Pig on the Wing
10th November 2004, 02:28 PM
Okay, seeing as Mystic Thief (http://www.pokemasters.net/forums/showthread.php?t=31972) isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and because I want to write something else, I'm posting this. So, er, enjoy I guess. Btw, if the title give away what it's all about, chances are this isn't for you.
Er, just a quick warning before hand too, there will be parts not suitable for some people later on, so keep the kiddies away. And now, without further ado...
War On Terror
Chapter 1
The room was massive. There was an intricately carved oak door on the wall. Opposite this wall was a massive window that covered the entire distance of the wall, the pane split into smaller squares by thin beams of white wood. Along both walls at the side of the office, two massive bookshelves stood against each wall, totalling four bookshelves in all, all of them brimming with books. Next to the book shelves on the left side of the wall was a large water cooler, and next to that was a bin. On the floor next to the bookshelves on the opposite side of the room was a large paper shredder. In front of the window was a large desk. A wedge of wood, with a gold placard with the occupant of the room’s name, a small golden falcon figure, and numerous bits of paper, all stacked into several small stacks. There was a black phone in the centre.
On either side of the door leading in and out of the room, stood two tall, white men. Both men wore suits, had perfectly polished black shoes, sunglasses and an earpiece in one of their ears.
The desk had two chairs on either side of it. One chair was occupied by a small, fat black man. He wore a beige suit, and also had sunglasses and polished shoes. He had a beige hat on that matched his suit.
The other chair was empty. The man who probably usually occupied it was standing by the window staring out onto the green courtyards below him, the many police patrols going around the building, the American flag flying high and proud on its golden flag pole. The man sighed slowly and turned round.
His hair was grey, his eyes a lifeless brown. He too wore a suit, had polished black shoes, but unlike the others he was not wearing any glasses. His face on the whole resembled that of a chimpanzee.
“I don’t want this,” George Bush sighed as he faced the fat man in the chair. The man smiled and chuckled a wheezy laugh, flashing his yellowy teeth in the process.
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice,” he said. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and two clicks were heard as the two men by the door whipped out a revolver each, and loaded them in a flash. The man spun round on the swivel chair.
“No need for dat now, is dere boys?” he said, pulling a cigar out of his pocket, producing a lighter from another of his pockets and sparking it up, before putting the lighter away. He took a deep puff and the smoke circled around him.
“Well Mr. President?” he said slowly. Bush’s face crinkled up as he thought hard about it.
“I don’t know. The war in Iraq’s risky enough as it is, to go after the Russians as well… it’ll only make things worse,” he said after a while. The black man took a few more puffs of his cigar, before he said his next words.
“It’s war. And it’s contributing to the war on terrorism. Russian extremists are no different to Iraqi extremists, Muslim extremists and so on and so forth.”
Bush sighed and faced the window again. “You’ve won me,” he said, “Yes, go ahead with it.”
“Pleasure doin’ business wid ya,” the man smiled, and shifted out of the chair, turning and allowing one of the bodyguards to escort him out of the building.
“Are you sure you made the right decision?” the remaining bodyguard asked after the door had been shut.
“No,” Bush replied. He sat down on the chair that had been empty the whole time and picked up the receiver of the phone. He waited a few seconds before putting it down again.
“What?” the bodyguard asked.
“No, nothing,” Bush said, staring absent mindedly at the phone. “Tony doesn’t need to know.”
~
An explosion caused a carpet of dust of sand to billow up, obscuring most of the troops. The seventeen troops spread out in a wide fan position, and all began to fire their AK-47’s relentlessly, pausing only briefly to reload.
“We’ll get some this time!” one screamed down the microphone around his neck.
The gunfire was soon returned though; bullets shot out of the dust into Fallujah, and bullets shot out of Fallujah into the dust and sand. More sand and dust was thrown up as the bullets peppered the ground, but miraculously the troops remained unharmed.
The seventeen were clad in black combat gear, with black helmets, which contained clear visors, an earphone and a microphone. They were all armed with AK-47’s and plenty of ammo as well as five grenades each. They were the Elite Unit, only used in the most difficult of circumstances were absolutely necessary.
Underneath their black combat gear, they wore thick bullet proof vests, and strapped round their waists was a first aid kit, containing the bare essentials.
Since Saddam was knocked from power, the American troops and Iraqi rebels had battled it out over Fallujah, the Iraqi’s managing to hold their own ground every time. So the Elite Unit had been sent in to finish the job.
The Elite Unit consisted of more than just the 17 men currently there. 50 of them were inside Fallujah, working under cover, bringing the rebels down from the inside, anyway possible. And back at the US camps, hackers worked hard to break into Iraqi police computers, trying to find strategic places to be, and where the rebels were attacking, or possibly planning on attacking.
