End Game: Preview Thread

[The Stig]

Greetings all....

I have begun working on the next installment of the John Miller series. I've already written several entries and have most of the general plot line worked out. Hold on for some big changes.

I haven't decided for sure but I'm leaning towards this being the last installment. We'll wait and see how thing go. I've thought previous installments would be the last but the best laid plans....

The staff and I decided to try something a little different with this installment. Previous installements were available to members and guests alike and there was no need to register to read them. This time, the story will be housed in the premium section. This means that you must register as a member of the site and make at least one post to read it.

For a short while we'll continue to hand out free lifetime premium memberships to anybody who registers and makes that one post. There is absoutley no cost to doing this. Simply register, make that one post and blamo....you are in for life. That post can be a simple "hi I'm new" or (preferbly) a reply to an existing thread (no master's thesis is requried so don't be shy).

Our goal here is to bring new voices to the conversation and new content to the website. We hope that the guests who may have enjoyed the stories along with the rest of the forums will decide to jump in and participate.

If you don't want to post, and only like to read, that is fine too. Simply register, make your one post, and you can return to lurking.

I'm not exactly sure when the first entry for End Game will happen. I would like to write more first so I can release updates on a more routine/consistent basis. That said, I'm guessing within the next week or so you'll see the first entry pop up.

The very first entry of the story will be in both this thread and premium. For every subsequent entry only short snippets will be available on this thread. Consider it a tease. Of course the full entry will be available in the premium section.

Thank you for reading my stories. More importantly, thanks for checking out our site. RedJohn, the staff and myself appricate it. Please let me know if you have any questions.

Stand by for the first entry of End Game.....

ETA: Please see post #13 for clarification of the changes. Thanks!

[izzyscout21]

dude......rock on! I can't wait.

[bacpacker]

Can't wait to see what's next!

[slowz1k]

I'm one of those Lurkers you mentioned, but a HUGE Miller fan. Can't wait for End Game.

Now returning to the shadows.:o

[The Stig]

Well it would appear I shot my mouth off a bit too soon about the free premium memberships.

Redjohn and I are working out some avenues where guests will have the option to join, make a post and achieve "contributor" status. This will grant them access to the stories but not the premium sections.

Some of the details need to be ironed out and RJ is working on that now.

Sorry for the confusion I've just created!

Suffice it to say, End Game will be starting in the next week or two and we'll have the viewing access permissions figured out by then.

Please see post #13 for clarification of the changes. Thanks.

[Grumpy Old Man]

Perhaps Miller will immortalize some others here so that Izzy has some company. Looking forward to it Stig!

[Stg1swret]

Judging by the title looks like Crutchfield will get his.

[RedJohn]

Now returning to the shadows.:o

Nooooooo, don't!!

[The Stig]

Judging by the title looks like Crutchfield will get his.

Or will he?

:eek:

[izzyscout21]

Or will he?

:eek:
dun, dun, dun...?!?!?!

[The Stig]

dun, dun, dun...?!?!?!

Actually the titles to all the stories can be interpreted different ways. Little insider knowledge for you.

Later tonight will be a Q & A session with the author. Questions like "What is Miller's favorite brand of deodorant" and "What shift did Dink work when he was a sheriff" will finally be answered!

[izzyscout21]

i wanna know what kinda tacticool underbritches MIller wears. He shoots, moves, and communicates like he's a little less restricted............

[The Stig]

ALCON

I goofed a bit on my original announcement so here's a correction.

There are a limited number of free lifetime premium memberships left. Act now by signing up, making a post and you will receive the benefit. As a premium member you can view the entire site.

Once those free premium memberships are gone we have a second way you can access the stories. Sign up, make a post and you will automatically be switched to "contributing member". You will get a "banner" under your user name that indicates you are a contributor. Contributors will be able to see the posts in the stories section and respond to them. Contributors will have no access to premium sections however.

Your last option is to remain a guest, and only be able to see the teaser section of the story in the Media Center.

Hope that clears things up. Sorry for any confusion.

Anyway, we really would like to see those guests signing up. You can still lurk to your hearts content after making your one post and if you act quickly you get a free premium membership to boot. Hopefully you'll jump in on the other conversations too but the choice is completely up to you.

[The Stig]

Ok folks.....here we go!

Copyright 2011


End Game




Usually cruises through the Caribbean are marked by festivities and an over indulgence in food. They are happier times often serving as a family vacation or special get away.

As the solider retched over the railing of the large ship, the comfort of jumping to his death briefly crossed his mind. The waves of nausea didn't happen when they first left port, but he was now facing the retribution of the sea for mocking those that did get sick and was now miserable.

Most of the men had gotten sick as the ships steamed northwards. They simply were not accustomed to the constant rolling motion.

