SOE Untold Story
1924H: Somewhere in the Asian Tropics
In the dark stillness of the jungle, a thin spear of blackness slowly thrust into the moonlight, the movement agonizingly slow, a lethal serpent ready to strike. The black spear unhurriedly revealed itself as a deadly M-16 assault rifle, held by a man in green and black stripes. To a common farmer, the man seemed to have very peculiar eyes protruding from his face. To those whose business is death and destruction, the man is wearing an AN/PVS-7 3rd generation night vision goggles (NVG) -- a device that is readily available in the Internet for a price.
| Khan wished he could get his hands on a pair of 5th generation NVG, but those were strictly restricted to US and British special forces personnel. He looked to his left at his buddy still hiding within the shadows of the other side of a creek, and nodded his head. Markus, known as "The Pest" to his superiors, is also equipped with a similar NVG. He saw the all-clear signal from Khan and nodded back. He clicked his thoat mic. "Scorpy, Markus. Front is clear and secured." A female voice answered in crisp tones, "Copy that." Markus waited until Khan looked at him, signaled for a wider perimeter probe, and they silently stalked to the very edge of the tree line. The two pointmen hunkered down in the darkness, their bodies still but tense, their eyes moving, their heads swiveling in very minute angles, searching for small movements or odd objects that may expose an unseen enemy. Ten quiet minutes later, the two looked at each other and nodded in satisfaction. Markus clicked his radio, "Scorpy, Markus. LZ Stratos looks clear, no tangos in sight." "Roger that," Scorpy replied. "Lacrimosa, Scorpy," she called to the squad sniper hiding on a nearby hilltop, "what's your status?" "Scorpy, Lacrimosa. All clear in my sector." Scorpy, the squad leader, looked at Miakulet, the long-range radio operator. Miakulet nodded in silent understanding, grabbed her handset, and whispered, "Mother Lode, Cobalt... Aileen," giving the code for extraction by helicopter. Miakulet listened for a moment, then looked back at Scorpy. "Our ride is inbound, 15 minutes ETA." Scorpy clicked her throat mic to address her squad. "Listen up, Cobalt! We have inbound in 15 minutes. I repeat, one-five minutes. Hold your positions, and watch out for tangos." She slowly shifted to a more comfortable one-knee stance, and peered at hushed green hell enclosing them at all sides. F**k the heat, she thought. F**k this jungle. And f**k all stupid scientists with their f**king inventions. She turned to look at their "package," a 53-year-old short and chubby man with his gangly 6-year-old daughter. She shook her head slightly in disgust, and returned to her vigil. | ||||
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Scorpion Rules, or Scorpy as her comrades fondly call her, is fiercely dedicated to her deadly crafts and to her beliefs of freedoms so sacred to humanity. She is comfortable with herself, living with the knowledge that she is ready to lay down her life for a worthy cause, however abstract in principle, shunning the pale 9-to-5 existence of her generation.
A product of a Scottish father and an Indian mother that gave her a petite, dark beauty and a bubbly personality, Scorpy was an unlikely candidate for combat operations. Although she is ardently independent and stubborn, Scorpy usually displays kindness and a bright smile that can light up a room, and is considered the life of the party.
But ten years ago she accompanied some friends to a regional IPCS competition, where she was ragged by her companions to try her hand at pistols. Not one to back down from a challenge, Scorpy registered herself for the competition. With no prior skills at weapons handling, she stunned a flabbergasted crowd with a staggering 4th place finish from a field of hundreds. But no one was more stunned than herself.
A product of a Scottish father and an Indian mother that gave her a petite, dark beauty and a bubbly personality, Scorpy was an unlikely candidate for combat operations. Although she is ardently independent and stubborn, Scorpy usually displays kindness and a bright smile that can light up a room, and is considered the life of the party.
But ten years ago she accompanied some friends to a regional IPCS competition, where she was ragged by her companions to try her hand at pistols. Not one to back down from a challenge, Scorpy registered herself for the competition. With no prior skills at weapons handling, she stunned a flabbergasted crowd with a staggering 4th place finish from a field of hundreds. But no one was more stunned than herself.
Her father, however, was not that surprised. Nor was he happy. A direct descendant of William Wallace, the braveheart of Scotland, it would seem Scorpy had inherited the blood of a great warrior and his thirst for justice and adventure.
After a week she was approached by a man in black. And three weeks later Scorpy flew to an undisclosed location in the Scottish highlands for the first of many trainings in the art and science of stealth and death. She has never looked back, never regretted her decision.
And now here she was, leading another lethal squad to complete another objective -- the latest in her work of leading deadly men and women around the planet, killing and destroying to save the world. Hers is obviously not a safe and dull life.
"ETA one minute, Scorpy," Miakulet said, still in contact with the chopper pilot. It was a redundant remark, for everyone could hear the four helicopters coming for them. Scorpy was about to activate her radio when several fingers of white smoke suddenly reached up for the sky.
"RPGs!" said Lacrimosa, his shout of barely controlled excitement painfully piercing his squadmates' ears. "They're gonna hit..."
After a week she was approached by a man in black. And three weeks later Scorpy flew to an undisclosed location in the Scottish highlands for the first of many trainings in the art and science of stealth and death. She has never looked back, never regretted her decision.
And now here she was, leading another lethal squad to complete another objective -- the latest in her work of leading deadly men and women around the planet, killing and destroying to save the world. Hers is obviously not a safe and dull life.
"ETA one minute, Scorpy," Miakulet said, still in contact with the chopper pilot. It was a redundant remark, for everyone could hear the four helicopters coming for them. Scorpy was about to activate her radio when several fingers of white smoke suddenly reached up for the sky.
"RPGs!" said Lacrimosa, his shout of barely controlled excitement painfully piercing his squadmates' ears. "They're gonna hit..."
No, thought Scorpy. Not all are RPGs, the ubiquitous Russian-made, rocket-propelled grenades that dominated any terrorist arsenal. She recognized the flight pattern and smoke signature of one missile trail. A Stinger - made in the US and very hi-tech - was definitely going after the lead chopper.
Scorpy could hear Miakulet screaming at the headset, "Stratos, Stratos, evade! RPGs, evade!"
Scorpy could hear Miakulet screaming at the headset, "Stratos, Stratos, evade! RPGs, evade!"
