Pirate Base Assault
07 Oct 2022MdN
The pirate they called Islay smoked his onionhead while guarding the compound. Guard duty was so dull, no one was going to show up here, not tonight, not ever. He took a deep drag and for a moment his eyes glazed over as the euphoria swept over him.'Maybe this isn't such a good idea,' he thought to himself in a guilty moment that soon passed. He took another drag.
They'd done well this month. A large pile of shipping containers stood next to their living quarters waiting for collection by their usual fence. The base, hidden away in the valley of a crater, was perfect for them to store their ill-gotten gains. Ten desperate criminals making their way in the galaxy, and this month they'd hit pay dirt.
'Just one more pass around the fuel dump,' he told himself, 'then I'll hand over to Robin.' No one was likely to stumble upon the base and no one ever saw them approach it either. Guard duty really was pointless.
He was oblivious to the man half a kilometre away watching him through his scope.
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A rifle lay at the man's side, the scope detached, was resting on the dirt in front of where Jacques-Peter lay. He wore black - all black. A black beanie covered his head, matt black face paint inverted the protrusions of his face. As if that wasn't enough, a black tactical scarf was pulled up over his mouth and nose anyway.
JP, as his colleagues called him, was trained to work in a small team, but rarely did. Today was nothing special, he lay alone in the darkness, a diamondback scout ship was hidden a few clicks away. No one had witnessed his arrival, it was seldom they did.
He would make his move when his prey disappeared behind the fuel tanks; that would hide his movements from prying eyes. For a moment the thought crossed JP's mind that he could take the target with a long shot from this position. It was quickly dismissed - too risky. There was another pirate rocking gently in a hammock strung up between two shipping containers, any unexpected noise might alert him.
No, he would approach closer. It would be more personal that way. And this mission was nothing if not personal.
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The pirate wandered over to the fuel dump, happy to be entertained by the onionhead. He'd have to finish it before Robin appeared, he knew that. The older man frowned upon drug use during guard duty. Something about a rival gang raiding his base years earlier had made Robin overly cautious. There was no need to worry here though, was there?
He rounded the fuel dump and looked over towards his friend swinging in the hammock by their loot. Out the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow.
'What was that,' he turned to look.
A black gloved hand covered his mouth and he felt something sharp slide into his throat and heard a hiss as blood escaped from his neck. Momentary confusion made worse by the onionhead was followed by nothing, just the darkness of death. His dying body was laid carefully and quietly in the shadow of fuel canisters.
He may have seen a shadowy figure leave him and run towards the living quarters, who can tell what the dead witness. He certainly heard nothing and was in no state to raise the alarm.
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Jacques-Peter was not a fan of killing with knives. So messy, he always thought. People complain about sand getting everywhere, but really, blood is much worse. He cleaned his combat knife and sheathed it, a force of habit, but a good one. No self-respecting soldier would be found with a soiled knife.
He unstrapped the assault rifle slung over his back, and ran towards his next target in that ballerina-style gait that made invisible soldiers silent as they moved. The door was lit, but only enough for the guards to see it. He'd closed one eye on the approach so as to retain his night vision, then knelt with his back to the light, gun raised towards the hammock.
It was an easy shot, and with the other eight pirates inside the accommodation block there was no risk of the silenced weapon being heard.
Pop, pop!
Thus ended the second life of JP's evening. 'Too easy,' he thought, 'not at all sporting.'
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The pirate they called Robin checked the time, then stood up from the card table.
"If that lazy junkie is in an onionhead doze, I'll kill him myself," he announced to his fellow poker players. A few grunts followed him towards the door.
'Pirates are all the same,' he thought to himself. 'Lazy, useless trash.' The irony regarding his own position didn't occur to him. It didn't matter, he'd be rid of them all soon enough, another week like the last four and he'd be home free.
As he approached the door he considered his next move. Should he give Islay a roasting for falling asleep on the job? Was it even worth it? He decided it wasn't, he'd just patrol the base himself for a few hours and make sure all was sound. He left the other four to their card game and slipped out quietly, the other three were in their bunks, most likely sleeping.
