Five women in a plane, in various stances of brooding, except for Victoria Creed, who is lightly cleaning the blood off her hands with a silk kerchief. Loren, leaned against the window, back to it, smoking; Dana North stoic, busying herself, reloading ammunition pockets; Irina Ismaylova, tight-lipped, polishing her gun with angry strokes; Maryanne Robinson sitting, arms crossed around her, not quite rocking, gazing out the window into the darkness. One man among them, Donald Buchanan is sitting and strapped in, apathetic but aware enough of the tension around him to not congratulate anyone on a job well done.
Creed looks at the people around her with a smirk, and begins to hum cheerily. A few seconds go by, with no bites, and then Ismaylova bursts from her seat, in a heavily-accented voice
"Enough! No more humming! I will NOT listen to it! Who are you to be so happy," snarling at Creed, "you with your bloody-"
A voice from the corner, Loren. "Simmer down, 'Smay. We're none of us in the mood." She shoots a look at Creed, who snickers.
Ismaylova quiets, sulkily, then repeats, more calmly, "I will not listen to it." She reaches over and flips the switch for the radio, anything to distract from Creed. At first the initial crackle of static, and then
"-from within, breached. I repeat, mayday, security *has* been breached, we are under attack from within. Requesting the aid of any surrounding forces; this is Position 157-R. Repeat, mayd-"
Sniped silent by Buchanan. "I think I would prefer the humming."
North looks up with interest, "Where are we?"
Buchanan nervously answers, "We are en route to Position 245 to rendez-vous with the Colonel."
"Where *are* we?" she asks again, with more force.
Hesitates, and then "We're directly over Position 161, but," he adds quickly, "our mission is to proceed to 245 to rendez-vous with-"
"Our mission was bunk, Buchanan," Loren says, straightening, eyes narrowed. "We found nothing."
"Yes," adds Ismaylova,"It was a civilian campsite. Those people," she looks pointedly at Creed, "were innocent."
"Then the Colonel needs to know that," Buchanan blusters.
"Bull," says Loren. "The Colonel can wait. Take us down."
"All of you, calm down. I'm sure there are other planes flying through this area. They will pick up the distress call just as we did. *They* can lend assistance."
"Robinson?"
The girl in the window seat looks up. "Um, no, sir, actually, according to the flight plans you had me look at before we left, well . . . there's no one coming through here tonight but us, sir."
"No one but us, Buchanan. Take us down."
"Now wait just a moment, Loren, I'm in charge here and I say-"
North rises and in a blur of vision Buchanan's face is pinched against a fresh-oiled magnum.
"It would seem, *sir*, that we're in charge here. Now tell the pilot to take us down."
Buchanan's face pales before turning contrastly a bright red. Tight-lipped and humiliated, he orders the pilot to land.
Having watched the proceedings with great amusement, Creed rises from her seat and, meticulously smoothing her sleek black uniform, with a feral grin,
"Let's party, ladies."
me xxy