Hunter's Moon: The Executive Decision
#8 of Hunter's Moon
Author's Notes: Sorry for the cliffhanger. And the title's similarity to a movie of the same name is coincidental.
Disclaimer: Contains scenes not suitable for innocent minds, please leave now if you are under the age of 18. If you are still here, you are one of three things.
1.) You are of suitable age to view this site and its contents.
2.) You just don't give a damn.
3.) You want to be confused.
This story, and others like it, is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real people and places is purely coincidental.
Hunter's Moon: The Executive Decision
Previously, on Hunter's Moon:
The admiral merely nodded his head and turned towards the doors. The two male pilots could contact him on their own good time.
"Come along Cedric. Let's get back to the Neptune" the admiral said softly.
"Yes, sir" his adjutant answered, just as softly. He then moved in step with the admiral and made their way out the double-glazed glass doors.
Outside, they met an entourage that chilled their blood.
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There, arrayed by threes and flanked by an M2 Bradley, were members of the US Army's elite counter-terrorism unit; Delta Force. They were in full combat gear complete with bulletproof helmets and vests.
"Come with us gentlemen" the soldier who was obviously in charge stated.
"You can't do this" Cedric spoke softly, challenging the lower ranked soldier.
The soldier approached with his M4 Masterkey the five yards to his mark. Pressing the rifle/shotgun combination against the naval officer's chest, he breathed "You and your kind are not welcome here. Toss your weapons and put your hands in the air"
When both officers delayed, the soldier repeated his statement in a firmer tone of voice. "Either get your hands up or be searched. DO IT NOW!"
Wincing from the soldier's vocal volume, both officers placed their hands in the air. They were pressed up against the wall of the hospital. The brick and mortar edifice stood as a silent witness to their predicament.
"Spread your legs!" another soldier holding a SPAS-12 shotgun ordered. Both naval officers did as told. Additional personnel searched the two officers for any concealed weapons. The 9mm Browning Hi-Power from both of their holsters were removed and unloaded. One of the agents found the outline of a knife and removed it as well.
"UP, get in the cars" the soldier ordered, malice evident in his tone.
The bewildered officers were placed in irons and led to a convoy of Humvees. The two were separated and placed in different cars. Admiral Steward went in the third vehicle. Cedric entered the eighth. Hoods were placed on both their heads.
Both Lycan officers heard the car doors slam. A single thought was running through both their minds.
What happens now?
For the admiral, this was unthinkable. Arresting a naval officer, let alone one belonging to an allied nation, would signify a breach of both protocol and alliance. The United Kingdom would not stand for this madness! Not twice within the span of a few months!
Cedric was more preoccupied on focusing where they were headed via the sounds around him.
The vehicles bearing the two suspects began moving forward. With their strobe lights flashing, they cleared a path all the way to the airport. There was no opposition against their movement through the crowded Annapolis streets. It may have been rush hour, but traffic officers cleared the route for the convoys to pass.
Master Sergeant Buck rode in the lead Humvee. He was thinking that the arrest of both "Lycans" was too easy. They had not put up a fight nor protested. They merely went with the arresting agents without a qualm.
Lord, help him if the arrests turned out to be false. The charges brought against him would be enormous.
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09.35 hours Central time
August 2nd 2016
Task Force Lycan HQ
Schneider Air Force Base
Commandant's Office
Brigadier General Stephen "Sage" Sawyer
"Sir, I'm begging you. We must retaliate. ISR says that the chopper with Rush, Odin and Soap went down over the Chesapeake. We cannot stand idly by as the President destroys the unit piecemeal" Lieutenant Stu McMahon urged Sage. The sergeant was promoted based on his actions at Alert.
"Not until I get confirmation that it was a mistake. I am not one to blindly run around screaming 'Fire!' when there is none to begin with. We wait for the President to inform us on what happened and that is final!" Sage answered.
White watched the proceedings with detachment. He was still in shock over the President's actions. Subsequently, he was wondering if the Lycaon batch should be field-tested over Washington DC. A stern dressing-down from Sage changed his mind. Under no circumstances are they to drop the aerosolized version of the original test serum on a civilian populated area. Sage brooked no argument over that point.
How about a military target? White had thought.
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Earlier...
07.05 hours CST
August 2nd 2016
Task Force Lycan Headquarters
Schneider Air Force Base
Officer's Mess
"Sir, I'm sorry for waking you up. I just had to inform you of the latest development in the White House" White informed General Sawyer.
"Pray tell, did it involve destroying your door AND the biometric reader to my room?" Sage bit back. He was not a morning person and it showed. Even with all his years in the Armed Forces, he still hated mornings. Mornings always brought him problems.
"Our contact in the White House informed me by telephone that the President destroyed the treaty that has kept the peace ever since the nation was birthed. What do we do when he orders an attack on this very installation?" White pressed, fear mounting within.
"Did he use a secure line?" Sage had answered. When the reply was in the negative, Sage had only shaken his head. If the line was not secure, what of the ever-present wiretaps? The line heading to Schneider was secure, no doubt about that. The other end would not have been. The code itself was a creation of White's. Sage had no control over the ciphers.
"Sir, we must strike back! Anubis would have wanted..." White kept pressuring his commanding officer.
"Anubis would have wanted you to stand down! This conversation is over. It NEVER happened. Are we clear?" Sage finally shouted out.
When there was no reply, Sage repeated himself "I said, 'Are we clear?'".
"Crystal" White responded, dejected at the remark.
That was the end of their conversation. At least for the meantime.
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BBBRRRIIIINNNGGGG!
"Answer that bloody phone!" an agent yelled to the nearly-empty office.
BBBRRRIIINNN.... "Hello, this is Vauxhall on Thames. How may we direct your call?" a secretary answered the phone.
"This is Deputy Director of Intelligence Bradford. I need to speak with the Minister" the caller on the other end identifying himself as the DDI of the CIA.
"One moment please" the secretary told her caller, placing him on hold momentarily before redirecting him on her switchboard.
A few clicks and hisses on the line meant the caller was being redirected.
