They launched at dawn from the Cape Keys, like a flock migrating south to warmer climes and abundant forage. It turned into a rougher ride than Project Mission Control could've foreseen.
Hugging the serpentine coastline, as sailing vessels did in flat earth times, it was Project HQ's directive they avoid the shortest route as the crow flies and not venture over open sea so as to skirt the island chains scattered throughout the eastern gulf, all occupied by forces hostile to the Project. Good thing too.
Not two hours airborne, thunderheads swiftly glided in behind the convoy out of the north, bullying them off course and inland, pulseing with the muffled crackle of lightening in their darker bellys. The gale winds shivered the Super Transports down to their rivets, causing engines to moan and fuselages to creak under stresses they could just handle without bursting at the seams. With the careening every which way of the compass for kilometers on end, some greenies up-chucked their morning chow in the main passenger compartments.
It went against the grain right down to greenhorn recruits, to leave the Transports behind, unescorted, at high risk. It even struck the five pilots involved as pure abandonment, but the Commander was clear and sound in his judgement. Unlike the Super Transports, the hyper scout and interceptors were vastly more vulnerable to the extreme weather but could handily outrun the storm, so why put the entire convoy, and mission, in jeopardy at the very outset.
Commander Malory stood braced between the pilot and copilot, studying the monitors and intrument readings.
"Could be through the worst of the beast..."
"Affirmative, sir. We'll be back on course in short order."
Both pilots crinkled their brows. Malory couldn't see their eyes but could well imagine each had a quizzical look and why.
"Outstanding. Keep the transports strung out for now. No formation. Make sure when we regroup with the iterceptors that they come up the rear and the hyper scout take the vanguard."
When he said "beast" he was thinking Kraken. Looking at the storm raging waters, it was Kraken he imagined they harbored. Those legendary beasts of many tentacles and epic proportions, lurking below towering swells awaiting to grapple unsuspecting vessels and devour their crews. He had a fondness for the old lore, unknown to most. The Pre-Collapse lore itself not a common interest with the Project populace at large and his fondness for it, unknown even among his closest circle. That secret passion was how he survived as a youngster new to the world of Borgs and the Project. The tales were what his mentor used to engage his interest in learning to read. From those long bygone days to this moment was a journey none of his kind before him had ever made.
Many were the secrets he guarded. The greatest being he wasn't supposed to remain so vividly attatched to life before his synaptic link implant. But he was. Where it to be known, who could say for sure what corrective treatments he would be encouraged to undergo. Strongly encouraged, no doubt. Not a chance he was willing to take.
With the worst of the gale assuredly behind them, the interceptors and hyper scout re-joined the Super Transports, the whole convoy back on course.
"Commander, we're in visual of the LZ. Time for everyone to strap-in."
They landed on a sandy penninsula and deployed amid lingering wisps of mid-morning fog. It was ebb tide and the stench of rotting seaweed made for a bustling LZ as none wanted to linger catching their breath for long. Then there was the pod of beached dolphins, not far up wind, carcasses deep in rot. Malory ordered a couple flammers to incinerate them to ash and crumbling bone shards.
By mid afternoon the fog had burned away, the off-loading completed and the Super Transports headed back North accompanied by two of the four interceptors, to the Project's eastern mainland HQ in the Cape Keys.
Even with stiff sea breezes, the sun's scorching face was unrelenting. Any shady spot was like an oasis.
Commander Malory was inspecting the topo map, indicating his teams destination and mission, from beneath a jury-rigged desert camo canopy on the beach, above the high tide mark.
"Commander... ?"
"Sarge. At ease. What's goin' on ?"
"Sir, scouts have found a clearing 'bout three clicks N.W. beyond the tree line and have secured the perimeter. All is ready to move in and set-up night camp. Also, the air survey team is awaiting orders, sir."
Malory shuffled through the topos till he found the sub-section with the grid overlay.
"Give this to the flight team. Have the interceptors escort the hyper scout for the first 25 kilometers then return. The hyper scout should then proceed to the marked grid and recon. This topo indicates what seems to be the best location to land and plant the sensor array securely. Let the pilot use his best judgement but I want no more than two landings. Every touchdown is a risk and we can't afford to lose the scout. Have the rest of the men move supplies to the inland clearing."
"Commander, should I have a small detail await the return of the interceptors ?"
"Yeah. Have them land by the tree line, then camo them. When they're done this beach should not look like an LZ. I want the hyper scout to return directly to the night camp, well before sunset. See to it."