“You know there are still about 500 rebels still in there?” shouted one of the Elite’s through his radio.
“Yeah,” another shouted back, “But getting it from 1500 down to 500 in three days ain’t exactly bad, is it?”
“Hit the decks!” a voice screamed frantically, and the silhouettes of 17 people diving to the ground could just be seen through the mass screening of sand and dust.
A few seconds later, a rocket shot out of Fallujah, and powered its way through where some of the troops had been. It carried on going till it was out of sight, but the explosion was heard; it had hit an American tank.
The Elite Unit had been sent forth to try and take out as many rebels as possible and clear out as much of Fallujah. Most of rebels had been killed by inside-men and now only a few remained, and although heavily outnumbered and outgunned, the Elite’s were fully capable of clearing Fallujah out completely. Not far behind the Elite’s was the bulk of American force into Fallujah.
Silence followed. The sand and dust settled, revealing seven black clothed Americans lying in the dirt, covered in sand.
One inched slowly forward. He moved so slowly it looked as though he wasn’t moving at all, but he inched closer and closer to boundaries of Fallujah, were buildings stood, most only remains of buildings, all the rest severely damaged.
“What’re you doing?” hissed one of Elite through his radio.
“I’ve seen some,” the man creeping forward whispered back, without moving his lips. He eventually was only a tiny distance from the buildings. He rolled forward, leapt onto his feet and sprinted forward, diving, rolling, and eventually coming to a kneeling position with his back against a building. Machine gun fire peppered the ground, following him, until he couldn’t be reached.
The man pulled a grenade from one of his many uniform pockets, and pulled the pin out with his teeth. Without hesitating, he ran out from where he was and spun round, hurling the grenade with perfect accuracy through the space where a window once was on the building he’d been leaning against, about the third floor up, on the right.
The man was instantly gunned down by machine guns, but a few seconds later his grenade exploded. The whole room it had been in was obscured briefly by a massive orange flame, and then by smoke that drifted out of the window. The 16 remaining members of the Elite Unit took a moment to mourn the loss of one of their men, before leaping up and sprinting back to join the bulk of the American forces.
~
“There’s not much left to do is there?” Tony Blair said to John Prescott. The fat man raised his sluggish head and stared at Blair.
“So we’re pulling out?” he said, his dull face almost smiling. Almost.
“Oh heavens no,” Blair said, and the slight facial expression on Prescott’s face disappeared. “We’re pouring everything we’ve got into it. Forget the health budget, the education; the police forces… forget them all. We’re going in, all out.”
Er, just a quick warning before hand too, there will be parts not suitable for some people later on, so keep the kiddies away. And now, without further ado...
War On Terror
Chapter 1
The room was massive. There was an intricately carved oak door on the wall. Opposite this wall was a massive window that covered the entire distance of the wall, the pane split into smaller squares by thin beams of white wood. Along both walls at the side of the office, two massive bookshelves stood against each wall, totalling four bookshelves in all, all of them brimming with books. Next to the book shelves on the left side of the wall was a large water cooler, and next to that was a bin. On the floor next to the bookshelves on the opposite side of the room was a large paper shredder. In front of the window was a large desk. A wedge of wood, with a gold placard with the occupant of the room’s name, a small golden falcon figure, and numerous bits of paper, all stacked into several small stacks. There was a black phone in the centre.
On either side of the door leading in and out of the room, stood two tall, white men. Both men wore suits, had perfectly polished black shoes, sunglasses and an earpiece in one of their ears.
The desk had two chairs on either side of it. One chair was occupied by a small, fat black man. He wore a beige suit, and also had sunglasses and polished shoes. He had a beige hat on that matched his suit.
The other chair was empty. The man who probably usually occupied it was standing by the window staring out onto the green courtyards below him, the many police patrols going around the building, the American flag flying high and proud on its golden flag pole. The man sighed slowly and turned round.
His hair was grey, his eyes a lifeless brown. He too wore a suit, had polished black shoes, but unlike the others he was not wearing any glasses. His face on the whole resembled that of a chimpanzee.
“I don’t want this,” George Bush sighed as he faced the fat man in the chair. The man smiled and chuckled a wheezy laugh, flashing his yellowy teeth in the process.
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice,” he said. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and two clicks were heard as the two men by the door whipped out a revolver each, and loaded them in a flash. The man spun round on the swivel chair.
“No need for dat now, is dere boys?” he said, pulling a cigar out of his pocket, producing a lighter from another of his pockets and sparking it up, before putting the lighter away. He took a deep puff and the smoke circled around him.
“Well Mr. President?” he said slowly. Bush’s face crinkled up as he thought hard about it.