Too late. The Stinger missile slammed into the starboard side of the lead flight. The chopper swung violently to the right, spinning out of control as it dropped rapidly to the ground. A massive explosion ripped through the quiet horizon. The Scorpion watched the fireball with stony eyes, while her mind quailed at the sight. "No..." | ||||
| 1955H: Somewhere in London "Stratos, Stratos, evade! RPGs, evade!" a female voice shrieked through the speakers, filling the huge room with an odd kind of horror. After a lot of static, the pilot's stoic voice came in. "Mayday. Mayday. Stratos One is hit... we are going down!" Then the faint voice of the co-pilot could be heard in the background, "Prepare for crash landing..." Then silence. Musketero frowned at everyone in the operations control room, hiding the fear he felt deep down to his bowels. He was about to speak when the radio speakers crackled to life again. "Mother Lode, this is Stratos Two. Stratos One is down. We have RPGs like ants after sugar. Awaiting instructions." In two bounds Musketero grabbed the microphone from the radio operator. "Stratos Two, Mother Load," he said. "Abort." A heavy sigh of failure seem to settle inside the room. "I say again, abort. Return to base." Ignoring the pilot's affirmation, Musketero ran to his table and took a red, old-fashioned telephone from inside a drawer. Putting the handpiece to his ear, he waited for someone to pick up at the other end of the line. When someone did, he said tersely, "We have a situation. Code Yellow." Then he replaced the handpiece. Dear God, he thought, this is not funny. He went outside to light a smoke, trying to steady his badly shaking hands. He walked aimlessly across the ground, then looked back through the foggy mists of London to study the facade of "The Mansion," housing the ultra-secret organization known as SOE. The Strategic Operations Executive started way back in July 1940 as a British secret service. Founded by then British prime minister Winston Churchill with the words, Set Europe Ablaze!" the organization's prime directive was to counter the Nazi threat with "irregular warfare" strategies -- to win the war against Hitler's Germany not with ships, tanks, planes, bombs and guns, but by sheer guts and ingenuity. After the war, the SOE was disbanded in 1946 and its operations were absorbed by the British MI-6. And so a highly unusual but very successful group of intrepid people faded into the night of history. Or so the world thought... Churchill, truly a man of vision, foresaw a bleak future of ambitious dictators and mad terrorists running rampant in a world that wants peace. "Insecure blokes with the power to kill," he once said to a most trusted aide. He knew that unless a few good men would be there to stop the madness, every nation in the planet would be scorched to the ground. So, in a daring move, Churchill hid SOE from the public eye, and relocated the organization deeper in the bureaucracy. Effective and efficient counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism lies in maximum secrecy. The world must never know that SOE is still alive to combat the enemies of modern civilization. | |||
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| Musketero was still musing to himself when he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder. Turning, he faced the SOE commander-in-chief, the man whose identity is so secret that he is only known as Stormtrooper. Also affectionately called behind his back as "Il Supremo" by the SOE operatives, Stormtropper is a mild-mannered gentleman portraying an image of unshakable inner calm in the midst of utter chaos. His mere presence inspires confidence and hope in desperate situations. But while his exploits are legendary within the halls of SOE, the path his life took leading to this moment is a story only a chosen few will ever know. A dedicated physician born in Canada, Stormtrooper joined a United Nations medical mission in the Congo during the fierce ethnic wars of the 1980s. One day, his camp was overrun by a rebel faction. At first the UN medical staff thought the rebels only wanted the crates containing medicine and medical equipment. But when the angry rebels started burning the crates, the medical staff was thrown into confusion. One doctor ran towards the burning crates, crying "What the hell are you doing?" in sheer despair. Along the way he grabbed a wet blanket that was hung on a wire to dry in the sun. Must smother the fire, the good doctor thought. He never made it. A burly African blocked the angry doctor's way, sweeping the Russian AK-47 assault rifle in an upward swing and hitting the doctor's chin with the hard wooden stock. As the dazed doctor slumped to the hard, dusty ground the rebel slammed the butt end of his rifle to the nape, breaking the doctor's neck and killing him instantly. It was the start of a bloody massacre the man called Stormtrooper will relieve over and over again in his dreams. The rebels started shooting doctors, nurses and patients alike, their bodies shuddering as bullets ripped their flesh apart. Stormtropper tried to shield a young girl with a cast to mend a broken leg, holding her close and enfolding her with his body. A bayonet ran through his back, rupturing a lung and missing his heart by a mere centimeter. As he slumped to the ground, dying, he could hear the screams amidst the death rattle of the guns like they were far away from him. He could see his blood being sucked into the thirsty African soil that he had come to love. A faint smile touched his face. It is only fitting that I die here, he thought vaguely. And then he plunged into darkness. | ||||
1955H: Somewhere in the Asian Tropics
There was no time to lose, thought the Scorpion. LZ Stratos, their primary landing zone, is now a "hot" destination. Tangos are closing in on them, and if they are to survive the next few hours, the Cobalt squad must move quickly.
Activating her radio, Scorpy said, "Listen up, Cobalt! We're going to our secondary LZ, about fifteen clicks away. Markus, Khan, I need a clearance sweep to the southeast. Lacrimosa, protect our exposed flank and rear. The rest of you form a diamond defense. You heard the word. Let's go, let's go!"
Donning her helmet, Miakulet followed Scorpy's brisk pace. Behind them, the rest of the squad fell into place: Sgt Slaughter at the front of the scientist and his daughter, YinYang and Mus@ng at both sides, and Gamble covering the rear -- forming a "diamond" to protect their "package" in their midst. They have all witnessed the explosion, but they are professional soldiers who have gone to hell and back a few times. For them, this is just another snafu.
Although slow movements are the norm in jungle warfare, the squad needed to cross an open field of about ten kilometers -- clicks -- wide. Speed, then, is of the essence to reach the dark safety of the trees.
They were a couple of clicks away from the tree line when Lacrimosa's voice came in the squad's radio frequency. "Uh, Scorpy, Lacrimosa. You have a problem..."
Oh, thank you so much for telling me that, a tired Scorpy thought irritably, and was going to retort when she heard it. She swung around sharply, eyes widening. Everyone froze in their tracks.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/DirtBikes.jpg)
"Tangos in dirt bikes," Lacrimosa said calmly, as if he was talking about the weather. "I count twelve, I say one-two. Bearing down at your five. Good luck."
Lacrimosa's last remark emphasized one of the sniper's terrible weaknesses. With his distance and his riflescope showing a very narrow field of view, Lacrimosa cannot possibly hit the swift, bouncing target a dirt bike presented. The tangos have innovatively used the fast-moving motorcycles to great advantage in rough, uneven terrain. The sniper, in this instance, is relegated to a mere observer, unable to help his squad.
Sgt Slaughter launched himself upon the professor and his child, bringing them down with him to the ground. He will be the last line of defense, his body a frail armor to cover the hapless civilians. The other members of the "diamond" positioned themselves to a one-knee stance -- presenting a low profile while bringing stability to their aim and flexibility to their movement.
Miakulet likewise knelt down with he![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/m203.gif)
r rifle up, taking Sgt Slaughter's position while giving the standing Scorpy a clear view. The squad leader hefted her M4 rifle to her shoulder while clicking her radio with a free hand. "Khan! Back up our six! Hubba hubba!"
Activating her radio, Scorpy said, "Listen up, Cobalt! We're going to our secondary LZ, about fifteen clicks away. Markus, Khan, I need a clearance sweep to the southeast. Lacrimosa, protect our exposed flank and rear. The rest of you form a diamond defense. You heard the word. Let's go, let's go!"
Donning her helmet, Miakulet followed Scorpy's brisk pace. Behind them, the rest of the squad fell into place: Sgt Slaughter at the front of the scientist and his daughter, YinYang and Mus@ng at both sides, and Gamble covering the rear -- forming a "diamond" to protect their "package" in their midst. They have all witnessed the explosion, but they are professional soldiers who have gone to hell and back a few times. For them, this is just another snafu.
Although slow movements are the norm in jungle warfare, the squad needed to cross an open field of about ten kilometers -- clicks -- wide. Speed, then, is of the essence to reach the dark safety of the trees.
They were a couple of clicks away from the tree line when Lacrimosa's voice came in the squad's radio frequency. "Uh, Scorpy, Lacrimosa. You have a problem..."
Oh, thank you so much for telling me that, a tired Scorpy thought irritably, and was going to retort when she heard it. She swung around sharply, eyes widening. Everyone froze in their tracks.
"Tangos in dirt bikes," Lacrimosa said calmly, as if he was talking about the weather. "I count twelve, I say one-two. Bearing down at your five. Good luck."Lacrimosa's last remark emphasized one of the sniper's terrible weaknesses. With his distance and his riflescope showing a very narrow field of view, Lacrimosa cannot possibly hit the swift, bouncing target a dirt bike presented. The tangos have innovatively used the fast-moving motorcycles to great advantage in rough, uneven terrain. The sniper, in this instance, is relegated to a mere observer, unable to help his squad.
Sgt Slaughter launched himself upon the professor and his child, bringing them down with him to the ground. He will be the last line of defense, his body a frail armor to cover the hapless civilians. The other members of the "diamond" positioned themselves to a one-knee stance -- presenting a low profile while bringing stability to their aim and flexibility to their movement.
