Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure

The eighteen-wheeler rumbled on through the desert, flanked by a convoy of COO gunships.
The driver set his jaw, his gimlet eye fixed on the horizon. He was calm — tense, but calm. He blinked — it brought up the MIS radar feed in his HUD. The MIS feed swept a sixty-five degree field in front of the rig, left and right. It mostly flatlined — minor blips, 300 yards out, at 40 degrees. “You seein’ these, Jigsy?”
“On the MIS? Yaaah, Schweiner, I’m seeing them. Docs jocks I think. All cool.”
The scope screwed in and brought up a video feed. Sure enough: a couple of local negotiators ambled ambling around a watering hole. Little threat at this distance.
“Want me to clear them out, Schweiner?”
Schweiner shrugged. “Nah, we’re all good, Jigsy.” But Jigsy had a wild streak. Most of the uniform bulls in legal ops, did. “Ahh, it. Why the hell not?” Jigsy’s gunship let rip — lit up the GMLSA guy like a candle. Jigsy whooped. “SOX attest that my paisan!” Jigsy blammed out another — a lame-ass confi — just for the hell of it. “There you go, Schweiner - the coast is clear. We are fully operationalised and go for payload.” Schweiner checked the clock. They were making good time. The cargo was steady. The rig was kicked up a Saharan plume. They were rocking now: there would be dogfights later. Let’s keep the gang loose for now. We’ll have plenty to get done later on. “Read you loud and clear Jigsy. Stand down and accelerate.”

From high on the mountain promontory, Seven klicks to the left and 4,000m above of the oncoming rig, Opco Boone observed the rising plume one the desert floor. He didn't need his telegraphic scope. These suckers were coming on, clear as day. Brazen. He spoke into his wrist comm. “All right, Chip, I’m going in.”

Boone stood on the cliff edge. As he snapped it down, the sun caught his visor for an instant. If Schweiner caught the sparkle ten klicks away it didn't register.

Boone flipped off the safety catch and dived.