European Intelligence Bureau
Operation Myotis - Christopher Liberius (Recurring Character)
00:56 - Paris Time
A gentle wind blew around him, sending shivers down his spine as he hung beneath the rig, dangling precariously on his makeshift suspension system. Far below him, the waves of the Arctic Sea smashed precariously into the support pillars of one of the Russian's supposedly newest oil extractors, and weapons testing and observation platform. For the last several months, the EIB had been watching this station as it was finished, celebrated, and then vanished from the public view as military personnel and researchers flocked to the rig to study new weapons systems that were undergoing their final stages of tests.
The oil rig designated as 'Station Khrushchev' by the EIB.
Truth was, nobody was sure if it really was an oil rig, or just an elaborate cover. Theories ranged from a cover, to a purely new oil rig - to a mix of being an oil rig with sparse interruptions of weapons testing. Chris didn't really care what it was, just as long as it was gone. After all, that was the mission. The mission always came first.
He drew the final pack of C-4 from his ruck sack and slapped it onto the final pillar. His fingers barely felt the explosive, numb as they were from a night on the underside of the rig. At least no one had noticed. Even the workers directly above him had carried on their conversation throughout the night.
He pulled himself along the ropes until he reached the meshed covering of one of the various maintenance holes on the lower walkway. A cacophony of machinery and noise on the upper levels of the rig muffled the scratch of the mesh as he pushed it up, and off of the hole. Poking his head up briefly, he scanned the platform. The two workers who had been above him before, were still standing off to his left.
He pulled himself up from his position, and drew the KM2000 combat knife from its sheathe, angled across his chest. The blade glimmered in the dim light from above as he crept towards the men. In a single motion, he wrapped his arm around one of their necks in mid-sentence, as he sliced the jugular of the second man. His blade, sharp as a scalpel, cut through his neck like a hot knife through butter.
A few mumbled gurgles were the only resistance he had to offer as he dropped to the floor, while the man held in Chris' grip grasped at his arm briefly, kicking his legs out as Chris pulled him backwards and drew his blade across the mans neck. Blood flowed down the man's work outfit, and a few sputters dripped onto the Russian uniform Chris was wearing.
"Two down." he whispered.
As if nothing was the matter, he wiped his blade on the trousers of the second man as his life spilled from his throat, before returning the knife to its sheathe on his chest. Without so much as a glance at the man who was gazing up at him, Christopher turned and followed the walkway to the stairs, calmly moving up and looking around the large room.
As he had hoped it was empty, and he followed the signs, fluent as he was in Russian, to a hallway. Following the hallway, he climbed another flight of stairs, passed a Russian who was oblivious to what was happening, and continued out into another room and along an outer walkway. From there, he followed another stairwell before coming out on the main level of the rig.
"Going somewhere?" asked a thick Russian voice from behind him.
"My shift is over, I'm turning in for the night." He said, turning to face the man. From the shadows beside the stairwell exit, a man of about 6 foot lumbered into the light. His uniform was not that of the normal guards on board. He was clad in a brown, orange and black camouflage and on in the center of his helmet, a glossy red star demanded reverence. His face was harder to make out, partially hidden by his helmet, with only a small area around his graying beard visible in the orange light peering around the corner.
"Right, Mr.?"
"Vladistok, Mikhail Vladistok. Yourself?"
"I am Captain Dmitri Taylor. Head of Security, on this rig."
"Taylor? An odd name for a serviceman of the Motherland." Chris said, trying to keep his cool in front of a man who most certainly knew he was lying.
"The Motherland doesn't care what my name is. Only that I do my job." He said, taking a step closer.
"Now, Mikhail. I would suggest, you surrender your weapons before things get ugly." He said, raising his AK-47 squarely at Chris chest.
"Of course, Sir." The agent responded, taking his sheathe from his chest with slight difficulty. He was needed a distraction. Hell, he needed saving. As he handed over his prized dagger, a couple of guards rounded the corner, deep in conversation. Without having noticed him, they bumped into him and fell, dragging Chris with them.
He seized his chance, knocking the AK to the side as he drew his USP, switching off the safety in a single quick motion. Instinctively, he fired a round into the leg of the Captain who buckled on impacted, and fell down the stairs. Rolling onto one of the Russians, he shot the one to his left, the bullet passing through his throat as the man underneath him broke into a frenzy and wrestled for the pistol.
As the wounded man writhed around the walkway in pain, and cries broke out over the rig, no doubt wondering what was happening, Chris was rolled off the man beneath him, smacking his head hard into the rail. Dazed, he struggled to make sense of the situation as the second Russian got to his feet and ran, ignoring the yelling of the Captain.
Unfortunately for the man, he was not fast enough, and with a quick raise of his pistol and the pull of a trigger, the Russian fell to the floor, a bang and a spray of blood bursting from his right shoulder marking his end. Chris turned back to the top of the stairwell, and grabbed his knife, still resting where the Dmitri had dropped it. Chris set the knife and its sheathe back across his chest, and slowly pulled the detonator from his inside pocket, just above his heart.
A simple click would start the timer for the explosives, each one delayed from the previous. A countdown to his escape. He didn't have long until the first one went off. Chris sprang down the walkway, barreling over the Russian laying flat at the turn of the corner. Shouts echoed ahead of him as he ran towards his only exit. He was getting closer.
Just a bit farther. One-hundred and fifty meters up stairs, through hallways and the barracks to reach the landing pad.