"Director Bradford, are you well? You never call me anymore" went the well-rehearsed baritone of Minister Marvin K. Cod. At 47, he was the youngest director of MI-5. As head of British Intelligence, he was the barrier to all foreign dangers. He was also on the speed dial of the Prime Minister at 10 Downing.
"Listen, Marv. This is not a personal call. Within the next hour or so, the National Security Adviser for President Daniels will call. I want you to stall him" he heard Director Bradford say over the phone.
"Whatever for? I thought the NSA fellow and you were on the best of terms?" Minister Cod chatted, sipping at his cup of tea. What Bradford said next made him spew his tea.
"It's about the treaty. The President tore it up. He wants nothing to do with Lycans. Friendly or otherwise. In his eyes, we are all the same. Enemies of man" the director spat out his last words with malice.
"I'll see what I can do Lloyd. Not much can be won by tearing apart a treaty that has held sway for two millennia. You Yanks, were one of the last to sign. With this out in the open, Europe will split down its center. Still can't tell you what the Russians will do, though" Cod informed his very distressed counterpart.
"See to it. Place your SAS boys on alert. An attack might be imminent. And ... thanks for the comfort Marv" Bradford told his British ally before hanging up.
"What do you mean an attack is imminent?" Cod breathed to the room. The spewed tea was starting to seep into the carpet. Nevertheless, Cod heeded the warning. He had to make two phone calls before he would feel satisfied enough to calm down.
The clock above the fireplace read 12.05 pm.
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Across the Atlantic, a very different atmosphere was prevailing.
In the White House, President Daniels had called for an emergency meeting with his top advisers. Noticeably absent were the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense. Present were the CIA and NSA directors, FBI director, Secretary of State Rose Simmons, and the ultrahawk Major General Robert B. Abrams of the Marines' Force Reconnaissance.
They were currently in the White House bunker, trying out different military options for the Lycan "extermination". Upon being informed by the President that members of Task Force Lycan had attempted an assassination attempt, Abrams and the FBI director wanted heads to roll.
"Mr. President, I suggest we strike while the iron is hot. I say we bomb Schneider back into the STONE AGE!" Major General Abrams demanded, pounding the table. Within military and political circles, the ultrahawk Abrams was compared to a rabid, attack dog. Always wanting to do the most damage with the maximum amount of pain and suffering.
"Mr. President, if I may be so bold?" the CIA director interrupted.
"Go ahead Charles" the President responded.
"Mr. President, what I am going to pass out is highly confidential files that cannot leave this room" the CIA director announced, passing out manila envelopes that were almost ready to burst.
"What is this crap?" Abrams countered, barely glancing at years' worth of intelligence.
"This," opening his own envelope, "is Schneider Air Force Base. This picture was taken by one of our SOSUS operating systems the very day of the bombing. If you look closely gentlemen and lady, there are fortifications that make an all-out attack unfeasible".
The good director pointed out several crate-like objects. "These are what we assume to be surface-to-air missile launchers. And this," pointing to another suspicious object, "are gun emplacements and trenches". "As you can see by these photographs over the following days and months, they are preparing for a war. What kind of war, we don't know yet" the director continued.
"C-130s and C-5s have been arriving with the regular supplies on a weekly basis."
"There is nothing wrong with that, director. Get to the point" General Abrams butted in.
"Well, that is true. However, we recently acquired one of their transport manifests" he said, producing it out of his envelope. "What we found was, truly disturbing to say the least"
Quirking an eyebrow, the President gestured for the intelligence chief to continue.
"They have been shipping lyophilization units and empty canisters, such as those we use for chemical shells. Not to mention, a large number of generators and liquid nitrogen cooled freezers"
"Biological weapons?" Secretary Simmons asked.
"We're not sure. Our informant disappeared after he leaked the manifest. We have not heard from him since" the director finished, looking down at the floor.
In truth, it was not just one informant. He had sent a dozen of his finest agents into Schneider to go look for hard evidence. Only one procured damning proof, only to vanish the moment he handed it over to the field office in Las Vegas. Director Brunning had received photographs from "a friend" containing what had happened to the missing agents. Almost all of them had linked up with the Lycan forces. The one who had leaked the manifest was killed. The body was never found. The director assumed that the agent, his son, was exposed, killed and eaten. The other option was too hard to comprehend.
"Assuming they have bio-weapons, which is not at all farfetched, can we stop them from unleashing these on a civilian population?" President Daniels inquired.
"Unless we know what weapon they possess, there is no way of knowing how to counter it"
"How about we hand them an ultimatum?" Secretary Fitzgerald wondered aloud. When everyone turned to him, he continued talking. "Since the United States Government does not negotiate with terrorists..."
"Damn right, we don't" Abrams butted in once more.
"...it is only fitting to show them we mean business. Who is the commander of the task force? Colonel Schumann?"
"The colonel was killed in a singular holocaust that Secretary Simmons caused in Canada" a new voice ventured, his voice coming from behind the President's chair.
All heads turned to the newcomer. Standing at seven feet and one inch was Hotel Six, otherwise known as 1st Lieutenant Harvey Lupe. The SAS officer had been present during the attempt to kill the members of the task force in one fell swoop.
"Since my friend was killed in Canada, all members of the task force know of the price on her head" gesturing towards the lone female in the room.
"You're bluffing and you know it" Rose spoke haughtily.
"Am I?" Lupe countered.
The Lycan officer began his transformation in front of them to prove his point. His face formed into a muzzle, complete with canine teeth. The round, human ears underwent reshaping into the familiar, triangular canine ears. Muscles bulged outwards, tearing the soldier's uniform. The hands acquired leathery pads as the skin hypertrophied. The once slender fingers thickened and the round, human nails sharpened into points. A tail tore its way through the seat of the soldier's pants and hung straight down. Dense, reddish-brown fur covered every exposed dorsal area; cream-colored fur covered the soldier's chest, abdomen and ears excluding the lower body.
They noticed that the werewolf was barefoot and that his feet were already digitigrade. He had also intentionally kept his pants on. His stance meant that he was primed to attack.
Howling to herald the end of his transformation, the wolf turned to them.
"Who needs the moon when you can transform at will?" he grinned at them, through his dagger-like teeth.
"..."