“Don't worry Illya,” said a comrade as he slapped the hapless soldiers back. “Only another day and you'll be back on dry land.”

The group of soldiers that lingered about all laughed despite having been sick themselves at one time or another.

Wiping his face, the soldier declared, “they've said that for days now. We've been afloat for almost twelve.”

Another man chimed in, “and you've barfed for most of them!”

But the solider was right, the flotilla had been steaming through the oceans for far too long. As he looked out over the horizon he saw more ships gliding through the water. Cutting through the water like majestic ships of old, the ships, all painted in various shades of gray, fanned out for as far as he could see. Like the ship that had been his home for close to a fortnight, they too were packed with soldiers. Every conceivable nook and cranny of the deck seemed littered with men.

Some played cards. Some read. Some just chatted with comrades. Most all smoked. There had been little to do but they all knew their idle time was rapidly coming to a close.

“Yes, well,” replied the soldier, “I'm looking forward to standing on a surface that doesn't move.”

He felt the next wave of nausea begin to rise in his stomach.


****

“Damn, I'm going insane,” thought Webb as he peered through the spotting scope erected in the middle of the shabby apartment. “I am not cut out for this.”

The apartment had seen better days and showed the wear of the never ending parade of inhabitants. It was nothing like their other apartment which was spacious and modern. Here, the furniture was shabby and the building run down. On the positive side of the ledger he apartment was clean and most importantly, paid for in cash.

Glancing over at the backpack's stacked on the couch, he mentally cataloged the contents to ensure he had brought the right supplies. They were stacked neatly, as if placed with great care, and were ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. Nondescript, the bags would blend into any college campus or metropolitan area.

At six foot, two inches with sandy brown hair and dark complexion, Webb as an attractive man. Being quiet and unassuming, he was the kind of man that would blend into the crowd at a party and say little. Strangers meeting him often mistook his quiet demeanor for snobbishness, when the exact opposite was reality. Despite being financially secure, he was generous to a fault and never advertised his great wealth.

Peering down through the spotting scope, worth more than most people are paid for a month's work, he surveyed the park for the twentieth time in as many minutes.

“Still nothing,” he muttered. “Where the hell is he?”

The scope, atop it's tripod, was strategically located to conceal it's presence from outside the apartment. Though a gap in the curtains, however, it offered a near panoramic view of the park across the street.

Taking a drink of the now cold coffee, he surveyed the scene. Noting movement he quickly flicked a switch on a small electronic device, and resumed his position behind the scope. The gadget, no bigger than a deck of cards, was connected to a separate box from which an antenna reached a short distance in the air. Twisting the adjustment dials of the scope he panned slightly left as if he were following the path of someone walking through the park.

“Finally, something to do,” he mumbled as he continued his vigilance.

Though the scope he watched as the man approached another at the small fountain in the middle of the open square. The park was relatively crowded and people meandered about as they enjoyed the warm summer's day. Some played while others enjoyed picnic lunches.

He watched as they spoke briefly. Noting their interaction, and the small envelopes that were exchanged, he then panned across the width and depth of the park. He was looking for anybody who might be paying more attention than normal to two men in a park. Anybody who was walking by them at too slow of pace. In short, anybody attempting to monitor the meeting.

Satisfied the men were unobserved, his attentions returned to the fountain. The man who had originally been standing at the fountain had returned to casually tossing small bits of bread to the ducks.

The man Webb watched enter the park was nowhere to be found.

With that task complete, Webb unplugged the two black plastic boxes and mashed several buttons on the face of the smaller unit. Listening to the playback he smiled, “I'll be dammed.”

He then began disassembling the scope and the small box with the antenna. Within a minute they had both been stowed in one of the bags lining the couch. Glancing at his watch, he waited to hear the key scrape the lock as he placed the last item in the bag.


****


“The Podium is right this way Mr. President.”

Being guided through the backstage area of a large theater, Jackson Crutchfield cast a near imperial presence. Tall and slender, athletic, he was adorned in a finely tailored suit. Adjusting his tie as several aides fed him bits of information, his irritation was plain for all to see. His coterie fluttered around him, each one trying to attract the slightest sign of approval from their leader.

He had gone to Washington under the guise of uniting a deeply polarized country. His campaign messages all centered around the idea of unity. Instead his policies had been rejected by the American public, his Presidency riddled with scandal and he suffered the humiliation of Impeachment and subsequent conviction. Forced from office his inner rage at the rejection boiled over into treason. Over the course of weeks and months he successfully maneuvered the country into a second civil war.

Fighting had raged for three years. Stalemate had quickly been reached shortly after the outbreak of hostilities. President Alan marshaled his forces, all battled hardened by constant conflicts in the middle east, in the Carolinas and both Virginias. He also kept forces in Kentucky and into the south as a buffer to prevent a flanking maneuver from the west.

