| General Fiction posted September 14, 2024 |
  |
Mission Impossible Pilot contest entry
The Information (Part One)
by DragonSkulls
Mission Impossible: Pilot Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The recorder self-destructed just like it always does, a fizzle of fire and a wisp of smoke and any trace of evidence of its existence...gone. Seeing as how I had a personal interest in the matter at hand, I 'did' choose to accept the mission.
After months of work by my extra two man team of hackers and gadget experts, I was racing down a mountainside on a EX Sport snowmobile. Scotty, through my earpiece, while scouting the terrain ahead on a hacked satellite feed, assured me at the speed I was going, I'd land on top of one of the train cars after propelling from an upward slope of the landscape.
His calculations were off and, while airborne, I had to dive from the snowmobile as it hurtled over the train completely. I grabbed my boot dagger while falling and, with both hands, thrust it into the metal train top as I landed on it at nearly ninety miles an hour. My body slid back eight feet before my knife, gouging through the metal rooftop, managed to stop me.
My fake, rubber face mask and voice mechanism was still intact when I dropped between the cars and made my way onto the train. Mr. T, the other operative in my ear, confirmed it by making a joke about how he dreams of boning the woman I've become.
"I'd rock your world," I said in a 'matter of fact' tone, not waiting for his well rehearsed reply. "Now where is this bastard?"
It was a tight fit, but as my target's wife, I was still pulling it off. I might have looked fifty pounds heavier and had something strapped to my back but I was still his smoking trophy wife. "Three cars up," Mr. T informed. "On the right, by the window."
I smiled and waved at my target when I entered. I questioned if he thought to himself, "Did she eat that whole dang buffet last night?"
Sucking in my gut, I gestured for him to come to me.
He waved off his henchmen and when he got close, his expression waned when I whispered, "I need your help back in the cabin, baby," just as my voice mechanism stopped working. I sounded more like a sixty year old Canadian logger than his wife.
Just as he turned to warn his security, I yanked him back between the cars, headbutted him out cold and threw a parachute on his back. Then, I tossed him off the side of the train, over the perfectly timed ravine, while yanking his parachute cord. I dove off the side right behind him.
Scotty was waiting in the river below, maneuvering the boat. I landed and popped my parachute loose, getting ready to catch our knocked out target who was aimlessly floating downward.
I caught him, let the parachute loose, and we took off. It was less than two minutes later when, over the treetops, the F-23 attack helicopter came racing behind us. The information the target had was just too valuable. His own security would have him killed before they'd let such information fall into our hands.
Jumping into action, I climbed the ladder and uncovered the mounted fifty caliber machine gun on the upper deck. Scotty pierced the waves in a random, zig-zag formation as hundreds of ammunition shells bounced off the wooden flooring as I fired.
Numerous rounds from the helicopter penetrated our boat before its tail end burst into flames. It viciously spun out of control and hurtled into the landscape, exploding into a massive fireball.
One bullet hit the gas tank. We were losing fuel fast and Scotty veered for the shoreline knowing we were sitting ducks if we came to a stop in the middle of the river. The throttle handle was hit and severed as well. We couldn't slow down. At eighty knots an hour, we plowed into the heavily thickened shoreline.
The impact didn't kill my operative or my target as we savagely smashed against the ground after being thrown from the boat. Catching my breath, I stood up and found Scotty, slapping him awake. We both started dragging the target north, toward the only road around.
Mr. T, in the all-terrain SUV to save our asses, was four miles out. Our target's security was a whole lot closer. Right then, we heard their vehicles skidding to a stop at the top of the hill we were climbing. I pointed to a small ridge for Scotty and our limp target to hide while I dealt with the current situation.
Hunkered in the brush, I watched as six men exited the foremost vehicle. They went left for the easier path down. I followed. Again, my boot dagger was essential. The last member of their crew in line fell silently while grasping at his own spewing jugular vein. The other five instantly died from behind, by this guy's own M-16.