"Don't bother calling for agents. I took care of them first. Check, oh, Cameras 3 and 7. I left them a gift"
"Mr. President, you have to come take a look at this!" NSA Director Ramos gasped out in shock.
"ONSCREEN!"
On both monitors, they noticed that the coterie of agents at the entrance of the bunker and at the elevator was writhing on the ground. Before their very eyes, the human features began to morph into the likenesses of the Family Canidae. A good majority of the agents were in various states of undress, though they couldn't tell, at first, if it was the transformation or the temperature inside the area. The temperature gauge read 101 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the fever level for a human.
The agents were clawing at their exposed skin, scratching it away. The skin resembled dry paper as it cascaded towards the ground. Their fingers looked similar to the Lycan in front of them. Sharp and deadly. A thick covering of fur was laid bare before the cameras as muscles bulged on the bodies of the transforming agents. The smattering of color combinations made one of the directors turn green and Abrams turned white.
Even more startling, at least three of the agents were sporting hard-ons and were not ashamed to hide it. Grabbing their aroused meat, the agents started masturbating. As they did so, the observers noticed that an anatomical anomaly was making its presence felt. The exposed human flesh started to bulge at the base, forming the beginnings of a knot. With each stroke, the mushroom heads got more and more tapered. The look of bliss on their faces was unmistakable. They were enjoying it!
They sped up their own transformations by stroking their tools until they blew the last of their human load. The white semen from the canine rods seemed to flow forever. Finally, the seminal river tapered off as engorged scrotal sacs held testicles the size of goose eggs. These three cupped their testicles and massaged the loose skin. Within seconds, they let loose another burst of semen. The musk in the air was starting to affect the other lycanthropes.
Showing erect canine phalluses, a few of the newly-born Lycans hastened the transformation of their "brothers" by fucking their human brains out. With long tongues lolling out of their mouths, the mounted lycanthropes pushed back onto their "assistants" with equal ferocity to the one performing the act.
Within five minutes, it was all over. Those who had fought the transformation, in the vain hope of rescue, were overwhelmed by those who had accepted and wished to further the Lycan cause. The room was literally bathed in Lycan semen and musk. No human could cross that threshold without succumbing.
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"I will not settle for this debauchery! Change them back!" President Daniels shouted at Lupe.
"That is not what my brothers want. I cannot force them to do what they hate" Lupe answered with a straight face.
"You will do so now. Or it's a bullet to your smug, Lycan face" Secretary Fitzgerald challenged, his Desert Eagle out of its holster and aimed at Lupe.
"If you can pull the trigger before I lunge at you, you can do the honors of killing me. Otherwise, I could just bite you and come back for you after a month. What do you think of that?" Lupe grinned toothily.
It proved to be a very big mistake on his part.
Fitzgerald was a member of the Army's sharpshooter team. He could hit a housefly at 100 yards, no small feat for a human.
Secretary Fitzgerald squeezed the trigger and fired three rounds into the smirking Lycan. The heavy slugs dropping the Lycan like a sack of bricks.
Lupe clutched at his chest. The bullets were not the lead and copper casings he was led to believe. The burning in his chest meant that the secretary had loaded silver rounds. Panting heavily, he struggled to get to his feet. A pair of combat boots appeared in his field of vision and kicked him hard in the ribs. The addition of more pain proved to be too much to the wounded Lycan, who soon succumbed to his injuries.
Fitzgerald was moving on automatic. Years handling Black Ops missions had hardened his heart and emotions, or so he thought. The Lycan he had just shot was very much in pain from the silver slugs embedded somewhere within the body. Still, he had only wanted to shoot the werewolf in the leg or arm. He did not mean for the bullets to strike dead center.
It felt like something died inside the Cabinet Secretary. He was nearly overcome with grief and anger at what he had done. If he only had the power to turn back the clock, he would have just taken the shot at the legs. He was just a man, and mortal men do not possess the capability to rewind time. He would just have to live with his actions.
Abrams kicked the corpse one last time before clapping a hand on Fitzgerald. "Nice kill, sir. Never knew you had it in you to kill them at this range".
Fitzgerald dropped his pistol and stared at his hands. He could imagine the bloodstain on his immaculate hands. When Abrams had clapped him on the back, it brought him back to reality. "You don't fucking own me. Nobody owns me but me!" Turning around, Fitzgerald left the conference room and made his way back to the elevators; Lycans be damned!
When Fitzgerald left in a huff, no one wanted to follow. There was a rumor that persisted that Fitzgerald had killed one of his own squad mates when the guy got in his way. Even with a total lack of evidence to support the rumor, nobody was able to approach Fitzgerald and calm him down. Nobody that is, except the dead Secretary Jackson.
Fitzgerald input his access code into the keypad at the airlock connecting the inner bunker with the outer part. When the heavy metal door swung open, he got another shock.
There, completely untouched, were the Secret Service agents. Not one of them was sporting fur, claws or fangs. They all looked, for all intents and purposes, normal. It was a surreal experience for him. Without a backwards glance, he strode towards the elevator lobby.
"Sir, are you alright?" one of the agents asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
"I'm fine" Fitzgerald replied brusquely. Inwardly, the human's mind was racing. If the agents were all human, who or what was lying down on the carpet back in the bunker?
DING!
The elevator sounded as its reinforced steel doors opened. Inside, a white winged wolf bared his teeth.
"Hello, Mr. Secretary. Going my way?" it said.
Fitzgerald felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. The winged monster lunged at him just as he brought up his spare pistol. With the creature's incisors just inches from his face, Fitzgerald unloaded the four rounds of .45 ACP point-blank. The ejected slugs were not being removed fast enough, in his opinion. When the gun suffered a stovepipe jam, time began to flow normally once more.
In a shower of blood, spittle and brain tissue; the four slugs tore through the winged wolf's gaping maw and forehead. The wolf collapsed against the inner walls of the elevator, amazingly still breathing. Before the human's disbelieving eyes, the Lycan fixed his eyes (well, one eye) on him. Slowly, bone and teeth started to reform. Arteries, nerves and veins began regenerating from the nearest tissue fibroblasts. The splintered ocular orbit, through which Fitzgerald could see the elevator's inner wall, reset and another blue eye, identical to the other, came into being.