Most of the northern states, from New England to Minnesota had joined in with the rebellion. Years of the loss of jobs and the damaging effects of the labor unions had rendered them adrift and bankrupt. They had nothing to lose.

Fighting raged mostly in the east with major battles fought throughout Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware. Entire towns were wiped from the face of the map by the struggle.

Small advances were usually followed by corresponding losses of territory as the divided country collided over it's inner turmoil. Though quirks of fate the military forces of each side, cobbled together by whatever units happened to fall under the combatants command, were roughly equal in strength. The advantages of one side nullified the strength of the opposing force and provided a counterbalance that prevented large gains.

President Alan was forced to rely on domestic supplies manufactured in the south or western parts of the former United States. The western states stayed mostly neutral and unscathed in the conflict with the exception of California and Oregon. Under the tremendous weight of social spending and failed polices that bred a culture of entitlement, the societal fabric of each state imploded. As the inhabitants consumed each other in swirling chaos the surrounding states stood back and watched it unfold.

It had been tough to produce the food, ammunition and other supplies needed to fight a war but somehow they had managed. Domestic drilling in the Texas, the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska supplied the main lifeblood of modern warfare; oil. They had moved heaven and earth to ramp up production in such short time and access to the nations strategic petroleum reserve helped also. Day and night the rigs were pushed to maximum capacity while the refineries churned out the precious commodity.

For his part, Crutchfield's manufacturing capabilities were augmented by a number of outside interests, none of whom held America's best interests at heart. Supplies were funneled in through the St Laurence river or the ports of New England. Foreign goods entered through Canada who had already formally recognized Crutchfield's fledgling country. The system wasn't efficient but the supplies rolled in day and night.

An air corridor with parts of Europe had been maintained for a portion of the beginning stages of the war until President Alan's airforce shot down a number of cargo aircraft. This touched off an international incident ultimately resulting in a plea for assistance to the UN. Crutchfield himself spoke to the General Assembly to lobby for support and soon Peacekeeping forces had been stationed in the north to provide a counterbalance to President Alan's forces.

Their mission was to support what they called “the fledgling resistance movement” against a totalitarian regime. Geopolitical karma unfolded as the foreign troops rolled into what used to be America to keep the peace and practice nation building.

In another cruel twist of reality, Actors and other liberal elites flocked to Crutchfield's new society at the beginning of hostilities. They believed they would be at the forefront of a new utopia. At first they had been feted as the superstars of a new order. Quickly, however, they were awakened to the realities of life as Crutchfield confiscated their vast wealth to fund his war machine. Within a short time many were reduced to meager existences that resembled nothing of their past lives. Some resorted to suicide rather than face conscription into his military.

As the speaker at the podium announced, “President Jackson Crutchfield” the leader of the rebellion strode across the stage. Crutchfield was preparing to address the crowd assembled in the theater, along citizens of his country who had access to the one Government run news channel. The other television stations had been closed down.

“Countrymen,” he said in a somber but somewhat regal tone. “We have faced many struggles in our fight for civil rights and justice. The past few years have presented many challenges. But a new dawn is on the horizon. A new wind will fill our sails.”

As the words echoed off the theater walls, security men roamed the wings of the theater, on guard for any attack on Crutchfield or signs of descent. Some people bravely attempted to protest against Crutchfield's schemes in the early stages of the war. No further rebellions took place after soldiers fired on the crowd and the protest organizers swiftly executed. The natural effect was that the crowded theater lavished Crutchfield with applause while under the watchful eyes of the security services.

After nearly thirty minutes of speaking, Crutchfield concluded his speech and left to thunderous applause.

“Right this way Mr. President,” directed one of his aides.

Turning to another of the faceless army of assistants, Crutchfield instructed, “Send for the war council. Have them in my office at 11:00pm”.

The gaggle consisting of Crutchfield and his horde of assistants, all flanked by his personal security detail made their way through a labyrinth of hallways on the way to the waiting motorcade.

[The Stig]

And don't forget folks....future entries in this thread will only be snippets of the story. Teases if you will.

To view the story in it's entirety please follow the instructions in post 13 of this thread and then go to the stories forum.

If you a lurking guest please come along for the ride on End Game. It's easy to gain access and doesn't cost you a cent.

[The Stig]

Here's a snipet of the latest entry to End Game....


The other apartment was much different than the smaller one they left behind. It was modern, clean and spacious. There was plenty of room for guests in the living area, and the kitchen table served as a convenient conference room. Well decorated and stocked with nice furniture, it was the kind of place that naturally put people to ease.

Finishing a simple dinner of soup and vegetables, the two men continued to discuss the events at the park.

Webb said, “that was slick using the recorder to capture the pass-code the informant gave you. You two barely spoke to each other,” as he chased a dribble of soup across his chin.