I always love how bad guys just run out in the open, firing from the hip, just like in the movies. They're easy picking when laying prone with an accurately aimed weapon. You can't stay prone too long though, they'll catch on. I jumped up and charged toward the next vehicle, grabbing a Beretta 92 from a lifeless corpse as I passed. I dropped and fell to the ground below the next truck. Shooting out someone's ankle is always an advantage when outnumbered. They topple over, then die from a headshot...easy peasy. Why they wouldn't assume as much is always a query of mine.
Truck number two of three was down. A few assailants later, I came face to face with the last ground member. We both had our .45's pointed at each other's skull, as we stood in a stalemate draw. I asked in a calm voice, "You know what I have that you do not?"
He smirked. "What would that be?"
Mr. T plowed into him with the SUV, splattering his guts and innards everywhere and pinning him to a tree. While gasping on his last few breaths, I looked at him, smiled and said, "A future."
We piled the target in the rear of the truck and tore off. What we didn't anticipate was that he'd wake up, climb over the rear seat and grab the shotgun that was magically just sitting there. I'm not sure if he was aiming at Scotty or at me when we hit the giant pothole. The shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in the roof rather than someone's head. Before he could pull the trigger a second time, I was over the seat and pounding him like an MMA, full contact, training bag. After a swift and brutal beatdown, he stopped struggling and relinquished.
I grabbed the seat-belt, wrapped it around his neck and reached it to Scotty to secure. "I don't have time to play games," I shouted in his face. "You know what I'm after...so give it up or I can't assure you'll still be alive by the time this ride ends!"
That was a little misleading seeing as how the ride ended almost instantly. We were at the plane already. I looked at Mr. T and he just shrugged and put his hands up like, hey, what can I do? We're here.
I yanked the target out and forced him to the seaplane. The engine sputtered and spit out smoke that smelled like poisonous inhalant but Mr. T did get it fired up and primed for flight.
Halfway back to America is when the night before's partying started to take its toll. Tiquila and top secret abductions don't fair well within scant hours of each other. Long story short, our target managed to get lose from his restraints, kick Scotty out of commission and get ahold of my .45 before I even woke back up. "This will surely be a smear on my permanent record," I thought as I watched him don the last parachute. He already threw the other three out and the one strapped to his back was the last.
With the plane's side door open, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Savage, but this is where we part ways!" He shot a couple rounds into the cockpit, right where Mr. T was piloting and the plane instantly started going down. Tom looked right at me and just before he jumped out, he yelled, "You will never know the identities of the FanStory committee...NEVER!"
Without a parachute, I dove out of the airplane behind him.
~
To be continued...
The recorder self-destructed just like it always does, a fizzle of fire and a wisp of smoke and any trace of evidence of its existence...gone. Seeing as how I had a personal interest in the matter at hand, I 'did' choose to accept the mission.
After months of work by my extra two man team of hackers and gadget experts, I was racing down a mountainside on a EX Sport snowmobile. Scotty, through my earpiece, while scouting the terrain ahead on a hacked satellite feed, assured me at the speed I was going, I'd land on top of one of the train cars after propelling from an upward slope of the landscape.
His calculations were off and, while airborne, I had to dive from the snowmobile as it hurtled over the train completely. I grabbed my boot dagger while falling and, with both hands, thrust it into the metal train top as I landed on it at nearly ninety miles an hour. My body slid back eight feet before my knife, gouging through the metal rooftop, managed to stop me.
My fake, rubber face mask and voice mechanism was still intact when I dropped between the cars and made my way onto the train. Mr. T, the other operative in my ear, confirmed it by making a joke about how he dreams of boning the woman I've become.
"I'd rock your world," I said in a 'matter of fact' tone, not waiting for his well rehearsed reply. "Now where is this bastard?"
