From:    brendan.dillon@xx.xxxx.xxx 
Date:    Sun Jan 18, 2004 8:40 am
Subject: Assault on the Fortress


(Special thanks to Paul on this one)

* * *

"We're on approach vector, Emperor. Five minutes to range," announced Matthew
Pulley as he piloted the Escort across the Raleigh skyline.

"Excellent. Prepare all weapons. The Fortress of Doom will not fall easily,"
replied Norman the Elf from his tiny, dashboard-top commander's chair. "You are
certain that your information is accurate?"

"Yes, sir. But... I'm not sure I can do this. That's my brother in there, you
know."

"Nonsense. What has your brother done for you? The fifth-highest official in the
old guard, yet he merely relegated you to an irrelevant post with no real power.
Minister of Balloon Doggies? Bah. With Paul, Bevin, and the supposed Co-Rulers
out of the way, you will have even more power in the Oligarchy than Paul has
now. You want to be powerful, don't you?"

"Yeeessss..."

"Then together, we will level the Fortress and bring the former government of
the Oligarchy to its knees. Are you with me or not?"

"I guess."

"Good. Now let's hear the plan."

"Approach will not be easy," Matthew began. "We're required to maneuver straight
along the roof, and skim the surface to a certain point. The target is only two
feet wide. It's a small thermal exhaust port."

"You mean a chimney? When did they get a fireplace?"

"It was installed last month. The chimney leads directly to the living room. A
precise hit should start a chain reaction which will destroy the Fortress. Only
a precise hit will start a chain reaction. The chimney is ray-shielded, so we'll
have to use proton torpedoes."

"All right. Let's go."

* * *

Meanwhile, denizens of the Fortress of Doom scrambled to battle stations. The
meeting broke up in a hurry, and the OCB agents manned the radar to watch the
Escort's approach.

"They're only a few miles away. They'll be in range in three minutes," announced
Agent Scarlett.

"This has to be some kind of government conspiracy," Agent Rucker mumbled. He
turned sharply towards Wayland. "You set this up, didn't you?"

Wayland ignored Rucker and walked over to Paul. "Look, that's your brother
flying that car. Can't you get on a commlink and talk him out of it?"

Paul glared at Wayland. "I think we're beyond diplomacy at this point. I mean, I
know that you guys are fond of going about this the long and less destructive
way. And your powers are, well, let's call them subtle. But I was a full-fledged
god of destruction long before I joined you guys." He paused. "Norman has
declared war on us, and he thinks he can win. And if you didn't have me, he
probably would."

Wayland glared back at Paul, and considered rebutting with tales of combat on
the Evil Space Mall, but decided not to argue. There would be time enough for
that later. "I'm going up in the Mustang," he said.

"Hold on," Paul said, as he turned towards the arms room. "I'm going with you.
You're going to need some firepower, and I've got something I've been saving for
a special occasion."

They walked into the arms room, and Paul pulled open a trap door on the floor.
"You keep this weapon in the basement?" Wayland asked.

"Something like that," Paul said, as they descended through the door. When they
reached the bottom of the ladder, Paul hit a switch and the room filled with
fluorescent light.

Wayland looked around, amazed. The room seemed to stretch for miles in almost
every direction. Gun racks, wine racks, military equipment, and distillery tanks
were stocked as far as he could see. There was even a platoon's worth of Abrams
tanks lined up along the only visible wall.

"Fifth-dimension technology," Wayland gasped.

"How else do you think I keep Death Inc. and the Drunken Redneck Corps so
secretive?" asked Paul.

"What are those doors behind the tanks?" Wayland asked, pointing at the wall.

"Those are back doors through the fifth dimension. They lead to locations all
around the world. Come with me."

They rushed down an aisle until they reached what almost appeared to be a shrine
of some sort. In the center was a large, ornately carved, wooden gun case. Paul
pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the case, and opened it to reveal some
sort of anti-tank weapon.

"This," Paul began, "is the Solethurn S18-1000. I bought it online a few months
ago. A beauty, isn't it?"

"Sure, I guess," Wayland replied, checking his watch.

"This gun takes a crew of three mere mortals to man it," Paul mused as he hefted
the weapon from its case. He held it to his shoulder and checked his aim, the
gun's tripod dangling below the barrel. He then stuck it into the crook of his
elbow as he picked up a few extra magazines of ammunition and strapped them to
his belt.

"Norman will be here any second, you know. Can we get going?" asked Wayland,
impatiently.