“I memorized the number just in case, but using the recorder cuts down on time and it's one less thing he has to hand off. And if I'm stopped for some reason all I have on me is a key. That is much harder to trace than a key and a pass-code written on paper.”

“And a key is easily explained while a paper with odd numbers might raise suspicion,” suggested Webb.

The man nodded and explained, “I don't like public hand-offs like that. Too visible. Too many things can go wrong, especially with an untrained participant. But in this case we had no choice. The key to a successful meet is to make it quick, easy for both parties and natural. You give the subject too many things to remember he'll get nervous and appear stiff and unnatural. Good chance of him screwing up too.”

Webb, taking in the information replied, “makes sense. Simple and low profile trumps complex.”

Nodding in agreement, the man continued, “Two guys commenting on the duck pond doesn't draw much attention. If he had mucked about for twenty minutes it would start to look odd.”

Webb replied, “So now what?”

The man finished chewing and swallowed a bite of his asparagus as he responded. “Now's the hard part. Now we have to plant the bug.”

Then men continued to discuss their plans in low tones. They were reasonably sure they had not been compromised to the security services so they had not resorted to using code or turning up radios to defeat listening devices.

After nearly an hour, the man said, “I'm hitting the rack. Get some rest, we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Roger that Miller,” replied Webb as he fiddled with one of his many gadgets.

If you aren't a member of the site yet, and have been reading the story as a guest, please refer to the instructions in post #13 of this thread for instructions on how to gain access to the entry.

[The Stig]

Here's an excerpt from the newest entry of End Game.


“Gentleman, for the past thirty-six months we have fought a war to establish a land where social justice and harmony can be achieved. We've sent men into harm's way to carve out a country where goods and services are delivered to the people in the amount they need and as the are determined to need it. We've struck out at the old ways, the ways of corporate greed and white oppression. We've struck out to show that a collective society of equality can be created.”

As he took a brief pause to gauge the room, the men of the war council nodded their head in agreement. The irony that the entire war council were older white men, all financially well-off, appeared lost on the room.

“We've faced certain setbacks, we've faced obstacles. Many of your plans and schemes have failed resulting in the squandering of men and materiel. You've engineered great losses in the western theater and achieved little in the eastern. So far we've held our own, but only with the assistance of the United Nations troops who've joined in with their brothers in America.”

His voice remained soft and quiet, almost as if he were casually detailing some historical event. But to the Generals and Admirals in the room the message was a cutting as if he'd been in a full blown rage.

“But we can not rely on the peace keeping forces for the long-term. We must make our own destiny. Our situation is such that we need a master stroke, a game changer. We need a bold move that will cast the die in our favor.”

If you've been reading my stories about Miller as a guest we hope you'll follow the directions noted in post #13 of this thread and join the party. That will allow you to read the entire entry in the Stories forum.

Hope to see you there.

[The Stig]

The beach Illya landed on was typical for the area. It was only several hundred yards deep and relatively flat. Devoid of any dunes or rock there was little cover available unless one was lucky enough to land near one of the jetties that protruded out into the water. At the top of the beach was a state highway. Two lanes, with a small median, it was the main corridor directly along the coast.

Illya and his men ran to the top of the beach, and crossed the highway as quickly as possible. So far there was no sign of any American troops. There was an occasional automobile but those were already being stopped, and the passengers dispatched, to avoid complications.


This is a short excerpt from the latest installment of End Game. The full entry is available in the story thread for our premium members, or contributors. For more information on how to access the Stories forum, if you are a guest, please refer to post #13 of this thread.

[The Stig]

As the truck neared to within one hundred yards of the bridge Illya stood and waved his arms beckoning the truck forward. Passing quickly in front of his men, to ensure they would not fire, he walked down the asphalt and towards the truck.

After the whoosh of the air-brake being set, the drivers door opened and a tall, lanky man with a cowboy hat suddenly jumped from the cab. Oblivious to the danger he was in walked towards Illya.

“Hey pardner, what's this? You'ins with the Army?” he asked in confusion.

Smiling, Illya uttered out in his limited English vocabulary, “You need to leave. Right now.”

Stopping and straightening somewhat, the trucker replied, “Say that again boy. You some kinda foreigner?” His eyes narrowed somewhat when he realized Illya was armed.

“Please,” said Illya. “Please just leave right now.” His heavy accent garbled the words but the intention was clear.

The trucker, clearly having none of this, fired back, “You boys'n can play dress em'up but you ain't telling me to skedaddle.”

Illya took another step towards the trucker, shifted his rifle around, and pointed it at the obstinate truck driver. “Please. You must go. Now. Go.” He motioned with his rifle to for the man to leave.

The trucker was about to reply again when a shot rang out from behind and to the side of Illya. Ducking instinctively, he fell to the ground to avoid being shot in the back by the young troops behind him.