Fitzgerald could feel the heat from the shattered face. Even more evident was the vengeance that the glacier blue eye emanated. As the face started to reform, he moved to reload his pistol. The moment that the empty clip was halfway out, he had almost slammed the new one in. He fumbled a bit when the muzzle had regenerated. Fitzgerald did not get a second chance.
In one swift motion, Nex had pulled himself from his sprawled state and lunged at the dumbstruck secretary. Due to such violent action, the pistol was sent flying from the secretary's hand. Pinning the human down, he tore into the expensive three piece suit Fitzgerald had the bad luck to wear today. Rending clothing from the human's body, he bit down on the Cabinet Secretary's collar bone with bone-crushing force. The screams were music to his blood-drunk ears. Pulling out to lick the dripping blood, he marveled at the man in front of him. The human was still attempting to resist, feebly punching at the wolf's sides as his life-blood ebbed away.
Feeling merciful, he decided to end it quickly. The prey was no longer amusing to hunt.
He went for the beating heart in the man's chest. Quickly slashing his claws at the downed human's chest, he saw no blood well up from what should have been a fatal strike.
Stopping him from ripping open the human's chest was a Type IV Kevlar vest with porcelain plate, as that issued to front-line units. It was designed to stop a 5.56 mm round fired from 100 meters. It would also stop the claws of "normal" Lycan units from touching flesh. There was nothing normal about this winged canine.
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Fitzgerald lay on the ground, gasping for breath. He had not expected the regeneration to proceed as quickly as it did. Classical literature held that a werewolf would die if it lost its head. Literature was incorrect this time. The werewolf did not die, instead he had struck back and mortally wounded the hunter. It was only a matter of time before he ran out of blood.
With every breath, he could feel death drawing ever closer. As his son had explained once upon a time, "if the body loses over a quarter of blood, hypovolemic shock is expected. An immediate transfusion and stoppage of bleeding is the only remedy".
Summoning what remained of his strength and his courage, Fitzgerald tried to initiate a conversation with the wolf on his abdomen.
"Kill me quickly. Or is it youth that makes you stay your hand of death?" Fitzgerald said, trying to rile up the wolf.
"I am not young. It just seems such a waste that your life will end by my hand" Nex replied.
"Little whelp, you can't kill me because someone forbid you to do so!" Fitzgerald responded weakly, his death was at hand unless he received a transfusion. Already, he could feel a chill spread from his limbs.
"No human has forbidden me from attacking you. However, nothing was said of me turning you" Nex replied with a soft smile, contrasting sharply with the blood on his canine muzzle.
"I'd rather die than become one of your thralls" Fitzgerald answered, fighting off a shiver. The wolf did something unexpected. Using his sharp canines, he tore the skin from his wrist and allowed blood to flow.
"Drink, and you may still live to fight another day" Nex offered his cut wrist for the secretary to swallow the Lycan's dripping blood.
Fitzgerald was too weak now to even refuse. He simply closed his eyes and waited for the cold to envelope him.
Nex saw his chance when the secretary closed his eyes. Positioning his wrist over the man's mouth, he bit into the radial artery and allowed his own blood to drip into the orifice. Within moments of the infusion, Fitzgerald's eyes opened.
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Fitzgerald found himself asking the question "Where am I?" when he saw the tableau laid before him. In front of the secretary, lines led to a set of golden gates. The line he was in moved swiftly and he soon found himself confronting Saint Peter with his Book of Life. Ahead of him, a woman was arguing with the saint to be allowed beyond the gates. The saint shook his head sadly and sent the woman away.
Saint Peter closed the book the moment Fitzgerald approached. The first Pope and the only one entrusted with the keys to the Gate, got down from his table to talk with the newly-deceased.
"It is not your time" St. Peter assured Fitzgerald. When pressed for more, Peter began "It is not for us to question God's will. You have to go back and accept the burden".
"Burden?" Fitzgerald mouthed aloud.
"Yes, you will become one of the Lycans. It is your choice how you wish to carry it. War is over the horizon. I was told to give you this" the saint continued, handing a golden sword to Fitzgerald.
When Fitzgerald looked about to refuse, the saint pressed the weapon into his hands. The moment the saint did so, Fitzgerald felt like he was hurled earthwards by an unseen force.
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Fitzgerald opened his eyes and gave a startled gasp. One minute he was outside the Pearly Gates, the next he was back on the concrete floor. Moving into a sitting position, the former human was wracked with immense pain. As he was about to lie down again on the bloodstained surface, a pair of strong arms picked him up and held him close.
It was Nex. He had assumed that the blood infusion was a classic case of too little, too late. So it was to his surprise that Fitzgerald even opened his eyes. When the convert (?) had sat up, Nex noticed the immense pain on his face and scooped him up off the floor. What Herald needed now was rest and Nex knew the perfect place.
Reaching into his tactical vest, he pulled out the transport orb. Placing it between him and his prize, he activated the orb's powers. Seconds after activation, there was a flash of white light. When the flash had cleared, both Nex and Herald were gone.
Mere minutes later, a gaggle of heavily-armed Secret Service agents arrived to survey the scene. They were too late to rescue the Secretary.
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Inside the bunker, the remaining humans just watched the monitors. They were mute witnesses to the attack on Fitzgerald. They rejoiced as the secretary fended off the winged menace with a spare pistol. They sighed as the Secretary was torn into by the winged Lycan. Abrams turned red as he noticed the blood being offered to Fitzgerald and poured down the mouth nonetheless.
All eyes now looked to the President. The final decision was his to make. What would it be?
"It seems that the Lycans have shown their next hand. It is time for us to reveal ours" the President started.
"General," turning to Abrams, "I want you to be in charge of destroying that base of theirs in the desert. Use whatever means necessary. I am not interested in prisoners".
"What of the human personnel on the base? Surely, they had no part in this?" Director Brunning asked.
"Collateral damage" Abrams breathed out. The way the general had said it struck a blow to the heart of the CIA director. It meant he could not ask any prisoner about his son's whereabouts. It also meant that he could never find closure.
