posted on Mar, 7 2004 @ 04:39 AM
Masato quietly looked down at the dossier in front of him, hands on his lap. TOP SECRET was stamped on it several times in bright red, giving the
whole situation a whole campy feel. But it wasnít something to be trivialize at will. Inside the folder in front of him were thirty two pages
recovered from the recent raid on a warehouse in Boston. The first five pages were propaganda, and the next five were a history of NightWatch, Inc.-
Masatoís company, privately contracted by the UN to seek and destroy terrorism in all its forms. They had been burning illegal poppy fields, killing
guerrillas, and running security on high-profile buildings for nigh on a decade, after the Americans had privatised their war on terror. Everyone knew
that the UN was just a puppet now, but they didnít care. At NightWatch Inc., the paycheck came first. Or it would have until this morning when he
received the document. Now, deep underground in the companyís main bunker, he pondered just what the hell he had been doing these past years. The
documents before him were inscrutable proof that not only was the War on Terror a lie, but a politically driven one at that. Most Ďterroristsí
nowadays were merely political dissidents, and the massive atrocities committed in their name were the American governmentís own acts, cleverly
disguised. They paid the bill, and Nightwatch put the slugs where they pointed.
The documents had been recovered from a small group of non-violent terrorists calling themselves the Ď331st ATS Free-Speech Brigadeí, killed in a
shootout on the Boston Docks three days ago. The shootout itself had been quick and clean- the Nightwatch SWAT teams had gone in and shot anything
that moved. The ATSers had gotten sloppy and forgotten to proxy their emails properly- then they paid the price. The NightWatch Inc. Cryptography
Department hadnít been able to break the code, but had pinpointed their location instead. Three squads of the corporationís finest SWAT soldiers had
struck, leaving not a single survivor for Ďinterrogationí. These documents had been recovered by the team leader. Reading them over, he had realized
what they had meant. He delivered them back to Headquarters personally. Now, three hours after issuing a massive recall, Masato sat there, starring at
the papers and wondering. The proof was nigh-watertight. A tactical nuclear warhead going Ďmissingí the day before the Chicago Blast. Photos of known
military agents around farms two weeks before the Famine began. One picture was even digitally enhanced to show one of said agents deploying what was
quite obviously a gas grenade. He started slightly as his second in command coughed.
Colonel Humphreys stood at parade rest, decked out in armor. A submachine gun hung from a sling below his left arm.
ďI donít know what to say. Weíve been wrong all these years. Howíre the men?Ē
ďReady, I suppose. I fed the line to the general, just like you asked. I donít think heís suspicious, but since we had that attack two years ago, it
gave us some credibility.Ē
Masato had fed the general a line about a terrorist attack on the headquarters to cover the pullback of his troops. He hoped it would work. Next to
the Pentagon, his bunker was probably the strongest, most nigh-impenetrable fortress in these ravaged states. His men might deserve this, but he
wasnít sure. They had all been pawns. Now, they were going to be dead pawns in a war on terrorists who didnít exist.
It would be sheer luck if any NightWatchmen survived to see the next year.
Head in his hands, Masato listened as chaos erupted all around him. Perimeter alarms began to wail from all directions, and the radar screamed for
attention as blips filled the screens. He had disseminated the files onto the internet, to his friends, family, everyone. He hoped they wouldnít die
like he did.
Masatoís officers began to yell out in panic.
"Guess the army didn't buy it, eh sir?" called out the Colonel as he went to attend to the situation. Masato wasn't listening. He was thinking.
Thinking about the people he killed, how right he thought it was in the beginning. Death is a dirty business, he told himself, but someone has to do
it. Now, everything was crashing down around his ears. God only knew how much blood was on his hands unwittingly.
ďBlue defence line overwhe....Ē
ďClosing bay doors...Ē
ďMonorail station three breached! Autodefences onli...Ē
ď32cond regiment broken...Ē
ďIncoming cruise missiles!Ē
His men now paid for hsi mistakes with their lives, desperately trying to defend themselves.
Humphreys was doing his best to control the havoc and keep his men alive, but it was no use. The might of the US Army rushed towards them, guns
blazing. They swarmed from all directions, overwhelming the defences. Masato didnít even look up. He felt the base shake under the bombardment. He
heard the shots, the screams of his men as the enemy drew closer. Jeff yelled in anger and frustration as his MP5 went cyclic, then silent. By the
time he did look up, a man in a gas mask and dark blue body armor had put the still-hot barrel of a pistol to his head. Beyond him, he could see the
corpse of Colonel Humphreys in a puddle of blood surrounded by brass casings. At least he had gone down fighting. Masatoís last thought was, ďHow
did the heroes in this war so quickly become the villians?Ē
The man in the mask inhaled once, and pulled the trigger
It's better, isn't it? This is the last of my submissions for the Yellow forums. I will, however, go back and edit or add to the other stories. Hope
[Edited on 7-3-2004 by DeusEx]
[Edited on 7-3-2004 by DeusEx]