Sargent Emil went about his orders and Malory stepped from under the canopy, keeping the sun to his back.
He walked, preoccupied, down the beach towards a jagged precipice that cut the tree line in half. He'd surely have to attend the joints of his entire exo before calling it a day. This wind-tossed sand was creeping insidious.
"Oil... everything has come back to it... till now", he thought, unable to shake the sense that he would face his greatest test on this mission. The hydrogen powered chassis, if they found it, would be a radical game changer in future conflicts.
By this point in his military career he'd been on many missions, knowing the fear mingled excitement common to a warriors life. Deprivations and near defeat he'd known but was stranger to this sense of loss by continuing to expose layers of a life long past reclaiming. It made for an imbalance in his ki that troubled by drawing him inward, and uncontrollably, to pre-implant memories.
The crashing surf filled the air with a salt spume he tasted breathing through his mouth. Better that than rank decay.
He sat on a piece of driftwood, just beneath the jutting escarpment, reviewing what lay ahead.
Every incursion into the unknown south west had to be considered an encrouchment into hostile territory. Even though the foray team preceeding his had spent a week scouting this stretch of coast and encountered no hostiles, little could be taken for granted and that would hold even after reaching their objective, estimated at some 250 kilometers inland.
Stareing off beyond the roiling white caps, the horizon's vanishing point, he tended an impaired ki, not taking much heed of a few fist-size stones that fell from the rock ledge atop the precipiece to land but five meters away, to his left.
"This is a wind blasted coast", flitted through his mind, "what could be more common than erosion."
Silvana of the far eye scrabbled on her belly like a land crab, elbows for pincers, to the edge of the bluff overhanging a tongue of beach now occupied by an invading Mekka force. Her slight weight on the lip of the escarpment caused a few small rocks to drop. She couldn't hear their tumbling descent over the roar of surf but did catch them plunk into the sand not far from where a Mekka sat hunched over, metal sheathed hands gripping metal shod knees. He struck her as the leader being apart from the rest that were engaged in various tasks. He appeared not to take heed of the fallen stones. She let a sigh of relief escape her parched lips and noted the salt tang in the air, usually refreshing, was over layed with a stench coming from the Mekka.
Then three Mekka birds lifted off the sand below, stirring up swirling plumes of sand. When reaching an elevation of 50 meters they screeched inland like hungry birds of prey, their billowy tails dissipating quickly in the coastal wind shears.
"Mekka, this far south...", she whispered to herself, half in awe, half in dread. "And for a second time in less than a moon."
Even though it would befall the Seer the task of breaking this news at the council fires of the Snake Clan's camp hours before Silvana's return, she would etch the Mekka, their numbers & kind, in her mind's eye. Akbar of the scar, her chief, would yet question her sharply and Akbar's manner was rarely less than fierce, any hesitation would lower Silvana's standing as lead scout. A woman scout was rare, a leader, unheard of and Silvana's pride, while never boastful, was as staunch as any battled hardened warrior.
She hand signaled her brethren, Nezacle & Balaros, to hold their position under cover of a scraggly copse, well back of the cliff edge. Balaros signaled in turn. Could he make his way to the boulder between them and a bit to the east ? This, Nezacle would never do. Different they were, as owl and hawk, but their stregnths blended. They were a good team. She gave Balaros the go ahead gesture.
Sea winds pounded the bare bluff, mingling sand with sun, they branded forearm flesh over the hours of her vigil, but Silvana held steadfast. She carefully broke position twice. Once to relieve a cramp, the other to quench her thirst with a few drops. It would not do for the Mekka to be alerted, or worse, the scouts captured or cut down before word could be got back to the tribe and thus confirm the Seer's long vision with precious details.
Two Mekka birds returned shortly after departing and were carefully concealed by the tree line, sufficiently above the high-tide boundry that could yet be made out as wet sand.
Silvana marked their position against the base of the cliff.
When the Sun began westering Silvana heard the third Mekka bird return, though this one settled inland of the tree-line. Surely the Mekka's night camp its destination. She marked that position as well for they would have to skirt it on their return.
The scouts held position till after sunset. It was a starry night with a sliver of moon when Silvana, Nezacle & Balaros finally retreated from the cliff face, staying well clear of the Mekka night camp, to wend thier way through the steaming jungle, by boar trail, back to the Snake Clan village.
If they loped all night without resting they would reach the vision camp before sunrise.