Anton Breslin crept up the staircase in the back of the radio station’s lobby with the kind of quiet speed that only years of training and field experience could provide.
He went up two steps at a time with over sixty pounds of gear strapped to his body, not counting the rifle and shotgun he carried, and made about as much sound as a field mouse would in some dark basement storeroom. If there was anyone on the building’s second level, the first clue they’d have to his presence would be the butt of his rifle colliding with the back of their head.
The building was predictably lacking electricity, and the few cell-powered lanterns scattered through the upstairs corridor had burnt out long ago. A silent sigh had left his lips at the sight of the lanterns and the scattered power cables crossing the hall between open doors, proof that his hunch was correct—that the K.C.C.O. communications team had moved the majority of their equipment here before the attack on their field-base.
“Captain, are you there?” Fives’ slightly nervous voice whispered out of his handset. He pushed his back to the corridor wall and replied.
“Yes, I’m in the building now. I need to recover something before we deal with the enemy. I will contact you when I am in position.” He clicked off the mic and stuck the radio back onto his shoulder strap. A quiet “Copy!” chirped back through it a second later.
He carried on through the second floor, taking a left turn at the end of the first hall toward the front of the building. Most of the doors further on were closed, and the cables from deeper in the building came together into a single coiled bundle where the floor met the right-hand wall, leading to the only open door at the very end of the passage.
He followed it down, pulling the suppressed rifle back over his shoulder. The length of it was unwieldy in the tight corridor, and the scope was difficult to aim properly in the dark.
Fortunately when he turned the corner into the open room, it was devoid of live save for himself.
At the far end of the room stood a metal cabinet filled with what he recognized as long-range radio transceiver equipment. A cable ran from its backside down to the floor and to the right wall, where a stack of ancient tape reels sat on top of the recorder that the other end of the cable was plugged into. K.C.C.O. was fond of archaic storage mediums because due to their security, unable to be read remotely or copied covertly. Unfortunately they were also too cumbersome to be carried when the station was decommissioned, and in their hurry the soldiers had forgotten to burn the tapes before evacuating.
A stupid mistake, but a fortunate one for Breslin. He quickly strode over to the ancient hardware and got to work. Dust had settled in a thick layer over everything in the room, making dry clouds in the stagnant air when he brushed it from the reel’s labels. The first few were weather observations and other banal operational necessity reports, tossed aside impatiently one at a time until he made it to the bottom of the stack.
He held the last tape in his hands like a newborn and turned it over slowly, reading the label over and over as if he hadn’t expected to actually find it; despite having received information confirming its presence.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
"Передача позиционных данных сил Легиона"
‘Transmissions of Legion Forces Positional Data’. That’s it, he thought. One more leap and the means will be ours.
He shook his head, reeling back into reality. He leaned his rifle against the radio cabinet and slipped the pack from his back, unfastening the top flap to shove the tape reel in before securing it again and slinging it back over his shoulder. He tightened the straps and retrieved his rifle.
The second door on the right back the way he came led into an old conference room. The floor was covered with ratty carpet that gave way to rotting boards underneath, giving a partial view of the level below, and most of the windows facing east toward the stadium field were broken leaving jagged holes in the time-worn translucent glass. Crooked office chairs were stacked against the back wall and a number of file cabinets were overturned all over the room, leaving little space to maneuver between the stable parts of the floor.
The only thing in the room that seemed structurally intact was the long metal table in the center, well rusted but not destroyed, and the floor immediately under it. Breslin carefully stepped over to the table, keeping his feet on the supporting joists beneath the floor so that he wouldn’t fall through it, and gradually leaned against it to test it. It creaked, but held. He took the shotgun from his back and propped it up against the table before crawling onto it himself with his rifle in hand.
The sight picture out of the building’s broken glass facade was about as good as he expected it to be, considering the limited availability firing positions. Through the rifle’s scope he could clearly see the field and all of the figures on it, still placed as Fives had reported some minutes earlier. Three under the tent, two under the tree…
He took an ammo pouch from his hip, laying it on the table in front of him before laying the barrel of his rifle on it in turn. It wasn’t ideal, but he had no bipod not convenient windowsill to brace on in its place. He drew a bead on the commander under the white canvas awning.
He was a short man with brown hair in the typical military-style buzzcut, dressed in G&K’s standard dressy field uniform. Red greatcoat with black trim over a white shirt and tie. All that was missing was the ubiquitous ‘Commander’-defining beret, which Breslin could see tossed on the table in front of the man behind the laptop he was bent over. He scanned up and to the left, bringing the supposed ‘secretary’ into the scope. AN-94, he recognized the weapon in her hands. Her back was to one of the tent’s posts, her weapon held casually—but at the ready, should she need it suddenly.
Also in the tent were two dolls bearing AK-47’s, identically dressed and boredly staring at the back of the commander’s head with their own backs to Breslin. Out of the tent, closer to the gate and to the left, were two more dolls hiding from the sun under a young oak tree. The branches obscured them from view making identification difficult, but he could see one’s weapon clearly: a Luger PO8, freshly blued by the looks of it.
Next he found Fives, still crouched by the gate clutching her radio receiver close by her ear. She looked nervous, yet restless and eager to receive new orders. He reached for his own handset and clicked the mic on.
“I am in position. I will engage the enemy, you will wait by the gate—weapon ready—to intercept any dolls that stray too close to my position. Copy, Fives?” he watched her face scrunch up in concentration while he spoke.
“Understood Captain!” she shot back immediately, staying low but raising her weapon toward the gate. He could see her flick off the safety and pull the slide back to check for a round in the chamber.
Satisfied and ready, he scanned back up to the tent and the commander there within. The man grimaced and clenched his fists, and Breslin could see his mouth form curses aimed at the computer. Must have gotten some bad news.
He was about to get some more.