It was a tight fit, but as my target's wife, I was still pulling it off. I might have looked fifty pounds heavier and had something strapped to my back but I was still his smoking trophy wife. "Three cars up," Mr. T informed. "On the right, by the window."
I smiled and waved at my target when I entered. I questioned if he thought to himself, "Did she eat that whole dang buffet last night?"
Sucking in my gut, I gestured for him to come to me.
He waved off his henchmen and when he got close, his expression waned when I whispered, "I need your help back in the cabin, baby," just as my voice mechanism stopped working. I sounded more like a sixty year old Canadian logger than his wife.
Just as he turned to warn his security, I yanked him back between the cars, headbutted him out cold and threw a parachute on his back. Then, I tossed him off the side of the train, over the perfectly timed ravine, while yanking his parachute cord. I dove off the side right behind him.
Scotty was waiting in the river below, maneuvering the boat. I landed and popped my parachute loose, getting ready to catch our knocked out target who was aimlessly floating downward.
I caught him, let the parachute loose, and we took off. It was less than two minutes later when, over the treetops, the F-23 attack helicopter came racing behind us. The information the target had was just too valuable. His own security would have him killed before they'd let such information fall into our hands.
Jumping into action, I climbed the ladder and uncovered the mounted fifty caliber machine gun on the upper deck. Scotty pierced the waves in a random, zig-zag formation as hundreds of ammunition shells bounced off the wooden flooring as I fired.
Numerous rounds from the helicopter penetrated our boat before its tail end burst into flames. It viciously spun out of control and hurtled into the landscape, exploding into a massive fireball.
One bullet hit the gas tank. We were losing fuel fast and Scotty veered for the shoreline knowing we were sitting ducks if we came to a stop in the middle of the river. The throttle handle was hit and severed as well. We couldn't slow down. At eighty knots an hour, we plowed into the heavily thickened shoreline.
The impact didn't kill my operative or my target as we savagely smashed against the ground after being thrown from the boat. Catching my breath, I stood up and found Scotty, slapping him awake. We both started dragging the target north, toward the only road around.
Mr. T, in the all-terrain SUV to save our asses, was four miles out. Our target's security was a whole lot closer. Right then, we heard their vehicles skidding to a stop at the top of the hill we were climbing. I pointed to a small ridge for Scotty and our limp target to hide while I dealt with the current situation.
Hunkered in the brush, I watched as six men exited the foremost vehicle. They went left for the easier path down. I followed. Again, my boot dagger was essential. The last member of their crew in line fell silently while grasping at his own spewing jugular vein. The other five instantly died from behind, by this guy's own M-16.
I always love how bad guys just run out in the open, firing from the hip, just like in the movies. They're easy picking when laying prone with an accurately aimed weapon. You can't stay prone too long though, they'll catch on. I jumped up and charged toward the next vehicle, grabbing a Beretta 92 from a lifeless corpse as I passed. I dropped and fell to the ground below the next truck. Shooting out someone's ankle is always an advantage when outnumbered. They topple over, then die from a headshot...easy peasy. Why they wouldn't assume as much is always a query of mine.
Truck number two of three was down. A few assailants later, I came face to face with the last ground member. We both had our .45's pointed at each other's skull, as we stood in a stalemate draw. I asked in a calm voice, "You know what I have that you do not?"
He smirked. "What would that be?"
Mr. T plowed into him with the SUV, splattering his guts and innards everywhere and pinning him to a tree. While gasping on his last few breaths, I looked at him, smiled and said, "A future."
We piled the target in the rear of the truck and tore off. What we didn't anticipate was that he'd wake up, climb over the rear seat and grab the shotgun that was magically just sitting there. I'm not sure if he was aiming at Scotty or at me when we hit the giant pothole. The shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in the roof rather than someone's head. Before he could pull the trigger a second time, I was over the seat and pounding him like an MMA, full contact, training bag. After a swift and brutal beatdown, he stopped struggling and relinquished.
