Showing posts with label Army. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Army. Show all posts

Sunday, 7 December 2014

Suspect Device - Friday Flash








“We have visuals”


“Okay, approach with care”


The men pored over their monitors at the image of a rectangular object coming more into view.


“Steady as she goes”


“Which plane do you want to scan first?”


“Go nearest, the short side facing us”


“Wilco”


“Hold her there”


“Seems like… I dunno… lots of ridges”


“Bit like terraced agriculture like the Asia sector”


“Nothing nourishing about this bad boy”


“Chemical traces?”


“Bleach, pigmented dyes, cationic starch, calcium carbonate, other unknown solvents, but no nitrous concentrations significant enough for incendiary combustibility”


"Radioactivity?"


"Background levels only"


"Biological?"


"Minimal. It's human but sleight"


“Obviously. We're not dealing with monkeys putting this thing together. Move clockwise on to the long side see if there’s anything to be had there”


“More of the same, though the ridges display more degradation”


“There!”


“What? Where?”


“At the corner, there’s complete degradation. The ridges have collapsed into each other. But that there looks to me like a partial fingerprint we can lift”


“You’re right. Zooming in to photograph now”


“Scan for light-sensitive sensors, in case the flash sets off the detonator”


“Nothing detected”


“Okay snap the print”


“Done. Now scanning through database”


“Good. Carry on round. We’ve absolutely got to spot the wires”


“Same as the other short side. Ridges. Same chemical make up. No evidence of circuitry”


“Okay. least it doesn't seem to be a dirty bomb. Anything on the print yet?”


“Nothing yet sir. Still rolling through though”


“Let’s go blindside to the other long plane, then after to the flat surface plane”


“Easy there soldier! You nearly drove the robot into the bloody thing!"


“Sorry sir”


‘Well this all looks a bit different. Is that wiring? Seems like a spaghetti if it is”


“Don’t know sir, seems more straw or hemp than-“


“No evidence of conductor material”


“What have we got then?”


“Traces of emulsion adhesives, resins, thermoplastic polymers, but again nothing overtly explosive”


“What’s that there, that splurge of black just above the corner?”


“Some sort of image or icon?”


“Zooming in sir”


“It’s a, I don’t know what it is-”


“Rotate 180, I think it’s upside down”


“It’s a penguin”


“Penguin? Do we know of any groups that use that for their symbol? Run a search of all terrorist groups and militias”


“Could it be Antarctic secessionists? The penguin was native to there after all”


“Okay include them too. Oh and environ-Mentalists since their flipping bird is no longer native to anywhere”


“Still nothing on the strands, just seems to be, well, string”


“Anything on my fingerprint search yet?”


“No matches sir”


“Impossible. Should have finished by now”


“It has. No one in the datatbase”


“Well either we’re dealing with a top terrorist who can wipe his records clean out of the system, or this guy is already dead”

"No, no. This has been deliberately planted here for us to find"


“Anything on the penguin colophon?”


“The what?”


“The mark sir, just the mark”


“Well just speak English next time man”


“Nothing yet from our records. We’re just about to scrutinise the Dark Web for anything in back channels”


“Okay. Let’s leave this vector for now. Elongate the arm and let’s take a look at the top surface”


“Elongating arm now sir”


“It’s an orange and white plane with writing on it and an enlarged version of the penguin identifier”


“Flush smooth surface, so no evidence of wires”


“Or explosive chemicals. Just dyes and sealants”


“Writing? What’s it say?”


“Dunno sir, seems to be an unrecognisable script”


“No language I’ve seen before”


“Are you a reader?”


“No sir”


“Is it code?”


“Again, don’t know sir”


“I haven’t got time to get a reader or a codebreaker down here. If they’re deliberately trying to communicate their poisonous message too us, whoever they are, I’m not taking any chances. Have the robot blow it to buggery!”


"Initiating detonation sequence sir”


“They’re trying to fuck with our minds and I’m not having it. Anything on any of the searches?”


