User Guide

jet, leaving a smoking trail, crashes into
the sea without further ado. Parachutes
punctuate the sky randomly, final
exclamation points marking the end of
another phrase in the drama staged
around me. At any moment, I expect the
cockpit to tear away, to feel the incredible
thrust of the ejector jets in the seat
beneath me as a missile slams into the
engine behind me. I can’t believe I’ve
gotten this far, with so much random
destruction flaring around me.
1030 Hours
The island is in sight. Beneath us,
patrol boats are engaging the amphibious
landing craft of the assault team. Our
wing breaks off and begins strafing the
boats, clearing a corridor for the craft to
land. Other wings keep the F-14 Tomcats
off our backs as we sink the defending
gunboats. Likewise, they draw off the AA
fire from the island proper, giving us time
to do our job. I’m more amazed at the
seamless harmony now than I am afraid.
This is coordinated, deadly beauty.
1040 Hours
The assault team has made its landing.
As the other wings continue dogfighting,
our wing moves to disable the AA
batteries along the southern beach. This
accomplished, we strike against enemy
ground positions, allowing the assault
team to proceed toward the mansion.
1100 Hours
The airfield is secured by the assault
team. Phoenix and Gill-Man initiate
landing. They assess the tactical
situation, and clear us to land. We head
in and touch down smoothly.
Members of the assault team initiate
refueling of our jets as we hit the ground
running, helping themselves to
Guillaume’s ample supply of fuel.
We proceed along a secured corridor
toward the mansion. We pass
immaculately kept grounds, swaying palm
trees, fountains and statues, keeping to a
marble path that leads to the front steps.
Snipers open up on us from upstairs
windows. We dive for cover, and return
fire. At last I’m able to contribute
something to this operation. With little
trouble, I eliminate one of the snipers.
The other retreats.
We proceed. Petrie doesn’t look at all
well. I wonder how I look.
A division of the assault team enters
the mansion ahead of us. More gunfire.
Screams of agony. The aerial part of the
operation seemed largely abstract,
explosive and spectacular. Now, there are
only the same, sorry sounds of men
dying, in fear, in pain. Same sorry
adrenalin rush, the same stench in your
nostrils, of smoke, of death. We get the all
clear. We go inside.
1113 Hours
We locate Guillaume.
In a robe and slippers, he lounges in
his posh, Victorian-style study, nursing a
cup of coffee and perusing a Wall Street
Journal. He looks up at us in mild
annoyance, grubby aliens in his elegant
world, mismatched shades in an
otherwise impeccably coordinated color
scheme.
“Do wipe your feet before you come in.”
He gestures to the rug. “Two million
dollars.”
“Two million?” Forrester deliberately
puts her muddy feet on the antique
Persian rug. “So what’s a fifty dollar
cleaning bill, more or less?”
Petrie frowns at Forrester and wipes
his feet before entering the room.
Guillaume folds his paper and rises,
offering his hand to Petrie.
20
July 2011 • SUDDEN DEATH
The Wildcats go “feet dry”