I grabbed the seat-belt, wrapped it around his neck and reached it to Scotty to secure. "I don't have time to play games," I shouted in his face. "You know what I'm after...so give it up or I can't assure you'll still be alive by the time this ride ends!"
That was a little misleading seeing as how the ride ended almost instantly. We were at the plane already. I looked at Mr. T and he just shrugged and put his hands up like, hey, what can I do? We're here.
I yanked the target out and forced him to the seaplane. The engine sputtered and spit out smoke that smelled like poisonous inhalant but Mr. T did get it fired up and primed for flight.
Halfway back to America is when the night before's partying started to take its toll. Tiquila and top secret abductions don't fair well within scant hours of each other. Long story short, our target managed to get lose from his restraints, kick Scotty out of commission and get ahold of my .45 before I even woke back up. "This will surely be a smear on my permanent record," I thought as I watched him don the last parachute. He already threw the other three out and the one strapped to his back was the last.
With the plane's side door open, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Savage, but this is where we part ways!" He shot a couple rounds into the cockpit, right where Mr. T was piloting and the plane instantly started going down. Tom looked right at me and just before he jumped out, he yelled, "You will never know the identities of the FanStory committee...NEVER!"
Without a parachute, I dove out of the airplane behind him.
~
To be continued...
After months of work by my extra two man team of hackers and gadget experts, I was racing down a mountainside on a EX Sport snowmobile. Scotty, through my earpiece, while scouting the terrain ahead on a hacked satellite feed, assured me at the speed I was going, I'd land on top of one of the train cars after propelling from an upward slope of the landscape.
His calculations were off and, while airborne, I had to dive from the snowmobile as it hurtled over the train completely. I grabbed my boot dagger while falling and, with both hands, thrust it into the metal train top as I landed on it at nearly ninety miles an hour. My body slid back eight feet before my knife, gouging through the metal rooftop, managed to stop me.
My fake, rubber face mask and voice mechanism was still intact when I dropped between the cars and made my way onto the train. Mr. T, the other operative in my ear, confirmed it by making a joke about how he dreams of boning the woman I've become.
"I'd rock your world," I said in a 'matter of fact' tone, not waiting for his well rehearsed reply. "Now where is this bastard?"
It was a tight fit, but as my target's wife, I was still pulling it off. I might have looked fifty pounds heavier and had something strapped to my back but I was still his smoking trophy wife. "Three cars up," Mr. T informed. "On the right, by the window."
I smiled and waved at my target when I entered. I questioned if he thought to himself, "Did she eat that whole dang buffet last night?"
Sucking in my gut, I gestured for him to come to me.
He waved off his henchmen and when he got close, his expression waned when I whispered, "I need your help back in the cabin, baby," just as my voice mechanism stopped working. I sounded more like a sixty year old Canadian logger than his wife.
Just as he turned to warn his security, I yanked him back between the cars, headbutted him out cold and threw a parachute on his back. Then, I tossed him off the side of the train, over the perfectly timed ravine, while yanking his parachute cord. I dove off the side right behind him.
Scotty was waiting in the river below, maneuvering the boat. I landed and popped my parachute loose, getting ready to catch our knocked out target who was aimlessly floating downward.
I caught him, let the parachute loose, and we took off. It was less than two minutes later when, over the treetops, the F-23 attack helicopter came racing behind us. The information the target had was just too valuable. His own security would have him killed before they'd let such information fall into our hands.
Jumping into action, I climbed the ladder and uncovered the mounted fifty caliber machine gun on the upper deck. Scotty pierced the waves in a random, zig-zag formation as hundreds of ammunition shells bounced off the wooden flooring as I fired.
Numerous rounds from the helicopter penetrated our boat before its tail end burst into flames. It viciously spun out of control and hurtled into the landscape, exploding into a massive fireball.
