The Hideout

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic


When a genius scientist goes insane, all that stands between sanity and insantiy is a swift stealth bomber attack on the compound. Will they send him to the devil before he does it to others?

Submitted: March 20, 2018

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Submitted: March 20, 2018

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The Hideout

The sun filtered through the forest canopy, bathing the forest floor with pillars of light.  There was a small wood cabin with solar panels on the roof. These panels soaked up the sun, feeding the bank of deep cycle marine batteries slowly, as a human might feed a baby bird with a dropper. Slow was good. In reality, the only thing the solar charging system powered was the pickle, and the array system that had not used any power in the whole five years of it's life. The pickle, a sophisticated joystick, was part of the Hodgins array that had been set up in secret. The array was the brainchild of Dennings corporation founder Max Lairpin. Max had too much money and nothing to do, although mostly, it was due to his brain tumor that went on un-noticed. Basically, what he did was design a system that used a space - based satellite to spy on foreign countries. It had the capability of zooming in on something the size of a postage stamp, at least that was what he bragged. In reality, it could zoom in on a much smaller area. It communicated with the space pod array. This was the mastermind of Max. It basically went like this: two satellites hung in space, ready to be maneuvered over any part of the planet. Each satellite housed five inert tungsten rods, twice the size and length of a typical telephone pole. The system would spool up, and send a satellite over the area of concern. The rods would eject from the satellite and fired a rocket booster to speed up the rod, sending each rod slamming into the Earth at terminal velocity. This, some speculated, would be worse than a multitude of nuclear bombs going off at once. Most had hoped they would never find out.

Today seemed like the perfect lazy day. Max was sitting at his table under the canopy sipping a margarita. His hand loosely gripped the pickle, moving it slightly to the right to zoom in on a Chinese 092 Xia nuclear ballistic submarine that was lurking in a remote part of the Atlantic. Another fine pickle adjustment set the crosshairs directly over the sub, painting it for the array to focus on. Max heard the voice of his third grade teacher, instructing him to wait before he switched on his array and launched the rods at the sub. His teacher also gave him detail instructions on how to boil eggs, explaining in detail how to salt the water and bring it to a boil before adding the eggs. If his teacher thought in the slightest that he wasn’t paying attention, he would merely start over from the beginning. His brain tumor was about the size of a baseball. Somewhere between yesterday’s egg cooking lecture, and the lecture on cooking spaghetti, he did manage to get off an email to the division of the CIA where his work was affiliated. He wasn’t too sure but thought that he had given verbose details about his plan to blow up the Chinese nuclear sub and somehow blame it on the French. He wasn’t sure why the French, but, “why not”, he reasoned.

The pair of B-2 Spirit Stealth Bombers glided along at their operational ceiling of 50,000 feet. They had already refueled in the air three times, each session giving them 100,000 pounds of extra fuel. They had to refuel every six hours, to increase their operational distance by twelve thousand more miles. They were from the secret Antarctic base, and they only took orders from the President himself. They started to approach the hideout and started to loose altitude. They switched on their APQ-181 synthetic aperture radar systems, painting the area, mapping out the area with help from the global positioning satellites. The lead plane, having a stealthy radar cross section of 1.1 square feet, switched on its JDAM system. Eighty five-hundred pound mk82 bombs came to life, and synced with the global satellite positioning system. With a slight shudder, all 80 bombs released and started their decent onto the forrest hideout. The second stealth bomber switched on its delivery system, arming the two 30,000 pound MOP Massive Ordinance Penetrater bunker buster bombs. The aircraft let loose of the two 5,300 pound warheads and banked off to the left, joining the other stealth bomber at treetop level safely under any radar installations reach. The headed to the planned refueling coordinates.

Max was waiting patiently for his teacher to finish a lecture on how to make potato salad. He was anxious to try out his baby. His hand gripped the pickle tightly, sweat dripping off his pale shaky hand. He started to wonder if the people on the submarine would even know that the rods were hurtling towards them, and started to wonder something else. Before he could begin wondering anything else, the first five of the 80 bombs began to explode. He heard the first one, although after the first one he was deaf, and the second bomb's loudness was wasted on him. It was the first of the two bunker buster bombs, rather, that impacted directly over him that scattered his atoms like a dust fairy scattering dust in the wind. The second bunker buster was sent just as a measure of redundancy, as were the other 80 JDAM bombs. The CIA, or Company, wasn’t going to take any chances. The local government, having been warned in advance, and told that they had no choice but to cooperate, gave out their rehearsed radio broadcast to their people about how they just had a small gas pipeline blow up in the Eastern remote forest. The locals seemed to buy into it and go about their business as usual. At the Company, the CIA team cheered. They let out a series of way to go’s and hollers, whoops and high fives. In the data base, they deleted all traces of the Array project and all traces of Max. Their technical analysts reset the two space satellites housing the rods as the man in a black suit informed the team that there was nothing to see here today. Business as usual.
 

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Dale Darkling. All rights reserved.

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