“Nada sir. This is like nothing we’ve ever encountered before”


‘Well let’s hope once she goes up in smoke we never see the likes of it again”


"Fire in the hole!"


“There she blows sir!”


“Good job. Well done all. Don’t forget to scoop up the confetti, check it for radioactivity and then analyse it in full. We've got to find out what its purpose was”






Thursday, 28 February 2013

Calliope, Caltrops And Cantos - Friday Flash




He reached back into his quiver and strung a fine quilled verse into the arched bow of his lips. He released the quivering tension within the shaft of his glossa and hurled the finely crafted heroic quatrain at his adversary. His aim was directly targeted between the other's eyes.

The other man raised his forearm up to his own brow, seemingly in a gesture of warding off a powerful blow. But his arm continued its motion over his hair as if peeling off a layer to directly access his own cranium beneath. His other hand flicked up over his mouth, then his nose and out toward his rival and brought in its stead a cataract of iambic pentameter projecting from his mouth like a Catherine Wheel. A furious fusillade of frenetic phonic flow. It felled his foe, who ricocheted back into the amplifiers like a skalded cat. But the conqueror did not refrain form his flow in order to don the proffered victor's laurel wreath. Instead he strode over to the crumpled casualty and brought the mic to his ear and poured a villainous villanelle of five withering tercets and a final quatrain which perforated the wretch's eardrum.

He would have served time for assault, this man who was in a hurry, but plea bargained in stanzas from the dock and agreed to serve in his nation's army. There he found a bounded outlet for his innate aggression, but his unusual aptitude for language meant that somehow his insurgent attitude towards authority was missed by his bamboozled ranking superiors. He represented his unit in mixed martial arts and in slam poetry contests and swept the boards in both. Gradually he rose up the hierarchy with stars and stripes pinned to his jacket. His rhymes softened from those jagged shards of the street, though his brutal rhythms became utterly martial.

He was given his own troop to command. His men were utterly loyal to him, for they knew no bullet could best him, nor any inferior superior officer could outblast his versified attacks on them. Even Generals took his adept poesy as a sign that he was a deep thinker. Gradually he began to strategise for divisions of men. Working in his tent by a candle glued into a skull by magma of melted wax, he plotted the ellipses of armies in the field like the rhythms across the paper. And when he had cracked the required manoeuvres, he relaxed by penning some battlefield verses to inspire his troops.

And while the prisoners of war were being rounded up, he took a tour of the latest liberated hamlet or suburb. He composed verses as he went. Paeans to the bilious, oily smoke plumes rising like diabolic elementals. Rhapsodies over the trituration of brick, the warping and shredding of steel structures. He coupleted cabling splayed and jutting from the mangled remains like jungle tendrils. Inverted pastoralisms. Villages rendered deserts under flame, towns metamorphosised into wastelands ("Take that Thomas Stearns Eliot, you only wrote about a figurative one, whereas I have both brought it about and them composed an epic treatise on it). He staked out a unique territory of a poetics of ruin and back home his adoring public loved his metered missives from the front.

But increasingly in his tent at night, it wasn't only mosquitoes which pricked his skin. He began to agonise about how the harmony and beauty of perfectly harnessed language in the form of a poem, could sit astride such horror and destruction. And more pertinently, how the same two forces pulling in contradictory directions could both reside within him simultaneously. How could he be a great, gifted man shone down upon by the creative light of the gods and muses, if he was also this terrible inhuman monster who lay waste to everything natural and manmade he encountered? And to then make art from it? To engender suffering and then romanticise it? His work went so much farther than mere propagandist doggerel of military and patriotic glorification. Rather it was the very essence of the human soul he was touching with his words. Because his own soul was so utterly debased? That could be the only explanation. Sowing dissonance everywhere in his wake, in order to plumb a personal seam of assonance?

In the isolation of his tent afforded by his stature and rank, he took his military pistol and brought it to his head seething with rhymes. The successful warrior could not be a poet. The successful poet could not continue to fight. As he pulled the trigger, he lost his first ever battle in his life.