Miakulet likewise knelt down with he
r rifle up, taking Sgt Slaughter's position while giving the standing Scorpy a clear view. The squad leader hefted her M4 rifle to her shoulder while clicking her radio with a free hand. "Khan! Back up our six! Hubba hubba!"As Khan came running to beef up the rear defense with Gamble, the Scorpion yelled, "Fire in the hole!" and unleashed the fury of her M203 grenade launcher.
Scorpy timed her launch well, hitting the tango bike squadron just before they could scatter. She saw four bodies flying in the air and said to herself, "Ten more to go...." and the entire squad fired their automatic rifles simultaneously.
In rough terrain, a biker needs both hands to control the motorcycle at speed. For firepower, a second man sits behind with a jury-rigged seatbelt to strap him to the bike, leaving his hands free for his gun. Of course, with the bike bouncing every which way during high speed runs, there is no way to effectively aim the gun at a target. So the biker must stop at irregular intervals for a second or two to allow his gunner to fire, and then to speed up again to another location for another shot selection.
In rough terrain, a biker needs both hands to control the motorcycle at speed. For firepower, a second man sits behind with a jury-rigged seatbelt to strap him to the bike, leaving his hands free for his gun. Of course, with the bike bouncing every which way during high speed runs, there is no way to effectively aim the gun at a target. So the biker must stop at irregular intervals for a second or two to allow his gunner to fire, and then to speed up again to another location for another shot selection.
The trick is not to shoot at the tangos, who present slim profiles and even slimmer chances for hits, but to spray lead at the motorcycles with their exposed engines and fuel tanks. This the Cobalt squad did - calmly selecting their targets in their assigned fire zones, leading their aim, and firing in controlled bursts.
Gamble hit a bike going to his left. The tango gunner was writhing from a leg wound as the smoking bike came to a stop. YinYang immediately swung her shotgun and pumped lethal pellets, killing both driver and gunner.
Mus@ng threw a fragmentaion grenade high and wide to where two tango bikes were turning to attack again. The grenade blew up while still in the air, raining iron shrapnel down on the tangos, killing them before they know what hit them.
Miakulet hit a gas tank, and the bike caught fire, frying the tangos alive on their seats. She fired a lazy-eight to bring them out of their misery, and the bike toppled over its side.
Gamble hit a bike going to his left. The tango gunner was writhing from a leg wound as the smoking bike came to a stop. YinYang immediately swung her shotgun and pumped lethal pellets, killing both driver and gunner.
Mus@ng threw a fragmentaion grenade high and wide to where two tango bikes were turning to attack again. The grenade blew up while still in the air, raining iron shrapnel down on the tangos, killing them before they know what hit them.
Miakulet hit a gas tank, and the bike caught fire, frying the tangos alive on their seats. She fired a lazy-eight to bring them out of their misery, and the bike toppled over its side.
One by one, Cobalt brought the bikes down. While the others were occupied with their targets, Khan noticed one bike bearing down straight at them as if trying to run the squad through. With an empty magazine and no time to reload, Khan stayed low in the grass to avoid detection and grabbed his M-16's foregrip with both hands. When the tango bike ran near him, he sprung to attack. With a blood-curdling war shout, Khan rushed toward the tango bike and swung his rifle like a baseball bat.
The stock connected with the biker's head, obliterating the face. Skull fragments shot through the brain, instantly killing the tango. The bike turned over, and the gunner hit his head on a rock while still strapped onto the bike. Khan casually walked to the groaning tango and stepped heavily on the throat, crushing the larynx. The tango weakly tried gasping for breath for a few moments, then lay still.
Scorpy surveyed the carnage in the open field, then checked that everyone in her squad made it out all right. "Let's move it, people," she said. "They probably just stumbled on us by accident. But now they know where we are. Move out!" With that, the squad leader turned and started walking towards the tree line.
Sgt Slaughter hauled the professor and the kid up. "C'mon, mates. I want my hot supper just about now..." and pushed them gently to follow.
The stock connected with the biker's head, obliterating the face. Skull fragments shot through the brain, instantly killing the tango. The bike turned over, and the gunner hit his head on a rock while still strapped onto the bike. Khan casually walked to the groaning tango and stepped heavily on the throat, crushing the larynx. The tango weakly tried gasping for breath for a few moments, then lay still.
Scorpy surveyed the carnage in the open field, then checked that everyone in her squad made it out all right. "Let's move it, people," she said. "They probably just stumbled on us by accident. But now they know where we are. Move out!" With that, the squad leader turned and started walking towards the tree line.
Sgt Slaughter hauled the professor and the kid up. "C'mon, mates. I want my hot supper just about now..." and pushed them gently to follow.
YinYang gestured for Khan to cover her position, then went to Gamble. She noticed his bleeding arm, and began rummaging for her medical kit. "Are you hurt?" she said, to get Gamble's attention.
"Huh?" Gamble looked at YinYang in surprise, then followed her gaze and saw his wound. "Ah, just a scratch. Some bloody tango just got lucky," he said. Then he yelled, "Ouch! Watch it!" as YinYang applied an antiseptic.
YinYang smiled as she tied the bandage. "I do hope you got the bloody tango."
Gamble smiled back. "I think you got the bloody bastard, my love."
YinYang finished the chore and replied, "Oh, so I did. He's not a bloody lucky bastard after all, is he?" With a hard kick to Gamble's butt, she walked back to her place in the patrol, one eyebrow arched high while the man she loves gave her a mock glare.
"Huh?" Gamble looked at YinYang in surprise, then followed her gaze and saw his wound. "Ah, just a scratch. Some bloody tango just got lucky," he said. Then he yelled, "Ouch! Watch it!" as YinYang applied an antiseptic.
YinYang smiled as she tied the bandage. "I do hope you got the bloody tango."
Gamble smiled back. "I think you got the bloody bastard, my love."
YinYang finished the chore and replied, "Oh, so I did. He's not a bloody lucky bastard after all, is he?" With a hard kick to Gamble's butt, she walked back to her place in the patrol, one eyebrow arched high while the man she loves gave her a mock glare.
2128H: SOE HQ, The Mansion
A girl! His natural instinct was to throw the memo straight into the wastecan. But ever since its inception in World War II, SOE had been successfully developing exceptional women agents and combat operatives -- more so than any other intelligence agency, including the Israeli Mossad.
So The Blademaster sighed, went to his closet, wore his "official" black suit and tie, and went to pay a visit.
Ten hot and dusty hours later, a weary Sean Blade finally tracked down the girl making a cocktai1 behind the bar of a local pub. He eyed the luscious, frosted glass with longing, swallowed dryly, and made his way to the bar and sat on the stool nearest her.
The girl squinted her eyes at him. "What's it to you?" She got a cigarrette from her pack and put it on her lips. "And don't you know it's considered rude to ask about a lady's age?"
"I'm sorry," Sean Blade said, not looking sorry at all.
She wiggled the cigarrette on her lips, but Sean Blade just imitated her, pursing his lips and wiggling in turn.
"Well, maybe you can light my fag?" she said crossly.
Sean Blade smiled. "Light it up yourself. And while you're at it, bring me a glass of whiskey on the rocks, why don't you."
The girl stomped off to the other side of the bar. She took her time with the whiskey, chatting with the other patrons at the bar and getting her cigarrette lighted up along the way. Then she slammed the glass in front of the SOE recruiter, blew smoke at him and turned around to wipe the glasses at the cabinet.
The Blademaster twirled his drink for a moment, then said, "Look, miss, I don't have time for idle chit-chat. We need to talk. Now."
The girl whirled around to face him. "Look you, I'm getting tired of your hush-hush spy talk. You got two hands. Why don't you use them? And stay away from me, pervert!"