After it was clear there would be no other shots Illya stood and walked over to the dead truck driver. Sighing at the senseless loss of life he motioned a few of his men forward.


Well....you know the drill by now. Here's a brief taste of the latest installment of End Game. I hope you'll follow the instructions in post 13 of this thread and join us over in the story forum to read the entire entry.

[The Stig]

The guard supervisor didn't know what to do. He had been in the middle of a tirade at his junior guards because they were not able to come to agreement on the vacation schedule. As he worked himself into a full rage his anger was quickly drowned out by the blaring fire alarms.

The guards stood motionless around the desk in the main lobby as the supervisor processed the flood of information.

“Sir, active fire on level five. Looks like it's zones seven and eight, in the elevator area” called out the man interpreting the fire alarm system. “Sprinklers have activated,” he added.

Another guard, nearly over top of the report about the fires, called out, “there's some sort of malfunction of the ground level door in stairwell two. The door is jammed shut.”

As people began to stream into the lobby from stairwell one, and even one of the functioning elevator, the supervisor finally sprang into action.


For you guests out there who haven't signed up on the site and made contributor status (by making one measly post) here's a brief excerpt from my latest entry.

If you would like to read the story in its entirety please refer to the instructions of post #13 of this thread.

Hope to see you there.

[The Stig]

Illya and his fellow squad leaders had kept pushing their men forward all morning. Despite the heat and the slow going navigating through the maze of buildings north of the highway they had covered a good distance. They were nowhere near the open countryside, but they all knew they'd likely set up defensive positions in the outskirts of town instead of pushing forward anyway.

“Not as cold as home eh Illya?” teased one of his fellow squad leaders.

They had paused and the squad leaders had done what small unit commanders through history have done. They assembled for a smoke break.

Another joined the fun, “it's hotter than Igor's piss that time he had the clap!”

While they all laughed at their friends expense Illya knew what was coming. Word had already filtered down that one of the scout units that ventured far ahead of the group had engaged an American unit. The news took everybody by surprise as it was the first report of an organized ground response. Men at the large Seabee base, a group of Naval construction soldiers, had attempted to respond to the invasion in the early hours but they taken so off guard the base had simply been overrun.

But this was different. The NCO's debated amongst themselves whether the unit had been Army or US Marines, but there was one thing they all agreed on: it was an organized force and larger than a small unit. That was if the scuttlebutt going around had any truth to it. It also meant combat was likely.

The friendly session was interrupted by the senior commander as he made clear the smoke break was over.

They'd be in the outskirts of town in the next few hours and then they could begin constructing an impromptu defensive line.

I've missed the last several installments so here's a small piece of the latest update on End Game.

If you are following along as a guest follow the instructions in post #13 and you can read the installments you missed along the entirety of this one.

[The Stig]

Here's a small part of the latest installment of End Game.


Crutchfield continued his lecture, “This plan was needed because of your failures General. The failures of this entire room.” His arm waved across the room to extenuate the point. “But despite your short comings you don't seem to show any gratitude for my work and vision.”

“Mr. President, I...I..I...you must...” the General tried to interject.

“Enough!” Crutchfield's voice erupted across the room. “I'm taken the time to fix the mess you've created and all you can do is interrupt and stammer like a fool. The military exists to enforce the will of the leader and help implement social order! You people couldn't accomplish that simple task so I found someone who would.” His voice cracked as the last few words escalated from loud to full on scream.

All eyes in the room were fully fixed on Crutchfield at this point as his face turned crimson. He was known for being prickly, having a temper. Most of the military men in the room had experienced his cold wrath at one time or another, but the former American military men had never before seen this level of rage.

As the room briefly fell silent, and the General who was the subject of Crutchfield's rage did his best to dissolve into his chair, all of the men including the Russians and Chinese were startled when the leader of the rebellion bellowed out “guards!”

If you'd like to read the entire entry along the rest of the story please read the instructions on post #13 of this thread and then join in the fun.

[The Stig]

It was like a scene out of a hundred movies. The police officers, clad in camouflaged clothing and armed with automatic weapons crept up the stairs of the apartment building in single file. Each man tucked in closely behind the one in front of him, they quietly ascended the flight of stairs to the third floor.

The man at the front of the string of officers paused at the top of the stairs bringing the entire processional to a brief halt. Ensuring that the hallway was clear he resumed moving forward towards the apartment at the end of the small hallway.

Reaching the door, the line of police officers, some eight in total, began preparing to make entrance into the apartment.

An informant had passed along a tip about two men that had been seeing leaving the apartment at odd hours. While the city was nowhere as oppressive as the ones on the east coast, some citizens of the new country took great delight in keeping tabs on their surroundings. The local police took full advantage of this source of intelligence and used it to harass those opposing Crutchfield's decrees.

