced. But hell, he’d done shadowruns—successful ones—with team members Victoria’s age. He hadn’t decided yet whether he’d even tell her who he was, but if he did manage to track her down in that hellhole—if she were even still alive, which he had to admit, given the reports coming out of the QZ, was by no means certain—he’d have the chance to get to know her first. To gauge what kind of person she was, and whether he thought she’d benefit from further association with him.
Or him with her.
“So you’re a dad.”
Winterhawk looked up to catch Ocelot glancing at the holo. “Apparently so.”
“Can’t get over that. It just seems so…not you.”
“Knowing your habits,” he said, amused, “I wouldn’t say much. Wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a few copies of you running around Seattle.”
Ocelot shook his head emphatically. “Not happening. That’s why I rent my relationships.” He nodded at the holo. “What’s her mom like? She say why she didn’t tell you?”
Winterhawk didn’t want to discuss it, but given that the distraction meant Ocelot wasn’t currently clenched around his shotgun, he conceded. “She was different back then. We weren’t together long. I thought it was serious at the time, but in retrospect it was never meant to be. We had…mutually incompatible ambitions.”
Ocelot considered that, staring straight ahead. He didn’t look at Winterhawk when he said, “You know the kid could be dead, right? Or might get that way when we’re tryin’ to get back out.”
“I know that.”
“So…if we find her…are you gonna tell her?”
Winterhawk decided he shouldn’t be surprised Ocelot had picked up on his thoughts. The two of them had been teammates long enough that they’d come to a strange kind of understanding, despite their wildly varying backgrounds. “I don’t know yet,” he said at last. “I think it will depend on her.”
“On whether you think she can handle it, you mean.”
He shrugged. “Who knows if we can even find her? One person in an area that’s essentially a war zone, with spotty communications, growing anarchy, and CFD reaching epidemic proportions. Odds aren’t good. I know people in Boston, but who knows whether they’ll be able to help us with this?”
“Plus you have to do what you went in there for.” Ocelot nodded. “That dwarf woman, the one in charge, doesn’t like you, does she?”
“What makes you think so?” Winterhawk hadn’t told Ocelot anything about Doris Wu, and this morning she’d mostly avoided the two of them as she directed the loading logistics.
“Pretty obvious. I caught her giving you the stinkeye a couple times earlier, while she was talking to that Sarge guy.”
Winterhawk was about to answer when the comm crackled and the pilot’s voice spoke: “We’re approaching the drop point. We’ll circle the target area and drop the crates approximately thirty seconds apart, some on the initial approach, and the rest on the return loop. You’ll feel a drop, and then a jerk a few seconds later as the chute deploys. The pallet’s guidance system will get you as close to the target zone as possible, but it’s not precise. When you land, your holding crates will open automatically to allow exit. If that doesn’t happen for some reason, use the manual releases inside.”
“Copy that,” Wu responded. “Remember, everyone, stay in communication. If you end up outside the target zone, get yourselves to a safe area and report your position. We’ll have to play things by ear, but the priorities are staying safe, keeping the team together, and securing the equipment, in that order. Understood?”
The others responded affirmatively. Winterhawk wasn’t entirely sure if the hesitation in some of their replies came from a bad comm connection or fear as it finally sunk in that they were about to ride a parachuting crate down into one of the most dangerous quarantine zones in the UCAS.
Either way, it was too late to back out now.
“Winterhawk, do you copy?” Wu asked.
“Ready to go.”
Eight
“Something’s wrong.” Winterhawk pulled up an AR view and connected to the exterior cameras, trying to get a look outside, but all he could see was the dimly lit inner wall of the plane’s cargo hold.
Ocelot’s hands tightened on his assault rifle. He’d slung the shotgun over his shoulder and unlimbered the larger weapon as their drop time approached. “Why?”
“They should have dropped us by now.”
“They said it would be thirty seconds or so between drops. Maybe we’re last in line.” Nonetheless, Ocelot slid his viewing port open. “Can you get a look around magically?”
Winterhawk cast a Clairvoyance spell and reached out beyond the plane. Below, all he could see was fog obscuring the city, tinged with the faint light of the approaching dawn. He activated his comm. “This is Winterhawk. Pilot, are you there?”
“Affirmative,” the pilot said.
“What’s going on? Why haven’t we been dropped yet?”
“Stand by. We’re experiencing a small technical difficulty. We’ll be doing one more circling pass so we can correct it, then you’re next in line.”
Winterhawk tensed. “What about the others? Are we the last?”
“Yes, sir. Please stand by.” The connection went dead.
