Atlantis Venture - Drone Pt. 01

Some time ago, the historic Fort Jefferson National Monument was purchased by the mysterious investment organization known as the MAGI-Group. Hardly anyone had any idea what the acronym stood for, let alone actually knew what an acronym was. In secrecy, the word hid an intricacy of layered consulting interactions throughout the vast U.S. intelligence network. Even so, within that matrix, MAGI existed in a world it continuously created, fabricated, updated and reformatted as global conditions warranted. Outside the reaches of politicians, pundits and the press, MAGI was invisible.

From the outside looking in, if you were in a position to do that, MAGI-Group seemed like some kind of weird collection of white-collar computer geeks. The Multidimensional Analysis and Global Investigations group had been viewed as an elaborate think tank of egghead type lab-rat analysts. Naturally, such notions were effective in providing a smokes screen. Or, as the founders once conjured, something referred to as the mystical Legerdemain Protocols. Regardless, another reference could be in the direction of the ancient Magi, the plural of magus, magicians or alleged wise men and women.

Nonetheless, among themselves, the key people involved considered they were the angels who keep the watch. That is, watchers and observers, who maintain a balance between good and evil, primarily to protect the United States of America. Believers in an ancient code of chivalry, the code of Bushido, they were ronin by choice. However, there existed another reference in their mythic legerdemain. This nebulous notion pointed to places like Area-51, the Bermuda Triangle, and other paranormal possibilities. However, you would have to be way above top secret to get closer.

Meanwhile, in the Gulf of Mexico, seventy miles west of Key West, the old island fortress became the main operational center for MAGI-Group. Formerly, a national park, and previously a federal military facility, the coastal bastion was sold after a never- ending national debt crisis. As usual, politicians clamored to downsize not only the military, but also certain national recreation facilities. In the face of mounting terrorist activities, global unrest, and elections, officials opted for electoral safety. But, the elusive CEO of the mysterious MAGI Group, Dr. Sterling Striffe, convinced those involved to buy the fort and set up home base at the fortress. They did excitedly that.

The largest masonry structure in the U.S., the fort contained an elaborate command and control center. Manned by a handful of specialists, not counting, armed security personnel, the internal workings were fully automated. With the latest computerized techno-savvy capabilities, as well as other components, the citadel remained completely self-contained. If necessary, you would never have to leave for any reason. From the outside, one might mistake its looks for something historically archaic and antiquated. But, that was intentional, as on the inside, high-tech was the name of the game.

Magi's fortress consisted of a three-tier design based on a hexagonal configuration. Distance from one corner to the next, along each diagonal wall, ranged from 325 feet to 477. Gulf waters surrounded the bastion. And, a protective walled barrier separated the sea from the walls and created the effect of a mote. A small island landing and docking area ran along the western side of the complex. Two helipads, one inside the fort, and one on the island, afforded the landing of various aircraft operated by Magi.

"Incoming aircraft stand by for corporate staff arrival," an alert technician announced to others in the command center. "Helo One is on approach, be vigilant."

"Helo One to Armada Base," the pilot signaled. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as her curly red struggled to remain contained under her pilot's helmet. Her freckles animated a facial expression that showed excitement. "We're approaching LZ-1 on the inside complex. Three minutes to arrival, are we clear for approach?"

"Affirmative, Helo One, you are cleared," the command center radioed back.

"Perimeter defenses are ready for your landing. You have green light."

"Alright you two, hang on to your private parts," the feisty pilot said to her passengers. "I'm gonna do a fast run over the fort, just for kicks, okay?"

"Rusty," Sterling Striffe, wealthy owner of the MAGI group, started to issues one of his playful warnings. "Don't wreck this chopper it's a prototype." His tone contained more jest than seriousness. "It's on loan and the board of directors will be really pissed." Patiently, he commented via his headset microphone and glanced at his paramour partner. "What? She likes to race her aircraft. She's good at what she does."

"Didn't one of these experimental things crash at the European air show last year?" The infamous Myla Trench, exotic operative extraordinaire retorted wryly. "Hmm you know, Sterling my darling, didn't our very own Rusty crash that one?"