"Gentlemen and lady. This meeting is over. I would like to be informed of any developments concerning Schneider. Clear?" President Daniels said, standing up to signify the end of the caucus.
"Yes, Mr. President" all present chorused.
"And get someone to dispose of the dead body!" Daniels threw in for a parting shot.
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Fort Cherokee
1200 hours CST
Colonel Albion Kettering
Commander of SEAL Team 4
"Sir, a message from Panther" one of the operators waved at him. Thanking the airman, the colonel sat down to receive the orders from the Pentagon's Tactical Operations Center.
"Colonel, I just got off the line with the President. He wants you to attack Schneider. Take no prisoners" Panther informed the colonel.
"Sir, what of the human contingent inside the base? They can't be all infected" the colonel replied with deference.
"You have your orders and I have mine. But your words have some merit. Bring back General Sawyer, alive if at all possible. He could still have verifiable intel on the units under his temporary command"
"Sir, I don't understand. Just him?" Colonel Kettering replied with disbelief.
"You have one hour before the President authorizes Warlord to send in other Tier One units to deal with them" Panther replied, referring to the radio callsign of Lieutenant General Robert G. Abrams. The ultrahawk did not take disrespect lightly.
"Roger that. Preparing the gear for the operation now. Get some birds to fly CAS for us. This could get ugly real quick" Colonel Kettering responded, feeling a little green.
"That's affirmative ST-04. Vulture and Lightning are enroute from Vandenberg. Be advised that Hogs are being dispatched as well. You can link up with the AWACS when you're en route to the base. Callsign: Overseer. Panther, out"
"That's a solid 10-4 Panther. Sierra Tango 04, over and out" the colonel said, ending the radio traffic.
Turning to the waiting radio operators, he began issuing a flurry of orders.
"Get Captain Adolf Alexander Charles Isaac Dalton on the horn. Tell him to prepare his unit for immediate action. We move out the moment he gets here!"
"Roberts, contact Fort Henry. Get them to send airborne personnel to Schneider. We'll need their Rangers for this one"
"Carey, give me a patch to NAS Puget Sound. I need to know the whereabouts of SEAL Team 6. Do tell their commander that this is a hostage rescue mission. We will be working together on this one"
"Corporal Dunning, dash down to the armory and radio me back if there are any high explosive rounds for our rifles. I will settle for silver"
"Walker! Grab your gear from your locker. I need your computer genius for this mission. We have to break the locks on their mainframes. Up to the challenge?"
"Well, what are you all staring at me for? Hop to it, that's a direct order!" Colonel Kettering spouted.
"Cherokee to Henry, request assistance on priority level hostage rescue. We need the 101st to rope in on the HVI's location. Do you copy?" Airman Roberts broadcast over the airwaves.
"NAS Puget Sound, what is the status of SEAL Team 6? Have they boarded the USS Alexander yet?"Private First Class Carey Hearthstone transmitted.
"Captain Double A Cid on the horn, sir!" another operator shouted, making himself heard over the din inside the communications center.
"Give it here!" the colonel said, striding over and taking the soldier's seat.
"Sir, what's all the fuss about? I was just sitting down to a buffet lunch" Captain A.A.C.I.D asked over the radio. He was contacted on his mobile phone by a secure patch.
"We're going to clear out the Lycan nest in Schneider. President said that they tried to assassinate him. INSIDE THE BUNKER!" Colonel Kettering replied.
"Hang on sir. Let me finish the prime rib and I'll be there shortly" the captain responded, before hanging up.
"NOW CAPTAIN!" Kettering shouted at the dead line.
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The captain stood up from his meal at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. He was part of the escort for Vice President William Godfrey from the Lone Star State. Making his excuses to the good vice-president, the captain made his way to the parking lot and the vice-president's escort's Bugatti™ sports car. The vice-president had made his aide toss the keys of the high-performance speed interceptor to the SEAL, only imploring him to return it in one piece.
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Back on the base, Kettering received a text message from his ambassador friend. The message read:
+232 455-6789
12.05 pm, 08/02/2016
American Embassy in London
Ambassador Kurt Guldan
Have received news that the director of MI-6 has been assassinated. Security at the embassy has trebled. Any advice on securing the facility? We had a car bomb go off near the Thames office of MI-6. Appears to be biological in nature. HAZMAT teams are already trying to contain the aftermath. I will update you as the situation develops.
*End message*
'Now what? Could this actually be related to the attack on Schneider or just a coincidence?' the colonel thought, his blood chilling if the two events were somehow linked. If it were, he would need to take out the base and all inside.
No exceptions.
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12.15 GMT
Vauxhall on Thames Office
MI-5 HQ
Director for Science and Weapons Development Dr. Alfred T. Curryham, MD
"Have we identified the biological agent used in the attack?" he asked one of the staff at St. Mary's Hospital via phone patch.
"Not yet, sir. It's not matching with known biological agents. Anthrax, smallpox and plague are all negative. Doing an intensive serological work-up now" the staffer replied.
Ground zero of the explosion had destroyed the first two layers of defense at MI-6. A 1998 Volvo sedan was used as a cover for the bio-bomb. A suspect had yet to be identified, since the security office was knocked out by the blast. The only profile came from an eyewitness inside the MI-6 department. It was highly suspect because the staffer in question died within minutes of exposure.
He had bled internally. And such a symptom was ringing alarm bells inside the director's head. There were a couple of viral families which caused such a reaction. An autopsy was being carried out at St. Mary's, but the pathologist at the morgue suggested a filovirus.
The options were not looking good.
Of the Filoviridae family, its members were known to cause bleeding from every available orifice. Ebola Zaire, Sudan and Reston seemed to be the main culprits. Marburg wasn't far behind. However the viruses, if it truly were so, were not airborne. These had to be passed by direct contact with infected tissue. Mortality rate for infection was 97% for the Ebola strains and 85% for the Marburg strain. There was no cure, merely treatment to slow progression. The few survivors were constantly monitored for any viral load.
Putting his head in his hands, the director was placed in a catch-22 situation. Keeping the viruses secret would inspire nasty rumors about the attack on greater London. Disseminating information might cause a widespread panic among the other cities. There was no easy way out of the horrific scenario. Either of the choices made would forever be linked with him.
