I'm going up to make sure our 'copter's outfitted.
Joseph, give it another minute and then turn it over to the boys at the front desk. You can help these two carry the equipment up. I'll see you on top.
Wesker nodded to them and hurried out, his footsteps clattering loudly down the hall.
He's good, Barry said quietly, and Chris had to agree. It was reassuring to see that their new captain didn't rattle easily. Chris still wasn't sure how he felt about the man personally, but his respect for Wesker's abilities was growing by the minute.
Come in, Bravo, do you copy? Repeat…
Joseph patiently went on, his voice tight with strain, his pleas lost to the haze of white static that pulsed out into the room.
Wesker strode down the deserted hall and through the shabbier of the two second-floor waiting rooms, nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms that stood talking by the soda machine.
The door to the outside landing was chocked open, a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much longer. He hoped that wouldn't complicate matters, although he figured it probably would…
Wesker took a left and started down the winding corridor that led to the helipad, absently running through a mental checklist. … hailing open procedure, weapons, gear, report…
He already knew that everything was in order, but went through it again anyway; it didn't pay to get sloppy, and assumptions were the first step down that path. He liked to think of himself as a man of precision, one who had taken all possibilities into account and decided on the best course of action after thoroughly weighing all factors. Control was what being a competent leader was all about.
But to close this case…
He shut the thought down before it could get any further. He knew what had to be done, and there was still plenty of time. All he needed to concentrate on now was getting the Bravos back, safe and sound.
Wesker opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped out into the bright evening, the rising hum of the 'copter's engine and the smell of machine oil filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was cooler than inside, partly draped by the shadow of an aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Joseph and the rookie check both birds out yesterday and they'd been fine, all systems go.
He dismissed that train of thought as he walked toward the 'copter, his shadow falling long across the concrete. It didn't matter why, not anymore. What mattered was what came next. Expect the unexpected, that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto, although that basically meant to prepare for anything.
Expect nothing, that was Albert Wesker's motto. A little less catchy, maybe, but infinitely more useful. It virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise him.
He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a shaky thumbs-up from Vickers; the man looked positively green, and Wesker briefly considered leaving him behind. Chris was licensed to fly, and Vickers had a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if there was trouble. Then he thought about the lost Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue mission. The worst Vickers could do would be to throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly, and Wesker could live with that.
He opened the side door and crouched his way into the cabin, doing a quick inventory of the equipment that lined the walls. Emergency flares, ration kits… he popped the lid on the heavy, dented footlocker behind the benches and looked through the basic medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as ready as they were going to be…
Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian Irons was doing right now.
Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons liked to think he could control everything and everyone around him and lost his temper when he couldn't, and that made him an idiot.
Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out carefully before taking the position in Raccoon City, and knew a few things about the chief that didn't paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no intention of using that information, but if Irons attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker had no qualms about letting that information get out… …or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd certainly keep him out of the way.
Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carrying more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started for the 'copter. Chris and Joseph followed, Chris with the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs, the compact grenade launcher slung over one shoulder.
Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as though it didn't weigh over a hundred pounds. Barry was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks.
As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker turned his attention back to the door, watching for Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been just under five minutes since their last contact with Bravo, they'd made excellent time… so where the hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her file was a rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last captain as highly intelligent and unusually calm in a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a couple of decades back. He'd trained her to follow in his footsteps, and word had it that she had done quite well until Daddy had been incarcerated…
Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch.
He silently urged Jill to get her ass into gear and motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning.
It was time to find out how bad things were out there.
THREE
Jill turned toward the door of the dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a wellworn black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three minutes to load up.
She'd gone through all of the Alpha lockers, grabbing utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and shoulder packs, noting that the lockers reflected their user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun magazine, a rare.45 Luger, shining against red velvet.
Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose papers, even a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo with a broken string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and Joseph, a Three Stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly wound to place much value on sentiment.
Her own locker held a number of used paperback true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints, and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an old, frayed photo of her and her father, taken when she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she had free time; anyone looking through her locker would think she was some kind of dental freak.