A New Enemy

"Beep. Beep. Beep"
"Unghhh."
In his bed, Myron Peterson groaned as he heard his house phone ringing nearby. Looking up, he saw the caller identification showing as "AUTOMATED MESSAGE". "Ugh, damnit." he muttered as he sluggishly swung himself out of his bed, and trudged over to the phone, still ringing all the while. Picking it up, he said nothing as a monotone, machine generated voice began speaking. "Hello." it said. "This is an automated message from the government of Forestside. All members of the Colonial Defense Forces, at this time, are mobilized, and are ordered to report for duty immediately. If you are not a member of the CDF, you are to disregard this message, however, you are encouraged to volunteer in a support role. This message repeats." it continued, before looping yet again.
"Crap." Peterson said as he slowly set down the phone, all traces of sleep blown off by the shock of the phone call. He had been a member of the Colonial Defense Forces since he was seventeen, and in that time, had only been mobilized twice, during both of which he counted himself lucky to not have been engaged in actual combat, considering the aftermath he had seen. Turning around, Peterson walked across his medium-sized apartment to his closet. Opening it, he reached in, past his regular work and leisure clothes, pulling out a hanger that held a pair of khaki pants and jacket, with an equipment laden green belt hung over the pants.
Pulling off his grease and sweat stained white shirt, Peterson put on a clean one instead. "If I'm going to die today, I may as well look half-decent." he thought to himself as he pulled on the khaki uniform and jacket and his civilian pants, about the same color as his jacket. Tightening the waistband of his khakis, he clipped his olive drab pistol belt, which held his pistol, knife, and canteen, around his waist. He proceeded to reach over to the foot of his bed, grabbing his work boots, equally stained as his now discarded white tee shirt. Slipping them on, Peterson quickly tied and then double knotted the laces of the boots.
Standing up, Peterson began feeling around his uniform. "Beret beret beret..." he muttered to himself. Feeling a lump in his pocket, he reached his hand in, and pulled out the piece of headgear. It was old and had not been used in years, that was evident. But nonetheless, it was still relatively shaped, and he pulled it on his head. "Let's see..." he began saying to himself. "Uniform, equipment..." he continued, trailing off.
He sighed. "Alright, off to the meat grinder." he said, to no one in particular. Looking around his apartment one final time, Peterson walked over to the door. Opening it, he stepped out into the hallway, closing it behind him. After punching in the code to lock it from any would-be thieves, he turned on his heel, and headed for the stairwell further down the hallway. He knew he was not alone in his apartment with being mobilized, as he heard various noises through the walls of the other domiciles. Some were that of people taking one last shower, the clanking of their gear, or the loud yells of two spouses in an argument.
As Peterson began walking down the stairs, the noise of his floor becoming replaced with the noise of his boots on the concrete steps, he looked outside. The sun was just barely coming over the hills near the settlement, and there were no vehicles rushing to the instacrete bunkers and various fortifications that made up the line of defense around the settlement. "Strange." Peterson thought. The last two times he had been mobilized, the area had become a mob scene, with members of the CDF swarming the place.
Opening the glass door to the outside world, Peterson was amazed at the silence. Was there something he did not know? Had that been a prank call? It could not have been, some prankster could not spoof that message. It did not matter anyway. If it was a prank, it was at least something to do during this slow week. If it was real, he thought, then he should have written his will while he still had time. His footfalls punctuated with the crunching of gravel, he walked around to the driver's side of his Spade, and stepped in.
"Hey, My, wait up!"
"Hm?"
Peterson turned at the voice, to see another khaki clad man with a strange four pointed field cap made of wool running towards his Spade. Evident from his strange headgear, Peterson was able to tell it was Frank Wedsay, who he had spent time with when he was previously mobilized, and at his job as a mechanic. As his fellow CDF fighter, Peterson asked a question. "You get that call for mobilization too?" he said as he began to drive off, his voice barely piercing the noise of the truck.
"Yeah, I did. You got any idea what it's about?" Wedsay responded.
"I got nothing. I thought it might have been a prank call, ya know? Usually there's a ton of chaos when that call comes."