He needed a third option.
Suddenly, his phone began to ring on the mahogany desk. Picking it up quickly in the middle of the second ring, he was relieved to hear that it was not a filovirus. The next thing he heard over the phone made his heart still.
On the other end, he could distinctly hear the sharp crack of pistol fire. Punctuating the sharp reports of gunfire were screams and shouts. Something was going on, but what?
"Sir, something's happening to the patients. They're ....they're...." the doctor stammered over the phone, not believing his eyes.
"Spit it out! What is going on? Whitehall will be demanding answers!" he had shouted into the receiver.
"The patients. They're werewolves" the doctor said, whispering the last part before the line went dead.
"Michael? MICHAEL!"
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12.15 GMT
Autopsy Room
Morgue
St. Mary's Hospital
Dr. Michael G. Hurribone, MD, CIA Medical Examiner
Chief Pathologist from Johns Hopkins, Baltimore on loan to St. Mary's, London
"Starting incision on the sternum, time is 12.15 GMT" I spoke clearly into the voice recorder I kept with me.
"Patient is a Caucasian with a height of six and a half feet. Blond hair and," prying open one of the eyelids and shining a penlight, "jade-green eyes. He is of medium-build and is aged around 35 years"
"Appears to have suffered from extensive blunt force trauma to head, neck, and abdomen. I can feel parts of the ribs which have separated from the sternum" running my hand along the left side of the chest.
I motioned for a bone saw to cut through the stiff sternum. Even after the shockwave had thrown this unfortunate man three meters from the atrium of his building into a wrought-iron post, the ribcage resisted being opened.
"Opening chest cavity with a miter saw. I..." I had started the blade running only for a hand to shove the saw away. I found myself staring into deep yellow eyes as fine hairs began to cover the cadaver I had attempted to slice open. The human face slowly twisted into the canine muzzle I knew from my trips to Yellowstone. I dropped the saw and ran out the double doors to the nearest phone. The monster roared behind me as I slammed the button on the wall to lock the reinforced steel doors.
It was unfortunate that I had locked my assistant in with the beast. I winced as she screamed, only to be silenced a few moments later. I dashed into the nurse's station five meters from the autopsy room to use the phone, but found the line dead.
I ran up two flights of stairs until I reached the lobby, locking two sets of doors behind me after sending the other staffers upstairs to safety. I pulled out my phone and was relieved to find cellular service. Quickly, I punched the speed dial to the Science Director at MI-5. He wanted an update.
Behind me, I heard a muffled roar as something made its way up the stairs. The grates I closed behind me, seemingly having no effect to the advancing creature.
Three security officers brushed past me with their service side arms drawn. Panicking now, I placed the phone closer to my ear to describe the situation. In the middle of the second ring, I heard Albert's voice. I explained what was going on. In my panicked state, I was stammering so badly.
"It's not a filovirus. I say again, its not a filovirus" I told Dr. Curryham.
"That's good news" I heard Albert reply over the phone.
"It's something novel. Whatever the virus is, its initiating a transformation in the patients!"
"What do you mean, transformation?" I heard Albert reply.
"The patients. They're....they're" I tried to get out as I saw a blood-stained bipedal wolf make its way towards me, blood dripping from his claws. His fur was matted from the blood and he was salivating in a rabid way.
Gunshots rang out from behind me. The bullets impacted on the creature's chest, slowing his advance. The closer he got, the more I wanted to run far, far away. A nurse appeared from around the corner and screamed as she saw the massive wolf. She drew his attention long enough for security officers to open fire once more. Despite suffering some more hits, the wolf just roared a challenge and gutted the hysterical nurse; who had not moved at all.
"Spit it out! What is going on? Whitehall will be demanding answers!" I could hear Albert's anger over the phone.
"The patients. They're werewolves" I managed to get out, before I slid it closed and effectively ending the call.
I saw one of the security staff beckon me over, his weapon drawn. I half-ran, half-slid to his position by one of the waiting benches.
"What are we going to do now? I'm not armed" I informed him.
"Just stay close. My car is parked right outside of the hospital. It's the blue Honda Accord™ with the custom decal" he told me, handing me the keys. "When I say run, run out to the car. I'll cover you. Got it, Yank?"
"I ... I think so, yeah" I told him.
"Good, on three" he replied. One of his colleagues kept shooting at the man-beast until he ran out of bullets. Grabbing one of the ballpoint pens from a dead intern, he charged the wolf foolishly. I watched in horror as the wolf grabbed him and tore into his shoulder, leaving the officer to bleed on the ground.
"God, William can be so stupid sometimes" I heard the security man swear under his breath.
"How many magazines left?" I asked, feeling stupid all the while. I'm a doctor, for crying out loud, not a field agent!
"Just one spare. I have around four or five bullets left in the pistol" he answered, gripping the pistol so tight the knuckles on his left hand turned white.
"One, two, three! Run doc, run!" he shouted at me, drawing the beast's ire as he let loose with a couple of rounds.
I ran out the sliding doors and flipped over the railing. I flailed my arms and landed with my back on the geraniums planted with the hospital's name on the lawn. The soft soil cushioned my fall, along with a few crushed flowers, staining my white gown. Shedding my gown, I got up and saw my escort reload his pistol. He glanced at me and mouthed the word "GO!" before a clawed hand lifted him up and hurled him through the plate glass doors, shattering them.
Getting to my feet, I spied his car nearby and kept fumbling with the keys. I managed to stick it in and heard the lock open. Looking back, I saw the creature break through the glass. The eyes I saw would stay with me forever. They promised death, a slow and painful one.
Seeing movement behind him, I got into the car and started the engine. The engine started without a hitch. I placed the car in reverse and floored the accelerator. The sprightly car jumped the curb and backed into oncoming traffic. A bus honked his horn as I sped past him and away from the deaths at the hospital. I turned the wheel and spun the car around. Pointing it at the nearest open lane, I shifted into gear and sped off.
I sobbed behind the wheel, not paying attention to where I was headed. I was preoccupied with putting distance between me and my attacker that I failed to notice a police car until I rear-ended it. The impact threw me against the safety harness.