They would enter the apartment in the typical fashion: the lead man would knock the door in, the rest of the stack of police officers would storm into the room and overwhelm whoever was unfortunate enough to be living there. Between the sudden entrance, the shouting and the threat of being shot, the hapless occupants would be quickly subdued so they could be taken downtown for further questioning.

The lead man held his hand up to signal his mates as he pulled back on the battering ram that would cave the door inwards.


That's just a small taste of my latest installment of End Game. You want to read more about Miller, Webb, Lowry and DeMetrie? Check out post #13 of this thread for instructions.

[The Stig]

While the rounds fell in around them, in ever increasing numbers, the low thump of the 25mm chain gun on the Bradley fighting vehicle soon erupted as it joined the fight. The gunner of the large armored vehicle spotted some target off in the distance, either real or imagined, and unleashed a short barrage of fifteen cannon rounds. It emerged from the woods some one hundred yards to the left.

This only served to attract the attention of the Russian gunners on the far distant hill crest. Within seconds heavy machine guns opened up and pelted the Bradley with 7.62 rounds intermixed with tracers. Another anti-tank rocket team, far to the Bradley's left, soon unleashed another rocket which impacted it square in the side.

The six troops in the back had been lucky to disembark and take up positions well clear of the twenty eight ton monster. No sooner had they dove to the ground to take up firing positions the big green troop carrier exploded in a tremendous fireball that spewed bits of metal, machine and man across the forest.

As the hulk of the Bradley burned brightly, the six infantrymen who had been riding in relative comfort only moments before, regrouped and began maneuvering their way towards the sole remaining vehicle of the group. They were only seventy five yards from the other group and within a few minutes all of the men successfully made the short dash through the trees to their comrades.


Ok folks...there's another small taste of the latest installment of End Game. If you've been lurking and want to read the rest of the installment (along with the rest of the story) follow the instructions in post #13 of this thread.

Hope to see you there.

[The Stig]

I'm hoping you guys have figured out how this works by now.

This is a small segment of my most recent update to End Game. There entire update, and entire story thus far, is available in the stories forum.

If you've been lurking to read my other stories please follow the directions in post #13 of this thread and catch up on the fun.


“Shhhhh,” said Miller as he motioned for silence. “I think I hear it.” Both men strained to make out the feint sound of an airplane motor.

After what seemed like minutes passed, Webb replied, “I hear it.”. Consulting his map he added, “they are coming in just like we expected.”

The timing had been perfect. One they got outside the city, Miller contacted his headquarters over the pirated communications satellite and requested the supply drop. An unseen army of men, at a secret location somewhere in Texas, sprang into action. Within an hour a twin-engine turboprop leapt into the air laden with two supply canisters. Painted all black, and covered in radar absorbent materials, the plane, specially outfitted with avionics and high output engines, was purpose built for these sorts of missions.

Flying fast and low over the terrain the plane had successfully penetrated the enemy airspace of the north. The lack of a coherent radar system and heavy fighter cover helped aide their clandestine activities. Hugging the earth, and the aid of night vision and million of dollars of equipment the plane drove on into the night.

Glancing at his watch Miller said, “nice timing too. Only had to wait ten minutes.”

They waited until the plane got closer before Miller said, “Ok, light em up.”

Without responding Webb flicked the switch on the oddly shaped device and aimed it in the general direction of the aircraft. The unit, an infrared beacon, sent a beam visible to anybody with night vision goggles. It was risky, but Miller counted on the remote location to hide their activities.

Within seconds the sound of the plane shifted as it changed directions.

“You just going to stand there and let them drop canisters on your head?” asked Miller with a smile as Webb stood holding the beacon.

Grasping the meaning of the question Webb carefully placed the beacon on the ground. He made an adjustment so the beam was pointing nearly straight up, seemingly endlessly into space.

The two men trotted back to their car and hoped that some freakish gust of wind or other cosmic force wouldn’t result in a heavy supply canister crashing through the hood of the SUV.

Hearing the plane, eerily quiet, pass overhead they waited for the sound of the canisters dropping to earth. They only had to wait fifteen seconds before they were rewarded by the dull thud of steel cylinders slamming into dirt.

[The Stig]

Just a small taste of the latest installment of End Game, the continuing saga of Miller and company.


“I like this. I like this very much,” said Miller as they drove past the large sports stadium.

Looking over a paper map of the area he had already started to work out some ideas of how they could capitalize on the information they had gathered at the police data center.

Webb, doing his best to look at the large concrete structure while not running off the road, replied, “yea, that's a massive old ass stadium. Must seat like, a hundred thousand or so?”

“Yea, I think so. This is perfect. The nearest airport is ten miles away, through the heart of the city. Oh yea.....we can sow all sorts of chaos here,” mused Miller.

