One Man's Trash (IC, Closed)

Darkness enshrouded the landscape of western Xentherida, as a cargo train hurtled past the station. Lying atop the roof of the station, shrouded in darkness with his black uniform, Fritjolf checked his watch. 2:18 AM. Five minutes until the target arrived.

"Recon. How long until the target arrives?" someone whispered through a walkie-talkie.

"Five minutes. Get ready." Fritjolf murmured back.

Inside the small station, within a locked supply cupboard, lay half a dozen corpses, blood still seeping out from the cold bodies, through various bullet wounds. Their impostors had stripped the corpses of their clothes, and now stood guard around the station in the stolen uniforms. A further half-dozen hid on top of the roof, along with Fritjolf, their silenced pistols cocked and loaded.

The screech of the train could now be heard, and a faint light from the train's front at the edge of the horizon. Four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

Nine months of planning was to finally come to fruition.

As the train finally came to a halt, the six guards of the train departed, their shifts finished, and walked into the station. However, as the impostors took their place, one guard noticed the large wooden crate that two were carrying, and immediately became suspicious.

"What's in the crate you got there?" he asked.

"Equipment." one impostor brusquely replied.

"Let's see then" the guard said, as everyone's attention turned to the crate.

The impostor shrugged, and made a show of unlocking the box. As this happened, the agents on the rooftops quietly descended, and withdrew their weapons, each aiming for one target. As the box was finally opened, and the guards looked in shock, the agents fired quickly and cleanly, their silencers making only a muffled pop to disturb the silence of the night as the limp corpses of the guards collapsed to the floor with a thud.

The impostors then drew their own weapons, and shot each guard once more before holstering, confirming that they were dead, and closed the crate and holstered their pistols. After picking up the crate, they boarded the train, showing their fake identification tags to the driver, being careful to keep the crate out of the driver's view. Thankfully, he had no noticed the scene; the shootings had taken place indoors, out of view of the driver.

The agents inside the station got to work concealing evidence; hiding the bodies, to be burned at a later time; washing the blood off the tiles, and picking up the spent bullet cartridges. No evidence could be left behind.

Fritjolf, carrying a large metal suitcase, quietly jumped from the low roof of the station onto the top of the few carriages at the front, that were used for the guards' quarters, landing with barely a sound. "In position" he radioed to the rest of his squad on the train.

The train finally departed the station, the slow churn of the engines getting louder as the train sped up away from the station. Time to begin phase two.

Fritjolf checked his watch again, as he held onto the train with his other hand. 2:44AM. Time to start the crucial part. He once more notified his team in the train, and one impostor began the walk up to the driver's cab.

He reached the door of the cab, watching the driver through the glass that made windows in the door. Slowly, he reached out, and took hold of the door handle, and carefully, began to open the door, trying to remain silent. But despite his care, the door emitted a slow, mournful creak.

The driver heard this, and spun quickly in his seat. Wasting no time, the impostor drew his pistol and fired once, twice, three times into the driver's neck, the silencer muffling the sound as the subsonic rounds whizzed through the air. One bullet pierced the skin, and, spinning and fragmenting, severed the carotid artery, as the other two shredded his throat and spinal cord.

Immediately, blood spurted from the wound, spraying the impostor with the crimson liquid. The driver collapsed, dying, as his own heart emptied his veins, killing him with each and every pump. Within a matter of seconds he was dead, the light fading from his eyes as he slumped to the floor.

Ignoring the blood, the impostor searched for the brakes on the train, and, having found them after a minute of frantic searching, pulled the lever. As the brakes activated, they screamed in their high pitched voice, the sound echoing throughout the plains throughout the region.

A large, unmarked truck had now pulled up, side by side with the train, matching the speed as the train as it slowed, eventually coming to a stop. The drivers exited their vehicle, and the impostors departed the train. Fritjolf too dismounted from his position atop the carriages, still clutching the metal suitcase, and joined the rest of the group.

Phase three was about to begin.

One driver turned to Fritjolf. "You have the explosives?"

Fritjolf nodded, and held the suitcase aloft.

"Then let's get cracking. Open the suitcase and get to work on the flasks."

Fritjolf turned away from the group, and boarded the train once more. The corpse of the driver still lay, as warm blood dripped from the three tears in his neck. However, Fritjolf gave the corpse a mere glance, before turning and searching for the crate the impostors had brought aboard. He located it, and opened it, and searched for his gear. His radiation suit.

Once changed, he disembarked the train, and retrieved his suitcase. Walking towards the large metal cylinders behind the train, ignoring the large radiation warning sprayed on the side. He set down his suitcase next to the flask, and opened it. Inside was an enormous Krakatoa charge. Just one the size of a can of soft drink could penetrate an inch of steel at a range of 25 yards. But while he would be much closer, he would still need to punch through over fifteen inches of the metal, yet still being careful not to damage the goods inside.

He set the bomb, and activated the detonator detector. He ran to the group, and motioned for them to take cover, before dialling a number on the phone. As the call connected to the detector, it ignited the detonator.

KA-BOOM.

The sound of the explosive rang through Fritjolf's ears, knocking him off balance. A gout of flame erupted as the device blasted open the casing of the nuclear flask, and a plume of smoke rose high into the night. Thankfully, these soon died off, revealing the treasures within.

The others kept back, destroying incriminating evidence, and setting up the next part of the plan, as Fritjolf walked to the flask. He climbed the wreckage of the flask's exterior, still warm from the explosion, and examined within, at the black case.

While it had a few scratches on it, it appeared intact. Fritjolf opened the case, examining the contents within. There it was; high-grade nuclear waste, meant to be heading from the power stations in Kerwan to the nuclear waste facilities near Tabora, to be broken down and buried for thousands of years.

He closed the case, and motioned for the other impostors to help him. Thankfully for them, while heavy, the lead-and-aluminium-lined case protected them from any harmful alpha, beta or gamma rays; it was just Fritjolf exposed to the radiation as he opened the case, but he had worn his suit to prevent any cancers or cyclops babies from popping up.

They carried the case to the truck, and secured it in the back. The package was secure. Their job done, the drivers and impostors set off for their next destination; the group's headquarters in Aridia.

The other impostors set about for the next task - the only way to make sure no blame could be pointed on them. The derailment of the train itself. The train was to be set to maximum power, and on a sharp turn just a few miles ahead, explosives on the wheels would detonate, toppling the train. A dislodged pole would serve as the "cause of death" for the driver, spearing him through the neck, disguising bullet wounds. They had made sure this would happen; the planners at base had shown them how to do this. The hole through the flask would have to be as a result of the crash, but whether this was believed by the authorities, they could only hope. The only hole would be the missing waste, but with no links to go on, it would be assumed missing; buried beneath the train. And when they excavated that out, their plan would already be in action.

The crate was taken from the train, and explosives planted on the wheels, and finally, a remote device set to activate the engines. And within no time, it was off, almost flying through the landscape.

Within minutes, it had neared the turn, and the explosives detonated perfectly, despite the range. The wheels disintegrated, and the train toppled over, screaming iron grating against the bare tracks. It toppled on its right in a vast field, perfectly hiding the gaping hole in the side. Nothing would be recovered from that for a long time.

The next day, news shows across the nation reported this. "BREAKING NEWS," the headlines shouted. "TRAIN CARRYING NUCLEAR WASTE DERAILS IN WESTERN XENTHERIDA."

Fritjolf walked the streets of Aridia, past an electronics store. As he saw the headlines, he smiled to himself. This was only just the beginning to the rise of the Neo-Aterkom Union.