When the officers stepped down from their wrecked squad car, they set about extricating me from the ruined Honda. "St. Mary's...werewolf attack....contact MI-5....get Dr. Curryham" I told to one of them before I closed my eyes from exhaustion.
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12.35 GMT
Unit 9
London Metropolitan Police
Sergeant Ricardo Ahrakan and Corporal Vasili Borshevsky
"Once more rookie, when you're approaching the corner and a car runs a red light. What do you do?" the grizzled sergeant asked his young protégé.
"Turn on the blinkers and siren. Then slowly move out into oncoming traffic?" the younger constable said questioningly.
"Good, now take this right and we'll head back to the station. Our practice is almost over and I could use a strong cup of tea with the cucumber sandwiches" the sergeant said hungrily. He had finished the coffee he had packed a little over three hours ago.
"Aren't we supposed to head over to the office building at the Thames riverbank? Heard a car bomb detonated in front of it a while back. Could we go?"
"Nah. I might be placed in a bath because I let you into the lion's den prematurely. You'll get your chance next time" patting his young colleague's back.
"Okay, I'll hold you to it sergeant" the younger man said playfully, making the right-hand turn with pinpoint accuracy.
It was at this point that a speeding Honda slammed into the rear of the vehicle, sending the unbuckled Ricardo into the windscreen. The corporal blanched as he tried to bring his vehicle to a stop. Thankfully, the driver behind them had lifted his foot off the accelerator at the moment of impact. The police unit's Jaguar had been thrown some fifty feet forward onto a crosswalk. It was a miracle that no one was crossing at that instant or they could have been seriously injured from the 2-ton police vehicle.
"Sarge, you proper?" Vasili asked, unbuckling his harness and checking on his superior.
"Motherfucker! What the bloody hell hit us? A BMP?" the sergeant shouted from his position on the dashboard.
Wiping the blood from his forehead with his kerchief, the sergeant winced as he popped his neck back into place. A normal man would have been severely injured by that crash. For once more in his life, he was thankful that he was not a normal man.
"It was a blue Honda. License plate is RAM 09. Rather fitting for a car, da?" the Russian émigré commented.
"Call it in rookie. I'm going to lie down for a bit more" the sergeant mumbled from the passenger side.
"This is Unit 9. We just got rear-ended by a civilian vehicle. License plate is R-A-M 0-9. I need paramedics and a lorry for the wrecked cars. Copy?" Vasili spoke into the two-way with shaking hands, shock still evident.
"10-4, Unit 9. Sending EMT's to your area. How is the driver of the other car?" the dispatcher replied.
"Hold on. Checking now, we got wedged into a tree" Corporal Borshevsky answered painfully, as he tried to open the door. Failing that, he kicked it open and stepped out of the wrecked mobile unit. It was only as he stepped out did he notice that the driver of the other car had slumped over.
Not good, not good. If the driver was slumped, he too could have suffered major injuries from the crash. Making his way over as best as he could, the corporal motioned for oncoming traffic to stop as he limped his way to the other car. Looking inside, he noticed the blue scrub suit worn by the driver. Concluding that it was either a nurse or a doctor, he tapped on the glass window. The man stirred, but appeared in shock as well.
"Control, driver is conscious. He was saved by his harness, will try extricating him from the wreck before it starts to burn. Copy?" the relieved corporal radioed back.
"Careful, Unit 9. He could have spinal injuries. Steady his neck first" the dispatcher replied carefully.
"Need a hand constable?" a new voice joined the fray.
"Sure do, can you steady his head while we get him out of the car?" Vasili requested.
"Okay" the newcomer acquiesced, breaking the rear right passenger's window with his elbow. Once done, he adjusted the chair to lie flat on its back as he got into position.
"Steady James, steady" the newcomer repeated to himself.
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James Newcomen had been browsing at a bookshop opposite the accident site. He had just purchased a book titled: Are There Lycans Among Us? by Henry Moore costing £15.45. When he heard the squeal of tires, he turned his head and witnessed the crash of the blue Honda into a police cruiser.
Reacting from years spent as a combat medic, he told the cashier to hold his book while he dashed outside. Dodging the traffic, he made his way over to the obviously dazed constable and offered aid.
"Need a hand, constable?"
"Sure, can you steady his head while we attempt to get him out?" the constable asked, jiggling one of the car door handles.
Breaking the glass on the rear right passenger side window, he opened the door and lowered the chair slowly.
"Buddy, can you hear me? We're going to get you out of here. Don't worry" he informed the wounded occupant.
Hearing groans in response, he took that to be an affirmative measure. In the backseat, he spied a cervical collar. Quickly shaking off bits of glass, he placed this around the neck of the driver to prevent any more injuries to the cervical vertebrae when the person was moved. Removing his Swiss knife from a pocket in his baggy trousers, he cut away the seat belt.
"Steady James, steady" he uttered to himself, reciting procedures in his head to deal with a suspected spinal injury.
"I could use a hand here. Some help please?" he shouted to the growing crowd of bystanders.
Three bikers from a nearby pub made their way through the crowd and stood around the rescuer.
"What do you need us to do, mate?"
"Lift his feet and slide him to me in the rear seat" James instructed one of the leather-clad bikers.
Nimbly extricating the legs from the smashed control column, the biker kept the legs together and pushed the man towards James.
"Thanks man, could you lower the passenger's seat as well? We could place him in the rear seat until we get him out"
"Sure mate, hang tight" another biker made his way around to the front passenger side window and opened the door. When he had opened the door, the biker pushed the seat down and grabbed the legs of the driver to position him parallel with the headrests in the back seat.
By this time, smoke was beginning to pour out of the engine compartment. The inside of the car started to acquire wisps of smoke. With a sense of urgency, James and the last biker began to slide the driver out of the stricken car.
Sirens could be heard as fire, police and rescue units raced towards the accident site. First to arrive was a 501st EMT unit based at The Mall, opposite the Palace. As the vehicle screeched to a halt, the paramedics jumped out of the ambulance with a gurney.