"I heard that," the pilot, Major Rose Petals, muttered amusingly to her paramour, Myla Trench. As a threesome couple, they enjoyed the jousting. "Correction, it was not one of these aircraft." She whipped around quickly and threw them both a nod. "Come on people, it's on loan for testing. Yes, it's a prototype. Last time, at the air show in a different aircraft, I might add. The turbine burned up on me. It wasn't my fault. The bird had major engine failure and we didn't design it. At least not at Area-51""

"We had a lot of explaining to do to the U.S. Army," Myla added playfully. "However, I'm certain Sterling will find a way to reimburse any losses. Seems like he's good at covering things up," she teased without mercy and pulled no punches.

"Well, that took some creative storytelling," Sterling laughed. "A few miffed colonels and majors were over-ruled by several appreciative generals." He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath. "Plus, with added incentives, investors picked up the tab."

"See how things work out?" Rusty offered jokingly and then went on to another issue. "Okay, see that boat down there?" Rusty called their attention to a strange watercraft cruising near the fort. "That long grey thing moving slowly."

"Yeah, Rus, very good, your visual acuity is excellent. That's a boat down there." Striffe said with growing interest. "An unusual vessel for these waters this time of day, I might add." He strained to look closer. "The configuration is that of a high-speed craft." He pulled out a pair of digital binoculars from an under-seat compartment. "Ease down there," his face grew more serious, while he zeroed in with the computerized three-D field glasses. "Be careful and be ready, I'm getting one of those feelings. It's the kind that annoys intuitive creativity and tugs at lethal perceptions."

"Uh huh, I'm getting that little twitch in the pelvis too," Myla perked up. "Could be something else I need. Then again on another level, there's that unusual craft near our fort," She said in agreement. With her binoculars, she joined the analysis. "You're right, tough guy, narrow beam, heavy engines and steep angles on the hull."

"Looks fast, lots of thrust power," Striffe added to her notations.

"Thrust power is good," Myla said while peering next to him down at the boat. She added with a more investigative tone, "I'm taking some pictures." She pressed a button the binoculars and began a series of snap shots. With her earpiece comm-link, she over- rode helo communications. "Armada you copy that transmission?"

"Roger that, Helo One, transmission on secure link confirmed and we're on it," the command center reported to her. "We're monitoring the phantom craft, which changed course earlier. Navigational trajectory is currently being tracked." Silence interceded shortly, and then the command center added, "I.D. is unknown."

"I could've told them that," Myla snarled and put up a frown.

"Going in closer, we'll do a fly over and make an assessment," Rusty announced to the two of them. "Well that's certainly interesting, what's it doing?"

"Helo One, shall we launch vessel interception?" The command center asked.

"Hold in place for the time being, we'll advise," Rusty responded.

"No particular markings of note," Striffe, aka Lancer Lovejoy, mentioned. "Not even a hull number for registration purposes, or any identifiable insignia. Nor is it flying any flag of registry. We could have the U.S. Coast Guard conduct an inquiry."

"The fort is technically within the U.S. territorial boundaries," Myla clarified. "To summon a response will take time. That craft could disappear quickly and make it to open watch and to who knows where. I say we interdict and enforce no trespassing." She gave off a heavy sigh. "We're outside local jurisdiction, so it falls on us."

"I like that idea." Sterling pulled out one of his expensive cigars. Unlit, he chomped down and continued, "Have base delay Coast Guard notifications."

"Roger that will do. Standby people, closing on target," Rusty advised them. "Coast Guard intervention will be too late. If we're dealing with pirates, terrorists or whatever," she toyed, "we need to act now and find out who they are."

"Instruct Armada Base," Striffe advised her, "to upgrade security status now."

"Armada control," Rusty radioed. "Elevate status and secure the base."

"Affirmative, going to Condition Red," the command center responded. In the background, a klaxon alarm sounded. With the press of a button, the technician put the island fortress in lock-down. "Helo One, we are in secure mode."

"Copy that," Rusty answered. "We going in and assess the situation."

"Affirmative, Helo One," control replied. "Scanners put the vessel near the tip of the northwest island. Off our shoreline approximately point zero nine eight seven nautical miles. Technically, it's trespassing." Static filled the temporary void for a second or two. "Watercraft analysis indicates the profile of a race boat..."

"With twin diesel type engines," Rusty continued where the technician had started. "That's a roger on that. Commence a search of the trans-global registries for a possible match to the craft's visual profile, characteristics, etc., and standby."