The Blademaster had enough. He suddenly lunged at her, grabbing a wrist and forcing her to walk away from the bar to a nearby corner table. She started shouting, and a couple of guys attempted to intervene, but Sean Blade showed them an imposing police ID, and saying, "This is an official investigation. Please return to your seat peacefully," gesturing at them to move along.
"Are you a cop?" the girl demanded. "Are you going to frisk me?"
"Oh, shut up!" an exasperated Blademaster said. He pulled her to sit opposite him, and waited for her to calm down a bit. Then he dropped some coins on the table and slid a piece of paper to her. "Go to that public payphone and dial this number. Go on!" he pushed when she hesitated. "What, are you afraid? I'll just sit here and enjoy my whiskey."
The girl who would become the deadly Scorpion gave him a sidelong glance, considered for a moment, then said, "Hell, it's your money!" and bounced to the phone.
The Blademaster watched her back, a slight smile bending his lips, then shook his head in amusement. He can't wait to see her face when she comes back after speaking personally with the Prime Minister. Frisk her, indeed!
"I heard a Code Yellow. Cobalt, isn't it?" asked Stormtrooper. Musketero nodded silently.
"Hmm, and who is in command?"
"The Blademaster, sir," Musketero replied. "He's probably in the situation room right now."
The two men walked rapidly inside The Mansion, their footsteps a staccato in the silent halls. They entered a spacious room with a long oak table at the center and a video screen at one side, obviously a room for conferences and briefings.
A situational map of Asia is plastered on one wall, and before it stood a man with long black hair barely reaching the shoulders, wearing a long-sleeved shirt in olive drab and baggy combat trousers of the same color.
"Hmm, and who is in command?"
"The Blademaster, sir," Musketero replied. "He's probably in the situation room right now."
The two men walked rapidly inside The Mansion, their footsteps a staccato in the silent halls. They entered a spacious room with a long oak table at the center and a video screen at one side, obviously a room for conferences and briefings.
A situational map of Asia is plastered on one wall, and before it stood a man with long black hair barely reaching the shoulders, wearing a long-sleeved shirt in olive drab and baggy combat trousers of the same color.
"Ah, Sean!" exclaimed Stormtrooper, and the man whose intense eyes were focused on the map swung his gaze to face his mentor. Sean Blade, also called The Blademaster, needs no introduction to his specialty. He is the premier SOE close-contact blade fighter, and can throw any sharp projectile with deadly accuracy. While most operatives use silenced pistols for close work. Sean Blade preferred throwing daggers and Japanese shuriken -- stealthier, deadlier with poison, and very reusable. Just plucking them off dead bodies provided him with almost unlimited ammunition.
The Blademaster hasn't been an active combat operative for quite some time. Stormtrooper had been grooming him for a more significant leadership role in SOE, exposing him to the various functions and operations of the ultra-secret organization.
The Blademaster hasn't been an active combat operative for quite some time. Stormtrooper had been grooming him for a more significant leadership role in SOE, exposing him to the various functions and operations of the ultra-secret organization.
It was during Sean Blade's stint as a "recruiter" that he received a priority memo from one of their agents about a girl with The Gift, or what is laughingly referred to as a "Natural Born Killer."
A girl! His natural instinct was to throw the memo straight into the wastecan. But ever since its inception in World War II, SOE had been successfully developing exceptional women agents and combat operatives -- more so than any other intelligence agency, including the Israeli Mossad.
So The Blademaster sighed, went to his closet, wore his "official" black suit and tie, and went to pay a visit.
Ten hot and dusty hours later, a weary Sean Blade finally tracked down the girl making a cocktai1 behind the bar of a local pub. He eyed the luscious, frosted glass with longing, swallowed dryly, and made his way to the bar and sat on the stool nearest her.
"Hullo, there," he greeted the girl with what he hoped was his most dashing smile. "I need to talk to you privately. It's a matter of urgent national security."
The girl stopped mixing the drink. She slowly appraised The Blademaster from his black hat, black tie, black jacket, black belt, black pants, straining herself on top of the bar to just look down to the dusty black shoes. Then she straightened up and smiled brightly at the stranger. "That's a very interesting pick-up line, Mister Man in Black. Do you get many girls with it?"
Sean Blade raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't understand. I'm not joking. This is really absolutely about national security."
"Sure it is!" said the girl. "It's an original line, I must say. But it just doesn't make my heart pound any harder, you ken?" Then she poured the drink into a glass and took a sip. "Ah, that bloody well hit the spot, hey?"
The girl stopped mixing the drink. She slowly appraised The Blademaster from his black hat, black tie, black jacket, black belt, black pants, straining herself on top of the bar to just look down to the dusty black shoes. Then she straightened up and smiled brightly at the stranger. "That's a very interesting pick-up line, Mister Man in Black. Do you get many girls with it?"
Sean Blade raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't understand. I'm not joking. This is really absolutely about national security."
"Sure it is!" said the girl. "It's an original line, I must say. But it just doesn't make my heart pound any harder, you ken?" Then she poured the drink into a glass and took a sip. "Ah, that bloody well hit the spot, hey?"
"Aren't you a little young for alcohol?" Sean Blade inquired.
The girl squinted her eyes at him. "What's it to you?" She got a cigarrette from her pack and put it on her lips. "And don't you know it's considered rude to ask about a lady's age?"
"I'm sorry," Sean Blade said, not looking sorry at all.
She wiggled the cigarrette on her lips, but Sean Blade just imitated her, pursing his lips and wiggling in turn.
"Well, maybe you can light my fag?" she said crossly.
Sean Blade smiled. "Light it up yourself. And while you're at it, bring me a glass of whiskey on the rocks, why don't you."
The girl stomped off to the other side of the bar. She took her time with the whiskey, chatting with the other patrons at the bar and getting her cigarrette lighted up along the way. Then she slammed the glass in front of the SOE recruiter, blew smoke at him and turned around to wipe the glasses at the cabinet.
The Blademaster twirled his drink for a moment, then said, "Look, miss, I don't have time for idle chit-chat. We need to talk. Now."
The girl whirled around to face him. "Look you, I'm getting tired of your hush-hush spy talk. You got two hands. Why don't you use them? And stay away from me, pervert!"
The Blademaster had enough. He suddenly lunged at her, grabbing a wrist and forcing her to walk away from the bar to a nearby corner table. She started shouting, and a couple of guys attempted to intervene, but Sean Blade showed them an imposing police ID, and saying, "This is an official investigation. Please return to your seat peacefully," gesturing at them to move along.
"Are you a cop?" the girl demanded. "Are you going to frisk me?"
"Oh, shut up!" an exasperated Blademaster said. He pulled her to sit opposite him, and waited for her to calm down a bit. Then he dropped some coins on the table and slid a piece of paper to her. "Go to that public payphone and dial this number. Go on!" he pushed when she hesitated. "What, are you afraid? I'll just sit here and enjoy my whiskey."
The girl who would become the deadly Scorpion gave him a sidelong glance, considered for a moment, then said, "Hell, it's your money!" and bounced to the phone.