As he turned away from the stadium, careful not to drive all the way around it and attract suspicion, Webb guided the SUV across the city streets with care. “Looks like the badguys are setting up already,” he stated as he watched a large Police vehicle drive past headed towards the old horseshoe shaped concrete stadium.

“Yep,” commented Miller, as he considered their options. “Showtime isn't all that far away. They're going to set up and lock this area down pretty quickly.”

As the impressive structure disappeared in the rear-view mirror Miller finally said, “lets head to the outskirts of town and see if we can find somewhere to stay for the night.”

As the truck turned north Miller thought over the kernel of a plan he had stitched together during the long drive. It was daring but his plans usually were.

If you want to read the whole installment (and the whole story thus far) check out post #13 of this thread. It's really simple....make a post and become achieve "contributor status". Then you can read all of End Game in the stories sub-forum.

[The Stig]

If you are continuing to lurk, or signed up and not made a post, what are you waiting for?

A side effect of registering +1 post is being able to read the entire story of End Game.

Here's small taste. If you want to read the entire entry refer to post #13 of this thread or simply registrar and make a post.


They had been lucky. While scouting out the international airport they found the small museum. The building was near the far end of the field, away from the main terminal and associated support hangers. They had just happened to drive past it. Inside a group of World War II vets maintained a small airplane museum dedicated to preserving the memories of the air war of the time.

Outside the small, squat building, stood a lone C47. The military version of the venerable DC3 it was painted in colors to resemble the invasion fleet that dropped paratroopers on D-Day. For a small donation you could climb inside and journey back to yesteryear.

For Miller it had cost one hundred dollars.

“Come on Sky King,” said Miller.

Webb, not catching the reference, looked back quizzically while he climbed into the pilots seat and pantomimed playing with the controls and obligatorily flipping random switches. Playing the part he made sure anybody watching from outside would see nothing but someone pretending to be an airline captain.

“Never mind,” said Miller shaking his head. He tended to forget how much younger Webb really was. “Set the first pack under the pilots seat. On the way out I'll stash one in that small compartment in the back.”

“Don't you think they'll sweep here before, during and after the visit?”

“That's exactly what I'm hoping for,” replied Miller cryptically. “And if they don't find them we can make that work too.”

[The Stig]

Calming himself after the Russian's departure from the austere office, Crutchfield picked up the phone and called the head of his security detail.

“We are leaving tomorrow morning. The rally at the stadium is tomorrow night at seven. I trust you are prepared,” was all he said without any pleasantries.

“Mr. President, again I ask you to reconsider. We've not done the proper security sweeps of the stadium, let alone important areas of the city. Please consider pushing the speech back several days, one at least.”

Pausing to make his security chief uncomfortable he replied, “The rally is at the stadium tomorrow night at seven. We leave in the morning.” Without another word the line went dead.

As the security chief sat and mulled over his options he realized he had none. He already had men in the area hurriedly making preparations and working around the clock to take the most rudimentary of precautions. But with the time table he was given they were cutting a lot of corners to achieve that. Their security would be weak at best.

Picking up the phone again he waited for the answer before saying, “We go tomorrow morning. Time unknown. We don't have any more time for elaborate preparations. Have the teams do what they can to secure the stadium, the surrounding area and the transport site.”

Hanging up the phone he let out a long sigh. He wondered what it would be like to be sent to the front line.

It's been a while since I posted a preview snippet. If you are lurking and want to read the last several entries to End Game, along with the entirety of this one, register on the website and make at least one post. That's it. That's all you have to do so be able to access the whole story in the stories subforum.

[The Stig]

Like all the others, here's a small sample of the latest installment of End Game.


As the convoy rumbled through the Texas countryside, the driver mused to himself about how many millions of dollars were being spent to move one guy across the country. The armored truck, the two gigantic SUV’s, the hoard of armed men crammed into them, all aimed at making sure the lone passenger made it from point A to point B unsuccessfully.

“Tango lead to tango rear, status?” came the digitized voice of the team leader in the lead SUV.

After a slight pause the reply came, “Situation green. No signs of problems.”

They continued on in silence though the Texas countryside, dotted with clumps of vegetation and rock, and mostly flat for as far as the eye could see, for the next twenty minutes.

Normally an operation like this would warrant a larger force or even transport by air but the group was hoping to use their small size to escape detection. A decoy group had moved out on land an hour before them, one by air earlier than that. With any luck they’d traverse the rest of Texas, Louisiana and some of Mississippi by morning, and be well on the way to their final destination near Atlanta.

Rumbling on into the dark, the silence was only broken by the occasional status reports. Otherwise the drivers, illuminated only by the hue of their dashboard lights, continued on into the dark.

If you are lurking and haven't registered, what are you waiting for? Register, make one post and blamo! You get to read the rest of the story.

