THAT FALL

Captain Yonkins Katro concluded failing his mission and burning alive in the stolen truck was exceedingly inconvenient. He shifted his significant bulk and confirmed the steering wheel pinned him and his broken leg. Pain with each breath evidenced broken ribs. Broken bones he could accept; failing his mission he could not. With resignation and preparing to face his displeased handlers, he brushed back his shaggy hair and activated the comm link embedded in his right temple. The transmitter hum filled his head as it connected to base operations.

A voice in Yonkins’ skull announced: “Finster 59381.”

Flames from under the dashboard nipped at his knees. Yonkins would not be returning the Ford F450 to the unsuspecting earthling who had left the keys in the ignition. More inconvenience. Yonkins strained to draw sufficient breath to groan a response. “34 dash 261, Katro, here.” He gulped. “Team 72V down. Send assist.” A stream of blood flooded his right eye. Blood escaping one’s head is very inconvenient.

“Locating you, Katro.” A pause. “Looks like Section 1971.”

Yonkins Katro gasped as his broken shin bone pushed farther out of his torn skin. Swallowing his scream, he said, “Copy that. Haste appreciated, Finster.”

Unconsciousness slinked toward him. He called to his partner, Vila. Her face was pressed against the passenger window and she had been motionless since the pulse missile impact. Through his undamaged eye, Yonkins could see a glass shard sticking out of the back of her head.

They had been driving towards the highway when they spotted the tracker following them. Certain they would make it to base, Yonkins was shocked when the p-missile struck and forced the truck off the road into the woods. He considered what to report to his superiors. While he was comfortable recalling the explosion, the impact into the tree and the sound of the glass rain, the sound of his shin cracking was an inconvenient memory he would try to forget.

Yonkins pushed his massive shoulder against the driver’s side door. The dashboard gauges were melting, and his thick forearm hair was singed. Very inconvenient. The plan had been to locate the Andolonian base, intercept transmissions and gather intelligence without being spotted, followed, and hit with a p-missile. Losing an eye, breaking a leg and crushing ribs was unplanned. The wedge of glass jammed though the back of Vila’s head was unplanned. Yonkins could hear Vila, wheezing in the passenger seat. Dying in some earthling’s work truck was not the plan.

A crackle on the line. “Katro. Agent NJ111 is en route to assist. Report.”

Yonkins realized the speaker was General Dentri. Very inconvenient. Yonkins Katro forced himself to respond. “Sir, we found the Andolonian fifth base. The Ryads had destroyed it. They were there. They…” he gasped as his broken shin bone sliced his flesh, “they spotted us.”

Flames spurt from under the dash, igniting the front of his pants and burning the carpet of hair from his thighs. Inconveniently painful. Yonkins called out for Vila.

“Backup one minute from you, Katro. Hold on,” Finster said.

Flames illuminated the cab. Katro winced, sputtering, “the Ryads know about the agents.”

“All the agents?” General Dentri asked, nonplussed.

“Yes.” Yonkins gulped, struggling away from the flames snapping at his knee. Extremely inconvenient. He wiped blood from his eye. “All the agents, sir. And the Ryads are planning an intercept pulse. To trap our agents….” The cloudiness shifted from his occluded eye to inside his skull.

“What is the location of the intercept generator? Katro?”

“We… we don’t know, sir. And… it’s to activate in less than five minutes… at 20 hours…” Katro lost consciousness as flames blew the hood from the truck. His last thought was how, at exactly 8 pm, every agent assigned to Earth would suffer a high-pitched siren echoing through his or her head. Each transmitter ring would explode. Exceedingly inconvenient.