The Blademaster watched her back, a slight smile bending his lips, then shook his head in amusement. He can't wait to see her face when she comes back after speaking personally with the Prime Minister. Frisk her, indeed!
| Now a Mission Commander, Sean Blade is second only to the SOE Commandant, in charge of all necessary resources -- manpower, logistics, and finances -- to bring a mission to a successful conclusion. Unless ordered by higher authorities, a Mission Commander can start or select their own mission, set its objectives, and commission the combat operatives, support personnel, weapons and equipment, transportation, and other necessities, all without prior approval from the Commandant. "So... Operation Cobalt," sighed Stormtrooper, sitting down on a nearby chair. "Refresh my memory, Sean. With so many operations going on at the same time..." "Yes, sir," Sean Blade replied. He clicked his pointer, and a picture of three men fawning over a strange device showed up on screen. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/AntiMatterDevice.jpg) "Nicklaus Haagendaz at your left, Hans Elengritel in the middle, and Jacques Colmiagen, the tallest one," continued Sean Blade. "Physicists, lab rats, and members of the elite Genesis Team at CERN."Stormtrooper bolted upright. CERN or Conseil Européenne pour la Recherche Nucléaire (European Organization for Nuclear Research) is the largest scientific research facility in the world, located in Geneva, Switzerland. The leading source of modern discoveries and inventions in the 21st century, CERN employs the best and the brightest in the field of physics. Because any knowledge can be used for both good and evil, SOE has made it its duty to "watch over" the scientists and protect them from terrorist acts when possible. The Blademaster continued, "Yesterday, Haagendaz went sailing with his daughter, six-year-old Trudi. He is divorced, and his ex-wife got custody of their only child. He only gets to see his kid twice a month. "Last night the harbor master called the local police to report that Haagendaz did not come in. We intercepted the call, and started a discreet manhunt for the professor. We found his sailboat about eight clicks from shore, with no sign of Haagendaz or his daughter. Our crime scene investigation unit found a lot of footprints and fingerprints from different people, as well as the usual signs of struggle." There was a knock on the door, and Sean Blade paused for a moment as a steward came in with three cups of steaming-hot coffee -- Stormtrooper's own blend of his "atomic" special. They all share the feeling that there won't be much sleep tonight. When the steward left, softly closing the door, Sean Blade resumed his briefing. "We fed the fingerprints into our database, and came up with some local killers for hire. We had to move very fast so can still follow the trail while it's still fresh. We got the suspects and pumped them with truth serum up to their eyeballs. "They were contacted through the Internet, and payments were made through bank accounts. After tracking those down, we went halfway around the globe to Asia!" Stormtrooper shook his head in frustration. "Kidnapping in the high seas..." he murmured. Knowing the worst is yet to come, Stormtrooper asked the inevitable question. "Why was Haagendaz kidnapped? And who ordered them kidnapped?" | ||||
2132H: Somewhere in the Asian Tropics
"Please... please, I cannot... my feet... another step..."
The whole procession stopped on its tracks. Scorpy watched Markus, Khan and Miakulet enter the edge of the jungle about 200 meters away. The rest of the squad were still in waist-high grass, and the moonlight clearly exposing them for every tango to see. She turned back to look at the professor on his knees, panting heavily and sweating like a fountain. He was shaking his head and whispering, "Please... need rest... awhile..."
The Scorpion pressed her lips tightly, trying to curb her impatience. They have stopped four times already, and each time she had to cajole the professor to stand up and walk another kilometer or so.
The other SOE operatives wanted to help, but they all need to have their hands free to react quickly to any danger coming their way.
The Scorpion pressed her lips tightly, trying to curb her impatience. They have stopped four times already, and each time she had to cajole the professor to stand up and walk another kilometer or so.
The other SOE operatives wanted to help, but they all need to have their hands free to react quickly to any danger coming their way.
But they were so near the tree line, Scorpy thought, where they could take cover from the enemy. Her eyes fell on Mus@ng, who nodded, walked to the professor, and easily hauled the tired old man onto his wide shoulder in a fireman's carry.
The professor was taken by surprise, and started blustering, "What? No, no! Put me down! Put me... Please!"
As Mus@ng walked past Scorpy, she grabbed the professor's chin and forced him to look into her hard eyes. "Professor Haagendaz, please do not make your daughter more nervous than she is already," tilting her head to gesture at the child.
"Trudi," the old man whispered, seeing his child so close to tears again, her body shaking in fear, and nervously clutching her favorite stuffed toy, a Disney Dalmatian. He raised a hand in a calming gesture, and even managed a small, weak smile. "It's all right, baby. Poppa just needs to rest his tired legs."
The girl just bit her lips. YinYang knelt beside the child and said, "Hey, you have a lovely Dalmatian. What's her name?"
"Her name's Spotty," the girl replied in a small, quivering voice, her large eyes on YinYang. "She's scared. She doesn't like guns," and brought the toy close to her face to rub the soft fur on ther cheek and nose.
The professor was taken by surprise, and started blustering, "What? No, no! Put me down! Put me... Please!"
As Mus@ng walked past Scorpy, she grabbed the professor's chin and forced him to look into her hard eyes. "Professor Haagendaz, please do not make your daughter more nervous than she is already," tilting her head to gesture at the child.
"Trudi," the old man whispered, seeing his child so close to tears again, her body shaking in fear, and nervously clutching her favorite stuffed toy, a Disney Dalmatian. He raised a hand in a calming gesture, and even managed a small, weak smile. "It's all right, baby. Poppa just needs to rest his tired legs."
The girl just bit her lips. YinYang knelt beside the child and said, "Hey, you have a lovely Dalmatian. What's her name?"
"Her name's Spotty," the girl replied in a small, quivering voice, her large eyes on YinYang. "She's scared. She doesn't like guns," and brought the toy close to her face to rub the soft fur on ther cheek and nose.
YinYang stroked the little girl's hair softly. "My dog gets scared with guns, too. But we must be brave and strong now. Bad guys are looking for us, and we mustn't let Spotty get left behind."
The girl nodded and clutched at her stuffed toy tighter.
"Come." YinYang stood up, holding her hand for the girl, who simply took it.
They all started walking to the tree line again, their pacing picking up, everyone eager to reach the green safety of the jungle. Gamble broke formation, grabbing up the little girl into his arms. The squad automatically speeded up to a fast trot.
"Oi!" exclaimed Gamble in mock surprise. "I was picking flowers here, then I found a bloomin' gurlie!"
The girl chuckled delightedly. "I'm not a girlie. I'm Trudi!"
Gamble shook his head. "Whut's that? '3-D' you say? Now whut kind of a name izzat for a purty gurlie like you?"
The girl nodded and clutched at her stuffed toy tighter.
"Come." YinYang stood up, holding her hand for the girl, who simply took it.
They all started walking to the tree line again, their pacing picking up, everyone eager to reach the green safety of the jungle. Gamble broke formation, grabbing up the little girl into his arms. The squad automatically speeded up to a fast trot.
"Oi!" exclaimed Gamble in mock surprise. "I was picking flowers here, then I found a bloomin' gurlie!"
The girl chuckled delightedly. "I'm not a girlie. I'm Trudi!"
Gamble shook his head. "Whut's that? '3-D' you say? Now whut kind of a name izzat for a purty gurlie like you?"
YinYang smiled at Gamble's outrageous accent, and even chuckled as she watched Trudi laugh while Gamble tried to tickle her neck with his unshaved chin. He will be a great father, she thought fondly as she daydreamed of an idyllic family life in her beloved woodlands of Mississippi.
Her father was a Vietnam veteran, serving for three long and hard years with the LRRP, the Long Range Recon Patrol. The LRRP was the US military's first foray into the arts of stealthcraft, sending men into the jungle and behind enemy lines to gather information and to destroy certain strategic targets. With a very high attrition rate, the surviving "lurps" have proven to be very tough and silent. You can tell a lurp by his "thousand-yard stare."
Brought up by the Army to be unconventional, he in turn brought up his only child, YinYang, into his image. "To be a survivor, you must learn to defend yourself and to destroy any danger," he would tell YinYang time and time again, as she did her daily hundred pushups.
Her father was a Vietnam veteran, serving for three long and hard years with the LRRP, the Long Range Recon Patrol. The LRRP was the US military's first foray into the arts of stealthcraft, sending men into the jungle and behind enemy lines to gather information and to destroy certain strategic targets. With a very high attrition rate, the surviving "lurps" have proven to be very tough and silent. You can tell a lurp by his "thousand-yard stare."