Stepping through the air lock he noticed the chill nighttime breeze. It had an atmosphere, this little rock, but it was much more pleasant inside. Islay was nowhere to be seen, snoring among the cargo like last time, no doubt.
He heard the airlock slide shut beside him and almost immediately a bright flash surprised him from behind. He wouldn't have noticed his face explode as the bullet ripped open his scull and sprayed brain matter over the sandy ground. He was dead before the quiet pop sound reached his ears. His faceless body stood motionless for a second, then dropped to its knees before collapsing in an undignified heap a metre or so away from his brain.
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'Three down,' Jacques-Peter kept a mental count.
The next part would be dangerous. Entering a room of hostiles was tricky business. More so when the position of those hostiles was unknown.
Only three rounds were used from his thirty round magazine, but JP switched it for a fresh one anyway. There was no point taking the risk. Next he checked the P-15 strapped to his hip. Reliable as the assault rifle was, blockages do happen, and his trusty P-15 had saved his day more than once. Finally he took two grenades from his hip, then put them back, satisfied they wouldn't snag on anything should they be needed.
He turned to the door, took a deep breath, then pushed the button marked 'Open'.
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"Hey Islay, you want dealing in man? We're just starting a new hand." None of the card players looked up from the table.
Pop, pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Jacques-Peter cursed as one of the pirates dived for the floor. Two head shots and halved his adversaries immediately. A third now had three holes in his torso as he stood in alarm. The fourth was fumbling out of sight having dived behind the table. JP dropped to one knee, the table obstructed his view no more.
He heard shouting from the bunks down the corridor - they would wait.
Wide eyes of fear stared back at him through over turned chairs. JP wondered if these animals had seen the same fear in the girl's eyes before murdering her. This man was no immediate threat, he let the fear percolate in those eyes.
Footsteps were heading closer, time to move.
Pop-pop-pop.
'Number seven, dispatched,' he updated his count to include the last one under the table. Those terrified eyes stayed wide even in death. Then JP turned to the footsteps running along the corridor.
It always struck him as odd, how footsteps ran towards him in these situations. It was as if whoever they belonged to thought they could help their fallen comrades. Or maybe they just wanted to end their lives quicker.
He unclipped a grenade and rolled it around the corner towards the commotion. Hopefully there would be enough bits left over for a body count.
"Nooooo!" two voices, he counted, before a brief deep boom rocked the building. The pressurised air made a whooshing sound as it rushed through the punctured accommodation block to equalise with the weaker atmosphere outside.
As the smoke cleared JP quickly scouted the corridor. As suspected, two bodies had been ripped apart and lay scattered in pieces. He kicked one detached arm out of his way, raised his assault rifle towards the bunks, and stalked his final victim. Senses on high alert.
Behind him he sensed a shuffle. He spun round while dropping to the floor, rifle searching for anything that moved. By the door a younger man, probably a teenager, punching buttons on the exit door panel. In his panic he lashed out wildly at any button, turning round to stare at JP regularly. Tears streamed down his face as his jaw wobbled in fright.
It seemed cruel to Jacques-Peter to leave the boy in such a state.
Pop-pop, pop-pop, pop.
Two controlled double taps ended his suffering. An extra round sent him on his way to the afterlife.
The airlock door slid open behind him, his body fell through it into the night time air.
JP walked up to the airlock and examined the boy's face as it stared up at the stars. Yes, this was the one caught on the security feed. The one holding a knife to the girl's throat while taking her from behind. JP raised a boot and stamped down hard between the body's legs. He felt something crunch beneath his foot.
Carelessly he lowered the assault rifle and squeezed the trigger again.
Pop-pop.
"Such a pretty boy now," he said as the scull bounced on the floor with the force of impact. No one would recognise him from security tapes now. He stamped on what remained of the scull as he walked out of the building.
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And with that the mission was over. Just a long walk back to the sidewinder, but that could wait until the star broke over the horizon. Jacques-Peter marched over to the hammock, rolled its occupant to the floor with a thud, then climbed in.
He was asleep before he could update the body count in his head.