PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 7
Dystopian Psychological Thriller
PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 7
©2022 Stephen Conway
“Come-in SWAT recon. Come-in SWAT recon,” I shout into the control room radio receiver.
“Omar. Come in. Cortez. Presley, Bowman! Respond. I can’t get any of these people. SWAT recon. Report please,” I say to the half-dozen others seated in the dark control room—their console screens casting a glow under their chins.
Radio silence.
Static.
“Triangulate on anyone that might be in that area. I want to see who’s doing what and where. Give me the coordinates of….” The control room radio speaker cuts me off.
“This is SWAT recon. 10-11. SWAT recon. Repeat 10-11. Cortez is breathing.”
“What the hell is going on down there?” I say. My knuckles are white squeezing the receiver.
“What do you mean Cortez is breathing? What about the others?”
Silence.
“Are you deaf? What about the others?” I shout into the receiver.
“Negative, negative,” the voice says.
“What about that chopper,” I say to one of the control room techs. “Don’t we have air coverage there?”
The tech radios, “Sky-Eye. Sky-Eye. Come-in Sky-Eye. Report.”
The control room speaker clicks. The high-pitched screeeeee of the helicopter shoots out of the speakers, filling the control room. A blend of the engine that churns the transmission that spins the mast whipping the rotor blades.
“Sky-Eye here. Scanning for target activity. Hovering over a large airbag situated behind the building. JUMP JUMP JUMP in big letters. No sign of target or enemy activity. Moving in closer. Rooftop SWAT personnel retreating from down-draft debris,” the chopper pilot shouts over the noise inside the chopper’s fuselage.
“Sky-Eye, shoot to kill. I repeat shoot to kill,” I say.
“Copy Control. Shoot to kill,” the pilot responds.
The radio goes silent.
“SWAT recon to Control. No sign of target. Repeat no sign of target,” the pilot says.
Clicking the intercom button and turning to the control room staff, I say “want everyone to this. You’re all telling me this person just vanished? Vanished after killing four of our people? How is this possible. Is this some kind of ghost or something?”
“Keep this channel open,” I say to the pilot.
Silence, except to the chopper’s scree scratching the air.
“What? What was that?” The pilot says to his co-pilot off to the side of his headset microphone.
“Sky-Eye here. Requesting external visuals from rooftop SWAT. Requesting external fuselage visuals from rooftop SWAT,” the pilot shouts.
“Please confirm or deny.”
SWAT here:
Individual hanging from the chopper’s landing skid. Repeat. Individual hanging from chopper landing skid.”
“What?” I say, shouting into the radio receiver. “That’s him. That’s gotta be him. That’s the target. Shoot to kill. Shoot to kill!” I shout into the receiver.
The Sky-Eye pilot shouts “negative. Negative. Do not engage. Do not fire.”
Ping-Pang. Ping-Ping-Pang. Pung. Ping. The sound of bullet ricochets spill over the control room speakers.
“Sky-Eye hit. Sky-Eye hit. Pressure dropping. Pulling out. Sky-Eye,” the pilot says. “Pulling out,” the pilot says.
The aircraft lifts up and over the low buildings. Telephone wires and tree branches trying to entangle the crafts rotors.
“All ground support. Follow that chopper. Repeat. Follow that God damn chopper,” I say.