Brought up by the Army to be unconventional, he in turn brought up his only child, YinYang, into his image. "To be a survivor, you must learn to defend yourself and to destroy any danger," he would tell YinYang time and time again, as she did her daily hundred pushups.
She could remember on her 14th birthday, her father left her in the middle of a dark and uncharted woodland for ten days. When he came back, he was welcomed with the sweet, delicious smell of roasting pheasant, and a sharp-pointed wooden stick between his shoulder blades. YinYang crept up behind him so silently that he never heard a sound.
"It's your father," he said with a smile in his voice, his hands raised slowly in surrender.
"F**k you," replied his daughter. "What's the password?"
YinYang's reminiscing was abruptly interrupted when the girl turned to her with her wide and serious eyes and asked, "Are we going to die?"
YinYang almost stumbled as she felt her heart breaking apart. Such a statement from such an innocent child. Gamble looked into YinYang's eyes as they pondered upon their tenuous situation.
But she kept her composure and smiled brightly at the girl. "No, we are not going to die. We are tough and brave, aren't we? Our friends will come for us. They always do."
Thinking about what happened at LZ Stratos, she thought, "They better come through..."
Markus left Khan with Miakulet, who was busy communicating the squad's status to headquarters. Relieved at being back under the canopy of the trees, he began slowly probing their possible route to LZ Bastion, their secondary landing zone.
A former colonel of the British Royal Commandos (and the youngest in its history), Markus has served in many hot spots of the UK and the Commonwealth. His favorite terrain is the jungle, where his slow, precise movements mimic a panther in silent smoothness. This exceptional skill did not escape the notice of his superiors, and Markus often found himself serving most of his time in the tropics of Asia and Africa.
A former colonel of the British Royal Commandos (and the youngest in its history), Markus has served in many hot spots of the UK and the Commonwealth. His favorite terrain is the jungle, where his slow, precise movements mimic a panther in silent smoothness. This exceptional skill did not escape the notice of his superiors, and Markus often found himself serving most of his time in the tropics of Asia and Africa.
It was during a secret mission in Burma (now known as Myanmar) that changed Markus' life. Seriously injured and on the run, he was slowly losing consciousness in the jungle when an old man rescued him from the local communists.
Regaining consciousness three hours later, Markus was surprised to find himself in a bamboo bed, his wounds neatly bandaged. An old Japanese straggler was sitting impassively by the bed. "Who are you?" he asked.
The Japanese spoke gutturally. "Speak ingrish ritter. You run-run hide. Why you?"
After a lengthly dialogue of mines and repeated words, Markus caught the gist: The old man thought that the war was still raging on. As the last survivor of his platoon, the Japanese had been carrying on his orders, and had been fighting a silent war with the Burmese mountain patrols by placing boobytraps and ambushing them with captured guns and ammo.
The Japanese was very puzzled when he saw his enemy pursuing a white devil. It's been so long since he had seen a British soldier, much less kill one, but he resisted the urge to shoot the tempting target. Even though he was a loyal warrior of the Emperor, his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to capture the white excrement, who was clearly dying from loss of blood.
So I'm a prisoner of war, Markus thought. That's when he noticed a long, slim sword just leaning behind the chair.
Regaining consciousness three hours later, Markus was surprised to find himself in a bamboo bed, his wounds neatly bandaged. An old Japanese straggler was sitting impassively by the bed. "Who are you?" he asked.
The Japanese spoke gutturally. "Speak ingrish ritter. You run-run hide. Why you?"
After a lengthly dialogue of mines and repeated words, Markus caught the gist: The old man thought that the war was still raging on. As the last survivor of his platoon, the Japanese had been carrying on his orders, and had been fighting a silent war with the Burmese mountain patrols by placing boobytraps and ambushing them with captured guns and ammo.
The Japanese was very puzzled when he saw his enemy pursuing a white devil. It's been so long since he had seen a British soldier, much less kill one, but he resisted the urge to shoot the tempting target. Even though he was a loyal warrior of the Emperor, his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to capture the white excrement, who was clearly dying from loss of blood.
So I'm a prisoner of war, Markus thought. That's when he noticed a long, slim sword just leaning behind the chair.
The old man said, "Katana," and drew his hand across the throat in a cutting motion. Then he smiled widely.
Markus swallowed hard. You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little bugger, he thought as he smiled back at the old man. He looked out the window, gazing through the rain washing down the jungle and silently thinking of his predicament.
Then he slowly removed his wristwatch and handed it over to the old man. "Seiko," he said. "Made in Japan."
At first the old man did not move, suspicion all over his face. Then he grabbed Markus' hand in a surprisingly hard grasp and flipped his palm open. He saw the clearly etched words at the back of the watch. Then he abruptly let go, and sat back silently.
After a few long minutes the Japanese asked, "Winner?"
Markus stared straight into the old man's eyes. "Japan won the war," he said, nodding in emphasis. He showed the watch again. "Made in Japan," he said, very seriously.
Markus swallowed hard. You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little bugger, he thought as he smiled back at the old man. He looked out the window, gazing through the rain washing down the jungle and silently thinking of his predicament.
Then he slowly removed his wristwatch and handed it over to the old man. "Seiko," he said. "Made in Japan."
At first the old man did not move, suspicion all over his face. Then he grabbed Markus' hand in a surprisingly hard grasp and flipped his palm open. He saw the clearly etched words at the back of the watch. Then he abruptly let go, and sat back silently.
After a few long minutes the Japanese asked, "Winner?"
Markus stared straight into the old man's eyes. "Japan won the war," he said, nodding in emphasis. He showed the watch again. "Made in Japan," he said, very seriously.
And thus started Markus' unusual two-year training in oriental martial arts -- killing techniques that the Japanese have been perfecting for the last 2,000 years. It turned out the old man was a sensei, a master. But he would not talk about going home to his native land, asking instead of things in the outside world.
And Markus would describe the big cargo ships and oil tankers from Japanese shipyards, of Japanese fashion in Italy, France and the US, of small Daihatsu cars in his native British soil, his delight in Japanese animation called hentai, and even his love for sushi, sashimi and maki. He would often find a small tear in the old man's eye.
The old sensei, in return, would slap Markus in the butt of at the back of his head for every small mistake or misunderstanding. But Markus, an experienced campaigner of abusive sergeant majors in many of the toughest military training schools, would bear up to the punishments in silent defiance. After three months, the two warriors began to develop a familiar respect for one another. In the end, the old sensei saw in Markus the son he was forever denied by cruel fate. And Markus saw in his old mentor the father that he had always wanted.
And Markus would describe the big cargo ships and oil tankers from Japanese shipyards, of Japanese fashion in Italy, France and the US, of small Daihatsu cars in his native British soil, his delight in Japanese animation called hentai, and even his love for sushi, sashimi and maki. He would often find a small tear in the old man's eye.
The old sensei, in return, would slap Markus in the butt of at the back of his head for every small mistake or misunderstanding. But Markus, an experienced campaigner of abusive sergeant majors in many of the toughest military training schools, would bear up to the punishments in silent defiance. After three months, the two warriors began to develop a familiar respect for one another. In the end, the old sensei saw in Markus the son he was forever denied by cruel fate. And Markus saw in his old mentor the father that he had always wanted.
After two years the old mad faded away, a smile touching his wasted face, happy in the knowledge that his teachings will live for another generation. Markus buried his mentor deep in the jungle that the old man spent almost his whole life, and went back to civilization. He immediately retired from active duty -- and was immediately recruited by the SOE. In just one year he was already recognized as one of the best pointmen among the SOE operatives.
Due to his unusual training training, Markus later found that he had developed an uncanny ability to sense danger -- an ability that is highly regarded in a pointman. Even the Scorpion had come to depend on Markus' unerring "alarm system" to keep the squad above the danger zone.
And right now, the "alarm system" is Markus' head is banging like crazy.