"Okay, so it's about two hundred yards out, so what? I hate to be sarcastic," Myla wanted to say sternly. "However, I already deduced that. Why is that information annoying to me, Sterling? It's redundant." She snarled, grew impatient and frowned in her usual readiness to for action. "We're wasting time. Rusty, take us down."

"It's annoying because you want to be annoyed." He smiled appreciatively and nodded at Rusty. "My question is, since when did you not want to be sarcastic?"

"You're gonna get it later, wise guy," she taunted and punched him in the ribs. He smirked at the lightly placed jab. "Smart ass," she added friskily.

"Meanwhile, one of the boat's crew, after giving us the once over, has gone below.

Can't say I like that idea," Sterling added. "Wait, that doesn't look good."

"Onboard camera is now running; we'll do a fly by and get some pictures." Rusty angled the helo closer and the aircraft tilted to one side. "What's the guy doing down there? Close up on scan, projection on monitor." While she glanced at her console screen, Sterling and Myla watched the overhead monitor in the passenger compartment. "Geezus, Sterling, they got a rocket launcher down there. What the hell?"

"Uh huh, it appears so, major," Sterling quickly answered. "Once again, you're right on target, so to speak. Certainly, looks like it's an old Russian version," Sterling went on, nodded slightly to the pilot. She wasn't looking at that moment. "Well this isn't gonna end well, unless we come up with really good evasive action."

"Fuck that, I'm going close," Rusty blurted and sent the chopper into a steep attacking dive. "That's likely got a range of a thousand meters, and I'm too close to make a run for it. Hang on, goddammit, looks like he's gonna fire at us!"

"Brace yourselves, here we go, this will be fun," Myla commented dryly. "We armed on this aircraft, Rusty? What am I saying, I should know that already?"

"Ask the boss, he thought of everything," Rusty replied sarcastically.

"No, my dear, we didn't equip the weaponry. The craft is for flight-testing only. With that, we might make a splash down." Striffe, adventurer, ex-spy, former U.S. Army Psyops Colonel, said steadily. "Did we get insurance on this helo?"

"You wish, Sterling Striffe," Rusty called out. "Now sit still and let me play this out.

All systems ready," she faked it. "The big 'O' is coming and we go in hard and fast."

"Go for it, cowgirl," he encouraged her. "Sink that boat." He played along with her scenario and envisioned the craft exploding. "Light it up, baby."

"Swooping down and going hot. Take that, clown boy," Rusty yelled at the assailant on board the vessel and took the chopper in a full speed. "Bam, bam, bam..."

"You tell them woman, go for it, honey," Myla yelled back affectionately.

"Fascinating," Striffe muttered with an amused expression. He chewed on his cigar and enjoyed the foreplay between his two partners. "Nicely done."

With her innate connection to Myla, Rusty sensed what her counterpart was about to do. In coordination with other, they swiftly synchronized their intentions. Rusty's tactic took a sharp dive and flat trajectory above the water. By evasive maneuvering, the aircraft became a strangely difficult object to encounter.

Choppy waves lapped at the underside of the helo, as salt spray leaped up. She zeroed in on the boat with what appeared to be an effort to ram the vessel. Now, three men on the deck appeared to panic, startled by the abrupt action. Apparently, they had anticipated the pilot would pull up, move away and make a better target.

Fortunately, for Rusty and crew, they had underestimated her cunning capabilities. The one with the missile, stiffened by indecision, continued to hesitate and waved the launch tube carelessly in the air. A second later, he abruptly fired the weapon inaccurately into the water, just below the speeding aircraft. From the explosion, a funnel of seawater washed the bottom of the helo as it approached.

Naturally, since she was inside the helo, the intruder remained completely oblivious to her defiant ranting. She pretended she had activated her weapons systems and opened fire on the boat. Her tactics had caught the deck guy by surprise. He froze for a few seconds longer after missing the chopper. Rusty counted on that.

Meanwhile, as Rusty went into her descent, Myla pulled out her pistol from her shoulder holster. Quickly, she slid open a portal, set the gun to auto-fire, and angled her arm to shoot. Working together, and given the reaction of the assailant, the chopper smoothly adjusted so Myla could open fire on her objective. With an audible buzz, Myla fired the pistol and effortlessly put several bullets into the intruder.