“I’m telling you, something’s wrong,” Winterhawk said again. “Wu? Do you copy?”
No response.
“Damn.”
Ocelot shifted in his seat. “I want outta here,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now.”
“That makes two of us.” What was going on? “Wu! Please respond. What’s happening down there?”
The plane bucked and shuddered, and the comm crackled again. “This is the pilot. We’re encountering some difficulty. Please be advised of a small change of plans.”
Winterhawk’s tension grew. “What kind of change?”
“We’re unable to drop you at the original target location. We’ve just been informed they’re experiencing problems on the ground. We’ve identified an alternate location, south of the original.”
“What the hell?” Ocelot demanded. He grabbed Winterhawk’s wrist and yelled into the comm, “What kinda problems? Just put us down where you’re fraggin’ supposed to!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible at this time, sir. Please stand by and make sure you’re strapped in. Drop in thirty seconds.” The comm went dead again.
It had been a long time since thirty seconds had passed so slowly. Winterhawk sat, every muscle tense as the plane continued to shudder and bounce. Were they flying through turbulence? Were they under attack? He couldn’t tell. Next to him, Ocelot’s growing agitation was nearly palpable despite his stillness. He tried the comm again: “Wu? Do you copy?”
Still no answer.
There was a thump and the pilot’s voice came through again. “We’re opening the bay doors now. Stand by. You’ll feel a drop and then a jerk upward about ten seconds later as the chute deploys.”
“Where are we?” Winterhawk demanded. “Where are you dropping us?”
No answer. Instead, something jolted the crate and pushed it forward, and then they were falling.
“’Hawk…?” Ocelot’s voice sounded tight. “What do we do if the chute doesn’t open?”
That thought had already crossed his mind, but he hadn’t mentioned it—Ocelot’s claustrophobia was causing enough problems as it was. “I’ll worry about that in ten seconds,” he said, already readying a levitation spell. He didn’t know how much the rest of the cargo on the pallet weighed, so he had no idea if the spell would be strong enough to keep them from crashing.
A sharp jerk pulled them upward, straining them against their harnesses. A few seconds later a low rumble began, sending a faint vibration through the bottom of the crate.
Winterhawk let his breath out, and only then realized he’d been holding it. “There,” he said, relieved. “The chute’s deployed, and the guidance system is online. Don’t know where we’re ending up, but at least it’s likely to be in one piece.”
“Unless somebody on the ground tries to shoot us out of the sky.”
“Ever the optimist.” Winterhawk tried to be amused by his friend’s characteristic pessimism, but the fact was he’d had that thought too. None of this was going as planned—why had all the others been dropped at the designated location, but they had not? Why had the “technical difficulties” surfaced only after all the other crates were down?
He remembered the conversation he’d had with Wu back in DeeCee, how she’d responded when he’d told her he’d be accompanying the expedition. Had she—?
But no, that was absurd. Doris Wu was a professional, and a loyal longtime DIMR operative. He’d never worked with her prior to this mission, but he knew her reputation well. She wouldn’t put the mission at risk because of a personal issue.
Still, though, why wasn’t she responding to his comm calls? It could be nothing more than the notoriously uneven coverage inside the QZ—or it could be that something had gone wrong on their end. Not knowing was excruciating.
“How long until we touch down?” Ocelot asked. He had his AK-97 out and was peering through the sliding port.
“Couple of minutes, I think.” Winterhawk leaned down beneath his seat and flipped the catch on Maya’s concealment crate. At least she’d gotten past the spirit blockade without being noticed. “Maya?”
The crate was empty, but Maya’s reassuring voice spoke in his mind. “I’m here. You seem agitated. Is something wrong?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Can you send her out to do some scouting?” Ocelot asked, indicating the crate with a head movement, without looking away from the viewing port or moving his weapon.
“I don’t want to do that until we land,” Winterhawk said. “Too much chance someone will notice her.”
“Great. So we—”
The crate jerked, and the low, steady rumble beneath them changed tone.
“What’s that?” Ocelot demanded.
“I’m not sure.” Winterhawk kept his voice calm, though he was anything but. The last thing he needed was Ocelot’s paranoia and claustrophobia to combine into a full-blown attack. If that happened, his friend might well rip the crate open with his bare hands in his compulsion to get out.
The crate jerked again, first in one direction, and then in another, flinging them against their harnesses. Ocelot pressed himself against the viewing port, swinging his gun barrel back and forth. “I don’t see anything out there,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s shooting at us.”
The rumble changed tone again, taking on a high-pitched whine. The crate shuddered. “Damn,” Winterhawk said under his breath.