Something's not right, he thought. Removing his NVG, he swiveled his head in small angles, letting his eyes take in the shadowy features of the jungle, ever so slowly, his senses sweeping the area before him. There!
A faint orange point hovering in mid-air, then fading into the dark.
Due to his unusual training training, Markus later found that he had developed an uncanny ability to sense danger -- an ability that is highly regarded in a pointman. Even the Scorpion had come to depend on Markus' unerring "alarm system" to keep the squad above the danger zone.
And right now, the "alarm system" is Markus' head is banging like crazy.
Something's not right, he thought. Removing his NVG, he swiveled his head in small angles, letting his eyes take in the shadowy features of the jungle, ever so slowly, his senses sweeping the area before him. There!
A faint orange point hovering in mid-air, then fading into the dark.
With cat-like swiftness, Markus moved closer until he could see two tangos huddled together, whispering and smoking thin, pungent cigarrettes. Asians have such propensity for smoking even while on patrol -- literally smoking themselves to death. And now they will pay the price.
Markus maneuvered himself until he stood behind a tree nearest to the tangos. Letting his mind and body go slack and relaxed, he suddenly exploded into action.
All the tango felt were hands at his chin and the back of his head, then a strong, quick, twisting pressure. His head snapped, and he felt no more.
Even before the first tango hit the ground, Markus was already onto the second, startled tango. With his left hand holding the tango's AK-47 safely away from him, Markus' right hand tightly gripped the enemy's left shoulder. Exerting enormous effort, he snapped the tango's collarbone. Before the tango could cry out in pain, Markus used his thumb to push the sharp, fractured bone into the neck, guiding the improvised "knife" to cut through muscle, throat, and jugular vein. Drowning in his own blood, the tango slumped against the tree, slid down and sprawled dead.
Markus clicked his radio. "Scorpy, Markus. Tangos are patrolling this area in pairs. We need..." He heard a shot, and felt a faint tug on his left leg.
Markus maneuvered himself until he stood behind a tree nearest to the tangos. Letting his mind and body go slack and relaxed, he suddenly exploded into action.
All the tango felt were hands at his chin and the back of his head, then a strong, quick, twisting pressure. His head snapped, and he felt no more.
Even before the first tango hit the ground, Markus was already onto the second, startled tango. With his left hand holding the tango's AK-47 safely away from him, Markus' right hand tightly gripped the enemy's left shoulder. Exerting enormous effort, he snapped the tango's collarbone. Before the tango could cry out in pain, Markus used his thumb to push the sharp, fractured bone into the neck, guiding the improvised "knife" to cut through muscle, throat, and jugular vein. Drowning in his own blood, the tango slumped against the tree, slid down and sprawled dead.
Markus clicked his radio. "Scorpy, Markus. Tangos are patrolling this area in pairs. We need..." He heard a shot, and felt a faint tug on his left leg.
His training took over. He dropped dow to the ground and rolled towards a clump of trees. He looked down and saw blood on his trousers. S**t, I'm hit, he thought...
2135H: SOE HQ, The Mansion
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/AntiMatterDemo.gif)
According to our boffins," Sean Blade answered, using the word "boffin," a British slang for a scientist, "anti-matter is 'negative' matter. Much like electricity having positive and negative charges and magnetism having north and south polarities, matter and anti-matter naturally attract each other. These are the stuff that make the universe."
"Anti-matter," The Blademaster answered. "The Genesis team of CERN has just successfully produced the first artificial anti-matter on earth."
Musketero, as director for Operations, heads the control room for specific missions, and works only on a need-to-know basis. Only in emergency situations like Code Yellow is he allowed to comprehend the enormity and seriousness of a mission and its usual "hidden agenda" -- objectives that only the Mission Commander and higher authorities know about.
Feeling a bit out of his league, Musketero asked, "What is anti-matter?"
Sean Blade clicked in another picture on the screen:
Musketero, as director for Operations, heads the control room for specific missions, and works only on a need-to-know basis. Only in emergency situations like Code Yellow is he allowed to comprehend the enormity and seriousness of a mission and its usual "hidden agenda" -- objectives that only the Mission Commander and higher authorities know about.
Feeling a bit out of his league, Musketero asked, "What is anti-matter?"
Sean Blade clicked in another picture on the screen:
According to our boffins," Sean Blade answered, using the word "boffin," a British slang for a scientist, "anti-matter is 'negative' matter. Much like electricity having positive and negative charges and magnetism having north and south polarities, matter and anti-matter naturally attract each other. These are the stuff that make the universe."Musketero scratched his head. "Yes, but what..."
"Listen up!" Stormtrooper interjected. "Maybe this scientific mumbo-jumbo seems exciting for you, but we are wasting time here. Let's cut the crap and go to the specifics of this mission. Go ahead."
The Blademaster nodded. "The long and short of this is that anti-matter does not exist naturally in large quantities on this planet, and it is dangerous when it comes into contact with matter."
Stormtrooper asked, "What kind of danger?"
"Anti-matter is highly unstable. When matter and anti-matter touch each other, both are cancelled out, destroyed. This process is called 'annihilation.' And during this process, pure energy is released." The Blademaster took a deep breath. "Our boffins say that anti-matter as small as a grain of sand is equivalent to 200 tons of conventional TNT."
Stormtrooper and Musketero stared with mouths open, shock registering in the high decibels on their faces.
"Put to good use, a few grams of anti-matter could power a big city for ten days," continued Sean Blade.
"A few grams..." Stormtrooper whispered, staggered by the information.
"Yes," emphasized Sean Blade. "The simplest, cleanest source of energy for the future. No radiation, no pollution, and a thousand times more powerful than nuclear energy.
"But a gram of anti-matter in the hands of terrorists could mean about 20,000 metric tons of TNT. Enough to liquidate everything in a two-mile radius!"
"My God!" Stormtrooper stood up. "And they have the man who can give them the anti-matter!"
Musketero also stood up, his hand pressing an earphone tighter to his head. Then he looked at his companions. "Gentlemen, there have been some new developments."
"Listen up!" Stormtrooper interjected. "Maybe this scientific mumbo-jumbo seems exciting for you, but we are wasting time here. Let's cut the crap and go to the specifics of this mission. Go ahead."
The Blademaster nodded. "The long and short of this is that anti-matter does not exist naturally in large quantities on this planet, and it is dangerous when it comes into contact with matter."
Stormtrooper asked, "What kind of danger?"
"Anti-matter is highly unstable. When matter and anti-matter touch each other, both are cancelled out, destroyed. This process is called 'annihilation.' And during this process, pure energy is released." The Blademaster took a deep breath. "Our boffins say that anti-matter as small as a grain of sand is equivalent to 200 tons of conventional TNT."
Stormtrooper and Musketero stared with mouths open, shock registering in the high decibels on their faces.
"Put to good use, a few grams of anti-matter could power a big city for ten days," continued Sean Blade.
"A few grams..." Stormtrooper whispered, staggered by the information.
"Yes," emphasized Sean Blade. "The simplest, cleanest source of energy for the future. No radiation, no pollution, and a thousand times more powerful than nuclear energy.
"But a gram of anti-matter in the hands of terrorists could mean about 20,000 metric tons of TNT. Enough to liquidate everything in a two-mile radius!"
"My God!" Stormtrooper stood up. "And they have the man who can give them the anti-matter!"
Musketero also stood up, his hand pressing an earphone tighter to his head. Then he looked at his companions. "Gentlemen, there have been some new developments."