One bullet hit the gas tank. We were losing fuel fast and Scotty veered for the shoreline knowing we were sitting ducks if we came to a stop in the middle of the river. The throttle handle was hit and severed as well. We couldn't slow down. At eighty knots an hour, we plowed into the heavily thickened shoreline.
The impact didn't kill my operative or my target as we savagely smashed against the ground after being thrown from the boat. Catching my breath, I stood up and found Scotty, slapping him awake. We both started dragging the target north, toward the only road around.
Mr. T, in the all-terrain SUV to save our asses, was four miles out. Our target's security was a whole lot closer. Right then, we heard their vehicles skidding to a stop at the top of the hill we were climbing. I pointed to a small ridge for Scotty and our limp target to hide while I dealt with the current situation.
Hunkered in the brush, I watched as six men exited the foremost vehicle. They went left for the easier path down. I followed. Again, my boot dagger was essential. The last member of their crew in line fell silently while grasping at his own spewing jugular vein. The other five instantly died from behind, by this guy's own M-16.
I always love how bad guys just run out in the open, firing from the hip, just like in the movies. They're easy picking when laying prone with an accurately aimed weapon. You can't stay prone too long though, they'll catch on. I jumped up and charged toward the next vehicle, grabbing a Beretta 92 from a lifeless corpse as I passed. I dropped and fell to the ground below the next truck. Shooting out someone's ankle is always an advantage when outnumbered. They topple over, then die from a headshot...easy peasy. Why they wouldn't assume as much is always a query of mine.
Truck number two of three was down. A few assailants later, I came face to face with the last ground member. We both had our .45's pointed at each other's skull, as we stood in a stalemate draw. I asked in a calm voice, "You know what I have that you do not?"
He smirked. "What would that be?"
Mr. T plowed into him with the SUV, splattering his guts and innards everywhere and pinning him to a tree. While gasping on his last few breaths, I looked at him, smiled and said, "A future."
We piled the target in the rear of the truck and tore off. What we didn't anticipate was that he'd wake up, climb over the rear seat and grab the shotgun that was magically just sitting there. I'm not sure if he was aiming at Scotty or at me when we hit the giant pothole. The shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in the roof rather than someone's head. Before he could pull the trigger a second time, I was over the seat and pounding him like an MMA, full contact, training bag. After a swift and brutal beatdown, he stopped struggling and relinquished.
I grabbed the seat-belt, wrapped it around his neck and reached it to Scotty to secure. "I don't have time to play games," I shouted in his face. "You know what I'm after...so give it up or I can't assure you'll still be alive by the time this ride ends!"
That was a little misleading seeing as how the ride ended almost instantly. We were at the plane already. I looked at Mr. T and he just shrugged and put his hands up like, hey, what can I do? We're here.
I yanked the target out and forced him to the seaplane. The engine sputtered and spit out smoke that smelled like poisonous inhalant but Mr. T did get it fired up and primed for flight.
Halfway back to America is when the night before's partying started to take its toll. Tiquila and top secret abductions don't fair well within scant hours of each other. Long story short, our target managed to get lose from his restraints, kick Scotty out of commission and get ahold of my .45 before I even woke back up. "This will surely be a smear on my permanent record," I thought as I watched him don the last parachute. He already threw the other three out and the one strapped to his back was the last.
With the plane's side door open, he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Savage, but this is where we part ways!" He shot a couple rounds into the cockpit, right where Mr. T was piloting and the plane instantly started going down. Tom looked right at me and just before he jumped out, he yelled, "You will never know the identities of the FanStory committee...NEVER!"
Without a parachute, I dove out of the airplane behind him.
~
To be continued...
Writing Prompt
Create a pilot episode for your own Mission Impossible series. This is a new contest series which you will have an opportunity to add to in subsequent contests.
This is an unmoderated contest, and you may change the contest format for your entry to allow for improved visual presentation if you so wish. |
Mission Impossible: Pilot Contest Winner |
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