Atop his mountaintop, deep in the Andes, the wise old man stared up at the stars through a battered-looking old telescope. He was troubled. Strange signs had been rushing back and forth across the heavens, many of which appeared to be nothing more than aircraft. But man was of the gods, and the creations of man were all part of the great plan. And so the man known to the world only as '
that nutty hermit', or '
the wise old man of the mountains' depending on who you asked, included the aircraft in his readings of the universe.
Much was in disarray he feared. He could feel the disturbance in the force; his very bones told him that some great force was discontent. It was as if some vital prophecy had gone unfulfilled, and without it the very world might be brought to ruin. The tension was mounting, and perhaps it was far to late for him to relax it now.
A sudden flicker in the far reaches of the night sky caught his eye. He brought the telescope up, seeking the source. In the distance, a tiny streak of fire sped down towards the distant horizon, a meteor perhaps, or a crashing aircraft. Either one was most portentous. He stared for a moment, then lowered the telescope slowly, tracking back to the ground below the flame.
The telescope settled almost directly atop the winding path that led to the old mans home, and he frowned as his mind connected the dots. Clearly some figure of significance would soon crest the peak, seeking either his advice, or his destruction. For several minutes he stood thus, hoping against hope that his dreams might be fulfilled. And in time, he did indeed make out the faint shape of a man struggling up the rocky path.
Moments later, the ominous tension of fate began to fade.
-----
A lound 'DERP' echoed across the bridge.
Even as Captain McTavish rocketed to his feet, a second 'DERP' sounded. It was then that the red lighting cut in, filling the room in a flashing confusion of sound and movement. McTavish voice cut through the blaring of alarms, attempting to organise the sudden madness. "Status report! Somebody tell me what's going on!" A rapid succession of confused negatives came back before a productive report filed in.
"Surface sensors are picking out some sort of flare tracking west-northwest at extreme altitude. No indications of what it is exactly, but could be some sort of missile so it fits the bill for an emergancy alarm." The tremor in Ensign McShoutout's voice was the only indication of his anxiety.
"
Could be a missile? Is that the best we can tell? Somebody run a second scan, and then get a line to command if we can't say anything more concrete!" A few moments later he frowned again. "West-northwest you said? That's away into the depths of the pacifc, what could it possibly be?" Seconds later another inconclusive report came back, and McTavish contacted headquarters.
"Uh, Comrade One this is Brother Wolf Two Six we have an unidentified flaming object bearing west-northwest at extreme altitude in region Pack One Alpha, any idea what it is?"
"Hold on just one moment please Brother Wolf, we're on the case." Several agonising minutes dragged by, and the crew began exchanging nervous glances. What could possibly take so long to identify? "Brother Wolf Two Six this is Comrade One. False alarm, you're looking at a meteorite coming down somewhere in the pacific region, nothing to be worried about."
"Roger that Comrade One, nice to know we're in the clear. Almost had a heart attack when people started yelling 'missile' at me."
"No problem Brother Wolf. You'll probably find somebody wanting to re-tune your equipment when you get back, I doubt anybody wants our entire Pacific Defence Net to go red hot next time a meteor comes along"
"That bad?" McTavish felt a bit better to hear his ship hadn't been the only one caught off guard, it probably wouldn't be mentioned on a report if everyone had the same problem.
"Yeah, that bad. Biggest false alarm I ever saw, and I expect a lot of others got the same. Well, probably best to stop chattering. Good hunting Brother Wolf, Comrade One out."
-----
Grunt McRedshirt was an important man. He had risen far above where any had ever expected him to rise. Some had claimed he would never top cannon-fodder in the infantry. They had been wrong. Yes, McRedshirt was still one of the boots on the ground, but he was an important set of boots. His boots were the property of the Republican Guard, the most elite soldiers in all Argentina.
He had spent the past several weeks constantly on parade, in marches, or otherwise showcasing the might of Argentina. He had grown almost sick of his bright red uniform, which the soldier in him recognised as unpractical even whilst the Argentinian within him recognised it as one of the great military honours. But those times were over. He was back in his comfortable camoflauge, however unsuited it was to the city where he now stood.
But Grunt did not stand in the city proper. He patroled the outer gardens of the Presidential Palace, entrusted with the safety of McIronfist himself. To his eye, the garden was no ornament either. The palace had belonged once to the military genius that was McConqueror, and had clearly been designed with an eye to defence. Grunt walked not in a garden, but a carefully laid out killing field. Should an attack come, it would find itself a brutal defence.
McRedshirt expected no attack.
DT
Captain McTavish