On the far platform, where many of the workers and the mining took place, one of the charges he had set yesterday went off, engulfing the near pillar of the platform in flames. The scream of metal in agony stretched out over the rig and the ocean as in the distance, the gentle beats of a helicopter's rotors could be heard.
For a moment the shouting ceased as the metal of the far rig screamed in its death throes. It was soon joined by the orchestra of creaks and snaps, tears and groans of the bridge.
Ten seconds. He barreled round a corner and a group of Russians watching the explosion caught sight of him. He didn't have time to stop. He didn't have time to fire back as automatic rounds riddled the space he had filled moments ago, striking and bouncing off machinery.
The shouting was following him now, the odd burst of gunfire tore up the hallways as he raced through them. The dull gray carpet, and the cheap sheet metal walls were torn apart as the AK rounds made impact. Pictures of Russian cities and leaders of men were blown apart in the chaos.
Five seconds.
As he rounded another corner, Chris ducked inside one of the dark office rooms that had it's door open. He heard the shouting draw closer as he readied his USP and his blade. Another burst of gunfire rattled through the hallway, though he was safe in the room.
"Keep going!" one of them yelled as they sprinted past the door. In an instant, Chris was in the hallway with his dagger plunged deep in the chest of the guard in the center of the group. The man screamed in pain as Chris spun, dropped to one knee and fired a pair of rounds into each of the two guardsmen behind him. They both fell to the floor, dead before they could react. The man in front was spinning round now, even as Chris was gliding around the center guard for cover.
A hail of bullets dug deep into the man Chris had stabbed. One of them, he swore left an exit wound and crashed into the rear of the hallway. Unfazed, Chris fired a round into the skull of this final guard as he came round to the other side of the guardsman.
The man who had lead his comrades, dropped like a stone, and Chris snatched up his dagger from the central guard, rushing onwards to the final stairwell and his rescue. Turning another corner in the labyrinth of the rigs innards, he felt the rumbling of another explosion. This one, would have gone off on the bridge, cutting one platform off from the other.
He was running out of time now.
Five Seconds.
Finally, he came upon the end of the hallway, and kicked open the door before him. Up above, he could hear the beating of the helicopter rotors coming in to pick him up. It was going to be close. Without hesitation, he ran out into the open space before the stairwell to the helipad.
Fewer shouts were ringing out across the rig now. Most were dead or contending with the fire. Still, a single voice came from across the helipad. A sole Russian yelled down at his comrades and turned to face Chris.
Chris stopped in his tracks, his breathing heavy as the two men looked at each other, recognizing the same intent in the other. The man raised his rifle in a flash of gunfire, just as Chris fired off a shot towards him. Despite a quick roll behind an electrical box, the Russian kept firing. Chris brought his pistol up and squeezed the trigger again, barely hearing the click of an empty magazine.
As the realization of his predicament dawned on him, the final set of charges erupted on the other platform in unison with a pair of charges on the main platform. The platform upon which he was currently standing.
With a tremendous roar, the other platform burst into flames as the ground beneath Chris feet rumbled and shook with terrible force. As the ground shook and the metal beneath him groaned its final lamentations, Chris managed to break from cover, and dove towards the Russian who was struggling to keep his balance as the rig tilted to the right at 30 degrees.
A quick strike from an open palm knocked the AK from the hands of the Russian as Chris rolled and brought round his leg for a roundhouse kick, connecting squarely with the head of the bent over man. He was knocked from his feet as Chris tried to regain his footing. Drawing his dagger, Chris was prepared to go for the kill.
The man before him, however, was spared as the rig dropped another 15 degrees to the right, leaving them both struggling to find their balance on the shaky platform, and Chris defenceless as his knife skidded across the rig deck. The Russian was the first to his feet, much to Chris' surprise as he felt a vice grip come round his throat, and then several blows connect with his face.
Instinctively, Chris brought his feet up to his chest and then kicked out, into the chest of the Russian, knocking him back on his ass. Scrambling to reach his knife before the Russian could get to his feet, Chris sprang across the platform as it fell to a 60 degree angle, the metal roaring at the unrelenting pressure.
He reached his blade just in time, as the Russian was drawing his pistol. A quick roll back, and a slice to the jugular finally put an end to his opponent as he drew the signal flare for the helicopter. Blue smoke rose from his hand, even as the secondary platform collapsed into the sea, its farewell tune the searing cry of dying steel.
The Helicopter came in low now, the rig rumbling ever more as it drew closer.
"Come on!" Chris yelled to his compatriots as the helicopter came down for a pick up.
The prototype Eurocopter Super Cougar drifted cautiously closer to Chris as the rig yelled at him to get off. Frankly, he couldn't have asked for more himself.
With a quick grasp of the arm of one of the flight crew, Chris was pulled aboard the helicopter as the men onboard shouted at each other over the noise of the dying Station Khrushchev.
"Is it done?" asked the flight lieutenant. Chris responded with a turn of his head, looking out at the oil rig as a final explosion marked the collapse of the main platform. A brilliant fireball sprung out from the sea, captivating the air crew as it leaped high into the sky, and danced across the waters.
"Il est fini."
OOC : I apologize for putting you through all that reading. That is however, a reduxed and updated version of the events at the oil rig, originally written in an End War fan fic in 2008.
This marks the return of Christopher Liberius to my writing, one of my favourite characters, and also the return of the first of many characters that I have done before but hope to bring up for one final send off before I settle on writing my book.
Hope you enjoyed the read.