"Exactly. Remember our last mobilization, when we went to go get Rob, and he was uh...'getting busy' and we walked in on it?"
"Ugh, don't remind me." Peterson said in half jest, half disgust as Wedsay burst out laughing.
At his friend's sudden fit, Peterson rolled his eyes and said "Hey, screw you. I was the one who first had to walk in on that.", as he made a sharp left turn towards the settlement's tiny airfield. Pulling into one of the parking spaces, which was crudely marked for military vehicles by red spray painted pieces of wood nailed into the ground, Peterson stepped out, with Wedsay following suit.
The latter piped up as he looked around. "What the hell." he said. "There's no other ground crew, not even the guards." he continued. "We'll see." Peterson said as he began walking towards the chain link gate leading to the area where the CDF's aircraft were stored. As the two walked down the asphalt road, a male voice called out "Hey! Pete, Wed, get your ass over here!". Turning towards the sound to swear back at whoever it was, Peterson saw it was the commander of the ground crew, Sergeant Oliver, standing in the door of the guard shack, who proceeded to motion for them to come to him.
The two began jogging over, their boots making a clacking sound on the asphalt and concrete. Skidding to a halt next to Oliver, Peterson began rapidly speaking. "Sergeant, what's going on? Where is everyone? Who's attacking? What's going on?!" he asked in quick succession. "Shut up, and I'll tell you." Oliver responded. "Follow me." he continued, swiping his card to open the gate. The two obliged his request as he began walking to the now open gate.
"Alright, so, we've been mobilized because of the New Colonial Alliance. They are..." Oliver began speaking.
"The who?" Wedsay cut in.
"Maybe if you stopped interrupting, I can tell you. Anyway, they're another rebel group who wants control of us to use as cells. They already strongarmed a few settlements who won't follow them."
"So we're going to fight?" Peterson asked.
"No. According to one of the officers, my brother-in-law, they're doing this so we can roll out the welcome wagon."
"...to an enemy that will make us their puppets?"
"Basically, yes."
"So what are we going to do?"
"Very simple. We have very few aircraft. If we can't have it, I won't let the NCA."
"You sure about this?" interjected Wedsay. "I mean, we have to follow orders." he continued.
"Orders coming from people who don't want bullets in their heads."
Wedsay came to a halt. "Screw that. I'll follow my orders. You two do what you want, but I'm not taking a bullet. I like being alive." he said, narrowing his eyes, proceeding to turn on his heel and walk around the corner of the hangar, out of sight of Peterson and Oliver.
"You trust him?" asked Peterson, who was beginning to feel himself sweating bullets now.
"I don't know." responded Oliver, as he opened the personnel door to the hangar. "Come on." he said, walking into the pitch black interior of the building. Peterson, obliged, walking in as well. "Where's the damn light switch?" Oliver said, groping around in the darkness. "Ah, gotcha!" he said, flicking on a row of switches, with each flip a row of lights came on in the hangar, illuminating its sole inhabitant, a gun metal gray jet, evidently what used to be a private one.
"So what's the plan?" Peterson asked.
"Gut it. Break it."
"Are you sure about this? What if we get caught? They'll shoot us."
"Yes, I'm sure. Either we break this, or the NCA gets its hands on it, and start killing civilians. I'm sure you remember we kicked the URF out for similar reasons."
"Yeah, I do."
"Then give me a hand. See those tools over there?" Oliver asked, pointing to a toolbench covered in all manner of instruments.
"Yes."
"Grab something heavy. A hammer, a pipe wrench, anything. Get inside, start breaking shit. I'll get my own stuff."
"...alright." Peterson said timidly as he walked over to the toolbench, butterflies in his stomach as he looked around for a hammer of some kind. He quickly located one, a hefty looking thing. Picking it up, he walked over to the wing of the aircraft. He knew this craft inside and out, considering he had been one of the men who had brought it back to life time and time again. As he swung with the hammer, beginning to knock the control surfaces on the wings out, a feeling of sadness overcame him. It had been years that the jet had been brought in from some boneyard, and he was called in, along with other mechanics. The team worked on the rusted, scorched, broken airplane day in, day out, bringing it back to life. And now, here he was, destroying his creation.
Category:Safe Havens