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Save Point: Skulking Behind Boxes

Falkland Islands, 1983 CE

Cleo is dismayed to find herself skulking around behind a bunch of large rimmed wooden boxes. It's a scene so stereotypical as to be almost painful, but something that she unquestionably is very good at and well suited to.

She waits until the nearest guard glances aside for a second, then dives cleanly and silently over one of the boxes in completely open view, nipples skimming the tin edges as she slips past. She lands in a space behind the boxes, furnished with cheap paint-spotted canvas, just enough that her crouching landing is muffled against the cheap pre-fabricated floor.

"What was that?"

"It's just a cat," says the other guy, dipping his cigarette and exhaling. "Lot of them about. Chasing a mouse or something."

"Damn, I could do with some pussy," sneers the other guy, who is looking out into the dark. "One minute all's well with the world, the next they've invented themselves a war. For fuck's sake."

Her new position gives her the path she needs into one of the adjoining offices built into a large shipping container. The dig site is up ahead, but heavily secured and possibly too tricky to get into, with an awkward choke point at the door. She'd settle for visual confirm.

Still, she's followed the evidence, and this is where it took her. After the lack of subtlety that was overloading a fusion reactor in the rain forests of one of the more forsaken corners of nowhere, there was only one signal left to be chased down, and it's somewhere up ahead.

She thinks it might be a small Azatlani detection and jamming system, or something like that. The signal only came on line after she'd destroyed the research base, possibly because one end of its entangled pair-set underwent a physics-disruptive event (i.e. she blew the crap out of it).

Unfortunately, secondary events then proceeded apace. The Argentinians seem to have become more than just somewhat jumpy over a stray nuclear explosion occurring in their corner of the world, even if it wasn't something they could tell the general population, and have been trying to score political points by railing against their preferred suspect, Britain, even thought that makes no sense at all and is only motivated by an existing grudge. Meanwhile the British seem to have somehow detected the new signal, possibly with the aid of the Merican echelon system, and have managed to fix its position during the brief interval of activity.

All of which would concern her not at all, were it not for the fact that the source of the signal was the Falklands Islands, which are a thorn of contention between the pair. The judiciously selected assortment of military records she was able to download at the research base indicate occasional but regular flights were sent out to one of the lesser islands, so there has to be something here, although how much of it is left is anyone's guess.

Presumably to cover their operations, the Brits contrived a small military escalation, justified as a response to Argentine saber-rattling. This was more like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and it seems that things are now working their way up to a war, because the British simply can't risk the Argentinians getting their hands on something so potentially exciting. The Argentines aren't even aware that the prize they're supposedly trying to steal exists, but the British don't know that, and are assuming that territorial defense is required at costs.

It will probably be a very short, rational, and absurdly decisive war. Everyone's been yearning for a chance to try out their latest, next-generation toys and there haven't been any good excuses of late, what with all the annoying happiness, wealth and prosperity that's been springing up lately.

To get out here she's exploited the vanity of the Argentinians. They're about to make exactly the same colossal blunder that has been repeated throughout human history, bringing old tactics to a new situation in the belief that enough honour and determination are timeless verities and can be used to plaster over the technical gap between themselves and victory. She could tell them, based on every battle ever, that pointy metal things of every kind don't care about your attitude.

But because they want so very much to be validated, while everyone else has been trying to talk over the Brits and get themselves along for the ride, she has been applying to the Argentinians to be allowed to visit and record what will doubtless be a brave and definitive victory. Having a trail of paperwork showing an affinity for South America, a proven history of interest in the ancient ruins and vast monuments of the cultures there, and generally looking hot, has proven effective in getting all the required kickbacks and bribes swiftly out of the way.

Her passport says she's a Merican, makes her out to be a wholesome blonde cheerleader who has gone into some form of freelance reporting, possibly out of a misguided social conscience, keen to visit the more impoverished spots in the world and report whatever is to be reported about their fascinating local culture, while making it look as good as possible on the world stage.

The passport is of course a total fake. There are plenty of incidental ways to make money in the darker corners of the earth, and she gets to wander around a lot, have fun and screw people.

As is the case here, just not in the usual sense. Wandering in and out without setting off a single alarm would teach these guys quite the lesson and probably be worth bonus points. She feels the flytjakottr in her getting ready to come out and play in these stark remote islands.