Three police units from the nearby detachment set up a security cordon around the two vehicles. Officers in their yellow-green reflector vests pushed back the crowd to give the paramedics room to triage the driver.
A fire engine from Piccadilly arrived as its crew came up alongside the smoking engine block. The white smoke that had been billowing out not too long ago was swiftly being replaced with smoke of a darker shade.
The firefighters dismounted from their lorry and began getting equipment to fight the smoldering fire. With practiced efficiency, they went to the nearest hydrant and attached a feeder hose. This hose snaked back to their truck as they opened up the pumps for the hoses they would use to extinguish the fire.
James took no notice of the events unfolding around him. He was focused on the driver as he, and the bikers, carried him to a spot upwind of the now blazing wreck. The driver opened his eyes and focused on one of the constables who was about to take a statement.
"St. Mary's...werewolf attack....contact MI-5....get Dr. Curryham" he told to one of them before he closed his eyes.
"What the hell was that about?" Sergeant Ahrakan asked, his neck painful from popping it back in place.
"Don't know, but someone needs to call up MI-5 anyway" the officer taking the statement informed the sergeant.
Once their task was done, the bikers melted into the crowd. One of their number nodding discreetly towards the medic. James nodded in return. They would see each other again.
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12.45 CST
Las Vegas International Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
Captain A.A.C.I. Dalton
The ride to the airport had taken thirty minutes. With the strobes flashing and siren blaring, he made perfect time towards the airport. The LVPD had already been forewarned of the screaming speed interceptor as it raced on the main thoroughfare towards its date with destiny. Forewarned, the Las Vegas Police Department did not give chase. Forewarned, they also ignored the two USMC Humvees chasing after the Bugatti™.
Behind the speeding Bugatti, two armored Humvees raced to keep up with the 310 mph car. Inside, members of the Tier One Unit (Hammer 01) got ready as they sped towards the C-130J transport plane waiting on the tarmac. They, like their captain, had been rudely torn from a hearty lunch and checked their gear for the umpteenth time.
Captain Dalton had arrived at the airport just as the C-130J touched down and taxied towards an empty hangar. Making a split-second decision, he grabbed the two-way in the car and radioed Hammer squad to meet him at Hangar 5.
Placing the car into gear, he sped after the grey aircraft from the Nevada Air National Guard. When the four-engine turboprop parked in front of the hangar and shut down its engines, he brought the car to a halt. Revving the engine, he reversed into a slot and shut it off. Keeping the keys in his pocket, he figured he'd be back in three hours or so to drive it again.
The twin desert yellow Humvees arrived ten minutes after the Bugatti at 12.55 Central Standard Time. A second C-130J had arrived by this time and began embarking marines as additional reinforcements. Disembarking from the vehicles, Hammer team saluted their commanding officer. They shouldered their rifles as they stood at parade rest.
"Hammer 01, this is Sand Bravo. Do you read?" Fort Cherokee called over the radio frequency.
"I read you five by five Sand Bravo. The team is at Las Vegas International. Preparing to board the Herc for airborne drop, over" Captain Dalton replied.
"Double A-CID, Kettering here. The President is not interested in prisoners. Only General Sawyer is to be brought back alive. Other Tier One units are on their way to assist. Copy?"
"Solid copy, sir. We stop over at Cherokee for refit?" Double A-CID asked.
"That's affirm, I have something here that you might like. Kettering out"
"Copy your last, sir. Hammer 01 over and out" Captain Dalton broadcast.
"Hammer 01, this is Sand Bravo. We have an AWACS with the callsign: Overseer heading to Schneider airspace. Get on board the C-130 and strap yourselves in. Panther will brief you in flight"
"You heard the boss! Get on!" Lieutenant Sonia A. Mercer, or Sam when off-duty, ordered the soldiers to board the aircraft. Both of the Humvees were loaded by the aircrew and secured. The SEALs got onboard and sat in benches lining opposite ends of the aircraft.
Satisfied with the set-up, Captain Dalton sat opposite Sam and gave the thumbs-up to the flight engineer. The engineer nodded his head and spoke into the intercom, "Okay Max, start her up for the trip to Cherokee".
"You got it" the pilot responded, flicking open switches and starting the engines.
The four turboprops began to spin as the engines linked to their driveshafts began to turn. When the pilot was satisfied with the RPMs generated by all four engines, he slowly taxied out. Being the lead aircraft, he would take off ahead of the marines.
"Tower, this is Quebec Romeo Foxtrot 01. Requesting take-off clearance, over" the pilot of the lead aircraft asked the control tower at Las Vegas International.
"Quebec Romeo Foxtrot 01, you are second in line for take-off. Wait for Flight 387 to Honolulu to clear Runway 11 Left. Confirm?" the control tower replied.
"Roger Tower, wait for Flight 387 to clear [runway]"
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13.05 CST
Flight 387
United Airlines
Boeing 777 Dreamliner
"Mommy, look. There's another plane waiting for us to leave" a young boy, not more than 5 years old, squealed to his mother.
"Yes, I'm sure they are. Why don't you buckle up?" the mother said from behind one of the Vogue in-flight magazines.
"But, Mommy! I saw a car enter the plane!" the boy persisted.
"Hush now, Mommy's reading" the mother replied with disinterest. This quieted the boy's outburst, if only for a little while.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts as we prepare for take-off"
In the first-class, business and economy sections, passengers dutifully fastened their seatbelts. The cabin crew placed themselves into their respective chairs. The chief steward phoned the captain via intercom and told him all was ready.
The captain throttled forward and the jet rocked on its landing gear, the brakes holding her steady on the runway. Releasing the brakes, the jet started rolling forward. As they neared the edge of the runway, the pilot pulled on the control column and the jet lifted into the air.
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"Quebec Romeo Foxtrot One, you are now cleared for take-off from Runway 11 Left. Good hunting" the control tower informed the waiting transports.
"That's affirmative, Tower. See you real soon" the pilot replied, activating the rocket-assisted take-off system. Both pilots released the brakes and the combined rocket and turboprop thrust propelled them forward. At a third of a runway that the lumbering jet needed, the first C-130J left the tarmac. It was closely followed by its twin as they departed Las Vegas and banked north towards Cherokee.