More importantly, you can access all the great prep discussions and information contained in the forum.

[Polarbarez]

This looks like a great story. Here is apost to let me continue reading it.
Thanks

[The Stig]

This looks like a great story. Here is apost to let me continue reading it.
Thanks

Glad you decided to join in the fun!

[The Stig]

“Well done Captain Whitecap,” said Colonel DeMetrie to Bravo Company’s temporary commander. “Now that you’ve captured the hilltop, regroup quick as you can and make sure you can repel any counter attack. Dig in tight.”

“Roger that Captain. We’ll be your anchor,” came the digitized reply.

“Keep me updated if you face any real contact.”

“Yes Sir,” said Captain Whitecap before signing off.

The gamble had paid off. Delta Company had swung far to the right and behind the Russian line. After being flanked, the Russians atop the small hillside had no choice but retreat back to the defensive line built around the interstate about four miles north of the beaches. It had taken all night to finish off the trapped Russians near Bravo Company, but they too had finally been dispatched.

DeMetrie much preferred to push headlong after wresting control of the hill, and capitalize on the change of fortunes. But the lack of intelligence about what laid beyond the hillside, coupled with the desperate need to avoid significant losses forced him into continuing caution.

Studying the map he saw that according to the position reports his companies formed a nearly straight line; Alpha on the far left, Bravo in the middle, 2nd Company and Delta just to the right. Charlie Company was pulled in behind Delta and would serve as a reserve force. The mortar platoon and headquarters group moved straight forward into the wooded positions recently abandoned by Bravo.

Waiting for Captain Lowry to come online, DeMetrie rubbed his eyes. One hurdle had been jumped but another lay before him. They were now moving into the actual town and would be back into urban operations.

The good news was that many of his men were comfortable in this environment after multiple rotations in the hellhole of the middle east. This, however, was stark comfort when one considered the reality that urban warfare, with the possibility of vicious house-to-house fighting, usually translated into higher casualty rates.

“That you Colonel?” inquired Lowy’s voice through the radio on the battalion radio net, shaking DeMetrie from his thoughts.

“Go ahead Lowry,” was the straightforward reply from DeMetrie.

“Bad news; lost fifteen men Sir, those Russians didn't go quietly,” said Lowry.

“Ok, send whoever you can to the CCP. We'll patch up who we can and get them back to you.” advised DeMetrie. CCP, or casualty collection point, was the military euphemism for the very simple aide station that operated in DeMetrie's headquarters platoon.

Wounded men were starting to become a problem. In a normal environment, wounded men would be stabilized, send to the CCP and then medivac, typically by helicopter, to a more suitable field hospital. Given DeMetrie's situation, calling in a Blackhawk to whisk the men to safety wasn't an option.

He had found one solution. One of his medics had driven to the small town of Shelton, only twenty miles north, and made arrangements to send the wounded men to the local hospital for treatment. The problem lie in transportation: shuttling the men to the hospital had tied up a Stryker and several Humvee's and a few men had already died awaiting the long trip.

For now it was the best he could manage for his men.

“Vehicles?” asked DeMetrie.

Without pausing, Lowry answered, “2 Strykers, 3 Humvees.”

“Damn. You didn’t have that many to begin with.”

“No, we’ve got a few, but we’re pretty much foot soliders”

DeMetrie never shied away from asking his men to tackle difficult situations. He found it was better to simply give the order with no beating around the bush. “Listen Lowry. Since you’ve got the lightest company, I want to do a recon in force. Move to grid….” DeMetrie paused as he confirmed the map location,”….and find us a way into the city. We can’t afford to go crashing in headlong.”

“Roger that Sir. I need an hour or so to give the men a breather and get our shit straight. After that I can push forward if that works.”

Trusting Lowry as he did, DeMetrie did not mind the direct approach to letting him know 2nd Company’s needs.

“Good, but don’t get comfortable. Move out soonest. I hate to do this to you, but use your remaining Strikers to shuttle men into position quickly. Once they are done playing taxi, send them to Bravo Company. They lost a few and it's better to have a fully loaded company than diluting our strength across several.”

After a brief pause, Lowry, always the solider, replied “Roger that sir.”

Continuing Colonel DeMetrie asked, “You good out there?”

“Right as rain,” replied Captain Lowry. “It’s almost as if I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m going to send Charlie’s scout platoon to the right of the line to see what we find. But for the middle it’s up to you to see what we’re dealing with. If they respond in force, fall the fuck back, otherwise see if you can find us a hole to shove Delta through.” DeMetrie liked his men to have a good idea of what the operational plan would be.

“Roger sir.”

“Get your men squared away Lowry and shove off asap.”

Lowry replied, “Question Sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“Tyra Banks? I mean, really Sir?”


You guys know the drill by now I hope.