The shock of surprise, the terror of failure and the animated horror of finality etched the poignancy upon the assassin's stressed facial features. Death was demon possessed by the extraordinary powers of terminal freakishness. Hellish demise greeted the fateful journey of a life lived unwisely, or for that matter, any creature living at all. You could almost see the bloody clumsy handwriting in the air around him. As if to say, 'what the fuck?' while gasping wildly up at Myla. Next to the pleading script, one might add, 'what's the point?'. After all, no one knows what no one knows.

"Yeehaw!" Rusty screamed and banked the chopper hard to circle the vessel. "Why butter my backside and call me a biscuit, that's some wild west shooten!"

"Not a bad shot, my dear, well you have done, with a handgun no less," Striffe complimented with a relaxed tone. He nearly yawned with an expression meant to tease her. "What?" He noted her outstretched hand. "Hmm," he felt the helo swing around and realign for another attack. "Emptied your magazine, did you? Fire control discipline my dear? All fifteen rounds down range?" He annoyed her.

"Shut up, or it'll be a cold weekend for you," she said mischievously.

"Ah, that's not fair," he replied playfully. "And, where's your spare?" "I'm not going to comment on that at the moment." She frowned at him. "Uh huh, and what have I said about things like that?" He feigned correction.

"Give it to me..." she said and flexed her jaw with a snarl. "Your magazine or I'll kick your ass right here in the helo, Sterling Striffe, my love." Myla grinned wickedly. "Let's go, fork it over, tough guy. Now, we're coming around."

"See if you can hit the driver at the main console," he toyed and whipped out a spare magazine and handed it to her. "Good thing we're carrying similar weapons, huh?"

"Of course, and yes, I noticed that earlier just in case," she played along. "Figured I could carry less baggage, because you always have extra contingencies." She leaned over swiftly and kissed him on the neck. "I suck your brains out later."

"Why me?" He muttered fondly. "Why me?"

"Coming around for another approach," Rusty advised. "I'm getting signals from base; the Coast Guard is taking an interest in our activities."

"Well now, the feds have to get involved at this moment," Myla snarled. "Just when I thought I could get away with another kill, they wanna go lawful on us."

"Alright, advise base to standby, confirm immediate tow operations," Striffe started to give instructions. Myla was already hanging over the side of chopper. Slapping wind currents whipped madly at her and thrashed around the hatchway. "Get the craft into our enclosed dry dock area a.s.a.p. Have security search and secure the vessel."

"Roger that, it's already underway," Rusty told him cheerily. "Going in close."

"I'm ready!" Myla yelled over the lashing airflow. She watched the towboat exit from a concealed compartment within the walls of the fort. "Closer," she yelled.

"Wind turbulence, hang on spider woman," Rusty hollered back. "Geezus, these air currents just gonna dill my pickle." She pulled hard toward the vessel. For a second, she glanced over her shoulder at Striffe. "What the hell? Those clowns are gonna be as surprised as a mule chewing a wad of bumblebees. Forgot about that thing."

"That's it, I know it's rough, but hold there nice and steady, as much as you can," Striffe calmly told Rusty. "I'll need a very fast side angle for about a split second." Quickly without notice, from an onboard storage compartment, he had assembled an AR- 50 sniper rifle. "Yes, my dear, this classic will do a number on the engine compartment." He zeroed in on the boat. "Placement and penetration, that's the key."

"We're coming in, here we go," Rusty announced with precision. "Cool, you're shooting between her legs. She oughta like that, something big and powerful."

"She never complains," he answered roguishly. "Three, two, one...boom!"

As the same instant, Myla and Striffe came together in one act of focused and rhythmic unison. Multiple gunshots rained down on the speeding boat. Their firing sequence was so close it seemed like simultaneous exploding chatter. She dangled with one hand and fired with the other. Between her muscular spread legs, he put two detonating rounds through the hull of the vessel. Instantly, the vessel's engine housing and rear deck erupted flames. The boat's operator slumped over the console.

"Nope, with you under me, I never complain." She'd swung back inside the helo and sat legs wide on his lower back. "Not bad shooting for a really big gun," Myla taunted him. "I mean how could you miss with that thing."

"What can I say, you're good with a one-handed grip," he retorted with a grin.

"Now, let's see what the survivors have to say about this little misadventure."