"Yeah, let's go." The two exited back into normal space and left the Fortress.
Wayland grabbed the holoprojector off of the Mustang and tossed it into the
bushes. Amazingly, the car started on the first attempt, and pulled out onto the
street. Wayland backed up almost to the end of the street, and began revving the
engine.

* * *

Officer Steve Crenshaw of the Raleigh Police Department sat parked on a side
road, about a block from the Fortress of Doom. A white Explorer passed in front
of him. He checked the radar gun -- 28 miles per hour. He let it slide.

Crenshaw hated working the Brentwood neighborhood. He knew that with some of the
hilly sections, it wasn't easy to stick to the 25 mph speed limit. On the
downslopes, usually law-abiding drivers often reached 30 to 35 miles per hour.

He went back to the Solitaire game on his laptop.

A few minutes later, a blue flash streaked by in front of Crenshaw's car. He
checked the radar gun -- 67 miles per hour.

"Holy shit," he muttered, as he put the car into gear and hit the lights. As he
pulled out, he found himself following an early-model Ford Mustang. It didn't
seem to be slowing down; in fact, it was accelerating. More alarmingly, the
passenger seemed to have a large gun pointed out of his window.

Crenshaw grabbed his radio. "This is unit 17, in pursuit and requesting
baaaaaa..." He trailed off as his jaw dropped.

The Mustang reached three times the speed limit and jumped the next hill. But
rather than crashing back down onto the road, the taillights flashed bright red,
and the car sailed upwards, brushing treetops as it circled 180 degrees in
mid-air.

"What was that, unit 17? What is your location?" asked the police dispatcher
over the radio.

"Um, never mind," replied Officer Crenshaw. "Everything's clear here. My
mistake."

* * *

"There he is," said Wayland, as he piloted the Mustang through Fortress of Doom
airspace. He hit a switch and opened a commlink with the Escort. "Norman, this
is Wayland and Paul. We're giving you one chance to surrender."

"Fuck, no," came Norman's reply. The Escort dropped to rooftop level and
approached the Fortress.

Wayland glanced at Paul. "Let's rock and roll."

* * *

Paul leaned his head out of the window and began to take aim. Matthew sent the
Escort into evasive maneuvers as Paul opened fire with the Solethurn. The
Mustang shook, partly from the recoil, and partly from Wayland's reaction to the
deafening noise. Several rounds hit the Fortress' reinforced roof, sending
shingles into disarray, but not penetrating the armored layer.

Matthew fired two rockets in succession, one of them exploding within meters of
the Mustang. The rear right tire was shredded, and shrapnel flew into Paul's
window as he shielded his face with his arm. The shrapnel buried itself in
Paul's arm and right side. He shook it off and began healing immediately.

By this time, most of the Fortress of Doom residents had taken to the windows
with various small arms. Those who could get a clear shot at the Escort opened
fire. Unfortunately, the Fortress crew was trained to defend against a single
intruder or, in extreme circumstances, a ground assault, and their battle
stations were not positioned ideally for an aerial target.

Paul fired again, hitting the Escort's tail end. The mangled rear bumper was
severed and careened through the air, landing on Officer Crenshaw's hood and
waking him in a panic.

The Escort began again to skim the surface of the roof, preparing to engage the
chimney. Jinx fired a shotgun from a rooftop guard tower, scoring a hit on the
Escort's windshield, but not shattering the transparent aluminum. As the car
continued to approach the guard tower, Jinx jumped out onto the roof, rolled to
the rain gutter and prepared to fire again.

"Bring me closer to that tower," Paul said. Wayland steered the Mustang to
rooftop level and brought it within meters of the Fortress.

Paul fired at the base of the guard tower. It collapsed, impaling itself on the
chimney. The metal roof covered the opening of the chimney, making it
inaccessible.

The Escort pulled up. Through the windows, Matthew appeared to be arguing with
Norman. Then the taillights lit up, and the car shot upward towards a suborbital
heading.

"Where the hell are they going now?" Paul wondered out loud.

Wayland furrowed his brow. "I think I know. They're going for the one Co-Ruler
they still haven't tried to assassinate. Let's go."

He hit the gas, and the Mustang rose into a pursuit course.

--
Brendan, the Duct Tape Avenger,  | brendan.dillon@xx.xxxx.xxx
GPG; 1SG, KPS OPC; SC, HQ, SURLI | http://www.holyducttape.com

"You've seen generals inspecting troops before. Just walk slow,
look dumb and act stupid." -Major Reisman, "The Dirty Dozen"