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Well... apart from the alien uprisings from several parts of the globe.
But to the veterans it was life and now due to the increase in military movement a couple of bars had been started up. One of the first was a little Veterans club called Squaddie's Rest and was run by a vet named David Harrison.
The bar was just closed up and Harrison was tidying up, clearing away ash trays and beer mugs while taking a drag on a cigarette. There was no one left inside the place after he'd sent the three barmaids and the two barmen on their way home. To him this was the life.
"Squaddie Harrison." Harrison opened his hands leaving a beer mug and a pile of ashtrays on a table and turned slowly keeping his weight on his right foot, his two hands keeping at his side.
"No, sorry, you must have the wrong guy." He turned back and picked up the ashtrays while with the other hand loosening his oneshot from its wrist holster.
"David Harrison, Squaddie with the Cold Force, definite smoker, burnt in evac procedure before coldforce, rappel expert and now bar owner." The man, evident by his voice, sat down in a chair behind David.
"Nup, don't know him, though I did buy this joint off a guy named something like that, though I just knew his last name." Harrison had heard rumours of old Cold Force members having problems and despite knowing that he was a veteran he kept quite a low profile. The oneshot was in his hand now and ready for quick firing.
"You are David Harrison." This wasn't a question but a fact layed out. Harrison decided to skirt the issue.
"What do you want?" He started walking over to the counter with the ashtrays and the Beermugs.
"Sit down, Squaddie Harrison." Harrison turned then spied the Glock 18 in the man's right hand "Now."
Harrison placed the beer mugs down and moved over to the chair opposite. Pulling out a cigarette he contemplated his next move and lit up.
"We are wondering if you know the whereabouts of a few of your old aquaintances. Namely Seth Chabert, Kazuo Kamiya, oh and Jean Kemp?" The man sat back slowly, casually analyzing the area around. The gun wandered slightly but not too much.
"And who is asking?" Harrison placed both hands beside him.
"ISB." The man held up a badge showing his name as John Smith.
"Well Mr Smith, Seth Chabert is a washout, I called him a year or two back but that was the last contact. Kamiya was off doing some course I thought and Kemp, I think, had an upmarket apartment in down..." Harrison flicked his hand out in a gesture and pulled the trigger hitting the guy in the hand blowing the wrist apart and sending the gun flying. At that range it would have been harder to miss than hit. But this was a shot he hadn't really wanted.
In a second the bullet noise reached the two ISB agents outside. Harrison wasn't classed as much of a threat but he was someone that needed to be taken out. The bullet shot made them both flinch and turn but it was the scream that made them both reach for the door.
Harrison, after dropping the smoking pistol to the ground had run and rolled over the counter. The injured ISB agent was screaming as he held his hand to the wrist. The two other agents entered quickly like a swat team with pistols out at the ready but found that the main area was clear.
Harrison pressed a button under the counter and pulled out two glocks, one with a large barrel on the end of it.
The anti-riot shields came down padded at the bottom but still hard enough to hurt a person and blocking the back area from small caliber bullet fire. Instantly eight jets started spraying out teargas making the men gag. Harrison then grabbed a bag he kept there and rolled out into the back and jumped out the rear exit of the bar. Well, actually the small window in the toilets.
As he casually strolled down the city streets he thought of the warning that had sent him to becoming a fugitive. Them asking him the whereabout of Jean Kemp. Jean Kemp was meant to be dead, and his information source had also specified that ISB was involved. So he had known that from the start.
The odd thing was that he was sure Kemp wouldn't be taken that easily. Harrison's trenchcoat hung loosely on his body but hid a small arsenal inside the folds. He still couldn't understand what was happening and what had got Wychin to want to kill him. Ah well, he'd try and return that favor.
He lit up a ciggarrette and stepped into the mist contemplating his next move.
Written on August 18th, 2000 by Das AKA David Harrison AKA Mark Jorgenson