“I don’t know. The war in Iraq’s risky enough as it is, to go after the Russians as well… it’ll only make things worse,” he said after a while. The black man took a few more puffs of his cigar, before he said his next words.
“It’s war. And it’s contributing to the war on terrorism. Russian extremists are no different to Iraqi extremists, Muslim extremists and so on and so forth.”
Bush sighed and faced the window again. “You’ve won me,” he said, “Yes, go ahead with it.”
“Pleasure doin’ business wid ya,” the man smiled, and shifted out of the chair, turning and allowing one of the bodyguards to escort him out of the building.
“Are you sure you made the right decision?” the remaining bodyguard asked after the door had been shut.
“No,” Bush replied. He sat down on the chair that had been empty the whole time and picked up the receiver of the phone. He waited a few seconds before putting it down again.
“What?” the bodyguard asked.
“No, nothing,” Bush said, staring absent mindedly at the phone. “Tony doesn’t need to know.”
~
An explosion caused a carpet of dust of sand to billow up, obscuring most of the troops. The seventeen troops spread out in a wide fan position, and all began to fire their AK-47’s relentlessly, pausing only briefly to reload.
“We’ll get some this time!” one screamed down the microphone around his neck.
The gunfire was soon returned though; bullets shot out of the dust into Fallujah, and bullets shot out of Fallujah into the dust and sand. More sand and dust was thrown up as the bullets peppered the ground, but miraculously the troops remained unharmed.
The seventeen were clad in black combat gear, with black helmets, which contained clear visors, an earphone and a microphone. They were all armed with AK-47’s and plenty of ammo as well as five grenades each. They were the Elite Unit, only used in the most difficult of circumstances were absolutely necessary.
Underneath their black combat gear, they wore thick bullet proof vests, and strapped round their waists was a first aid kit, containing the bare essentials.
Since Saddam was knocked from power, the American troops and Iraqi rebels had battled it out over Fallujah, the Iraqi’s managing to hold their own ground every time. So the Elite Unit had been sent in to finish the job.
The Elite Unit consisted of more than just the 17 men currently there. 50 of them were inside Fallujah, working under cover, bringing the rebels down from the inside, anyway possible. And back at the US camps, hackers worked hard to break into Iraqi police computers, trying to find strategic places to be, and where the rebels were attacking, or possibly planning on attacking.
“You know there are still about 500 rebels still in there?” shouted one of the Elite’s through his radio.
“Yeah,” another shouted back, “But getting it from 1500 down to 500 in three days ain’t exactly bad, is it?”
“Hit the decks!” a voice screamed frantically, and the silhouettes of 17 people diving to the ground could just be seen through the mass screening of sand and dust.
A few seconds later, a rocket shot out of Fallujah, and powered its way through where some of the troops had been. It carried on going till it was out of sight, but the explosion was heard; it had hit an American tank.
The Elite Unit had been sent forth to try and take out as many rebels as possible and clear out as much of Fallujah. Most of rebels had been killed by inside-men and now only a few remained, and although heavily outnumbered and outgunned, the Elite’s were fully capable of clearing Fallujah out completely. Not far behind the Elite’s was the bulk of American force into Fallujah.
Silence followed. The sand and dust settled, revealing seven black clothed Americans lying in the dirt, covered in sand.
One inched slowly forward. He moved so slowly it looked as though he wasn’t moving at all, but he inched closer and closer to boundaries of Fallujah, were buildings stood, most only remains of buildings, all the rest severely damaged.
“What’re you doing?” hissed one of Elite through his radio.
“I’ve seen some,” the man creeping forward whispered back, without moving his lips. He eventually was only a tiny distance from the buildings. He rolled forward, leapt onto his feet and sprinted forward, diving, rolling, and eventually coming to a kneeling position with his back against a building. Machine gun fire peppered the ground, following him, until he couldn’t be reached.
The man pulled a grenade from one of his many uniform pockets, and pulled the pin out with his teeth. Without hesitating, he ran out from where he was and spun round, hurling the grenade with perfect accuracy through the space where a window once was on the building he’d been leaning against, about the third floor up, on the right.
The man was instantly gunned down by machine guns, but a few seconds later his grenade exploded. The whole room it had been in was obscured briefly by a massive orange flame, and then by smoke that drifted out of the window. The 16 remaining members of the Elite Unit took a moment to mourn the loss of one of their men, before leaping up and sprinting back to join the bulk of the American forces.
~
“There’s not much left to do is there?” Tony Blair said to John Prescott. The fat man raised his sluggish head and stared at Blair.
“So we’re pulling out?” he said, his dull face almost smiling. Almost.
“Oh heavens no,” Blair said, and the slight facial expression on Prescott’s face disappeared. “We’re pouring everything we’ve got into it. Forget the health budget, the education; the police forces… forget them all. We’re going in, all out.”