Having caught the attention of Stormtrooper and Sean Blade, Musketero continued, "We have commandeered a satellite to capture high resolution, extreme close-up pictures of the Stratos crash site." Even though SOE is a very low-profiled, maximum security organization, it is still an organization funded by NATO -- the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, composed of the US and what was known as Western Europe. Funding came not just in the form of money, but also in other logistical resources as well, such as the use of satellites for surveillance. Stormtrooper could remember the time when he and Sean Blade requested for emergency transport, and were surprised to see Air Force One -- the US President's personal 747 jet -- land at an SOE-maintained airport to fetch them. A bemused Stormtrooper found himself aboard having dinner with the US President, who was on his way back home from an official trip in Italy. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/AirForceOne.jpg) "So sorry for interrupting your flight, Mr President," Stormtrooper said.The leader of the most powerful country in the world laughed heartily. "No problem, no problem at all. You guys are doing a magnificent job, and we want to help in any way we can to maintain the peace." "Thank you," said Stormtrooper. "Of course, we are very fortunate to have you as a staunch ally. You have always come through for us when we needed it the most." "The SOE has the gratitude of the nation, sir. As long as I'm in the White House, you'll have all the support you need. Please don't hesitate to ask." The President then handed a small, gold-lined notebook and fountain pen to a surprised Stormtrooper. "Also, I've always wanted to meet THE Stormtrooper. Could I have your autograph, please?" Stormtrooper's thoughts were interrupted when he heard Sean Blade ask, "Are there any survivors?" Musketero shook his head. "None that we an see. The chopper is totally destroyed from nose to tail. Chances for survival are very slim. I'm sorry." The three men paused in silent sorrow. The secrecy that is SOE's greatest strength is also its greatest weakness. To prevent the enemy from tracing back any clues to the existence of an ultra-secret intelligence organization, SOE combat operatives who land of foreign territory are forced to use weapons, gears and other equipment that can only be bought commercially or in the black market. Once in a war zone, the SOE combat operatives cannot have the air support or artillery fire that regular armies enjoy. And unlike regular military units who come back for their dead, the SOE is forced to leave behind those who cannot keep up. It is very ironic that the SOE headquarters and its regional control houses have access to the latest technologies, while its combat operatives are consigned to a "poor man's army." SOE's top priority on secrecy may even involve the sacrifice of innocent lives. There was a time when a terrorist bomb was set to go off in a US embassy compound, and the SOE got wind of the danger from a very high source. In a decision wrought with black heavy guilt, the SOE did not reveal the bomb. To do so would clue the enemy to a "mole" or spy within their innermost circle. Stormtrooper sat down again. "Well... go on with the briefing, Sean." The Blademaster walked up front. "We posted a Priority One bulletin to all our spies and other 'assets' in Asia for Professor Haagendaz and his daughter. It was by pure luck that we were able to locate them within 12 hours." Sean Blade paused to look at Musketero, then at Stormtrooper. "Sir, we found them in the Golden Triangle." "No," Stormtrooper slumped in his seat, a hand covering his eyes, as if shielding himself from a horrendous vision. "Not the Golden Triangle..." | ||||
The Golden Triangle of Southeast Asia is an imaginary triangular piece of land, a lawless territory where Cambodia, Myanmar (formerly Burma), Laos and Thailand meet.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/InsetGoldenTriangle.jpg)
Rebel groups around the world, from Afghanistan to Nicaragua, have recognized the value of illegal drugs have in financing their military operations. As long as there are minority groups willing to start a war, then there will always be an international illegal drugs trade.
Rebel groups around the world, from Afghanistan to Nicaragua, have recognized the value of illegal drugs have in financing their military operations. As long as there are minority groups willing to start a war, then there will always be an international illegal drugs trade.This is no exception. It is called the Golden Triangle because of the influx of billions of US dollars each year for its most precious export: opium. It was once only the second largest producer of illicit opium in the world – until Afghanistan was rid of the Taliban and the Al Queda network. Now the prime source of high-quality opium, the drug barons of the Golden Triangle have become more powerful, able to arm and train their private armies with the latest deadly technologies and the best mercenary trainers that money could buy in the black market.
In fact, the private armies of the Golden Triangle are more armed and dangerous than the governments bordering it. The Thais and Laotians have repeatedly tried to gain control, only to be pushed back with heavy losses. The Cambodian military seem to have found a compromise – "if you can’t beat them, serve them" – and is now actively protecting the illegal drug production.
In fact, the private armies of the Golden Triangle are more armed and dangerous than the governments bordering it. The Thais and Laotians have repeatedly tried to gain control, only to be pushed back with heavy losses. The Cambodian military seem to have found a compromise – "if you can’t beat them, serve them" – and is now actively protecting the illegal drug production.
It is one of a very few places that SOE could not penetrate with agents; the drug barons have a way of dealing with spies. A SOE agent was recently found dead by the Thai border, the entire skeleton completely removed from his body… while still alive.
Stormtrooper knew that the kidnapping of a CERN scientist only meant that the drug barons are going to try to blackmail the whole world into submission with the new anti-matter technology. He sighed in helpless frustration.
If governments could not tame the Golden Triangle, how could SOE possibly beat them in their own territory?
“It seems the Shuk Tung clan, the most powerful of the drug barons, is finally making a bid to consolidate the separate and independent segments of the Golden Triangle,” Sean Blade continued. “If this succeeds, we will see the birth of the new king of terrorists, displacing the defunct bin Laden and his Al Queda.”
Stormtrooper knew that the kidnapping of a CERN scientist only meant that the drug barons are going to try to blackmail the whole world into submission with the new anti-matter technology. He sighed in helpless frustration.
If governments could not tame the Golden Triangle, how could SOE possibly beat them in their own territory?
“It seems the Shuk Tung clan, the most powerful of the drug barons, is finally making a bid to consolidate the separate and independent segments of the Golden Triangle,” Sean Blade continued. “If this succeeds, we will see the birth of the new king of terrorists, displacing the defunct bin Laden and his Al Queda.”
“Sean,” said Stormtrooper, “who is leading the combat operation?”
“Scorpion Rules, sir,” replied Sean Blade.
Stormtrooper started, then narrowed his eyes. “If Professor Haagendaz is the key to this mission, then it means Scorpion has a Secondary Protocol.”
“Yes,” Sean Blade admitted. “But we are hoping she will not get a chance to use the Secondary Protocol.”
"You hope," murmured Stormtrooper, his eyes on Sean Blade's face. "What do you plan to do to save her from the Secondary Protocol, Sean?"
“Hold on!” interrupted Musketero, listening closely to his earpiece. After a moment his face registered concern, then faced his two companions. “We have received a transmission from Cobalt. It seems they’ve fended off an attack from a dirt bike squad…”
“Dirt bike?” interjected Stormtrooper. The Blademaster unconsciously clenched his fists.
But Musketero moved on, “… but they only suffered a slight casualty. They have reached the safety of the jungle again, and we have pinpointed their location through GPS. However, while Cobalt was transmitting our radio operator heard distinctive gunfire, and the transmission was abruptly disconnected.”
“Well…” Stormtrooper stood up. “If there’s no more to be done here…” Sean Blade shook his head. “Then maybe we should head for the mission control room.” And the three men almost ran out of the room.
But Musketero moved on, “… but they only suffered a slight casualty. They have reached the safety of the jungle again, and we have pinpointed their location through GPS. However, while Cobalt was transmitting our radio operator heard distinctive gunfire, and the transmission was abruptly disconnected.”
“Well…” Stormtrooper stood up. “If there’s no more to be done here…” Sean Blade shook his head. “Then maybe we should head for the mission control room.” And the three men almost ran out of the room.
21:56H: Near LZ Bastion, The Golden Triangle
"Scorpy, Markus. Tangos are patrolling this area in pairs. We need..." The radio transmission ended with a distinctive crack of an AK-47. Lacrimosa, situated on a hilltop more than a kilometer away from Cobalt, could not have heard the gunfire inside the canopy of the jungle, but he could see the squad picking up the pace and entering the tree line one by one. S**t happens, he thought.
Once a member of the late USSR's elite SPETsNAZ, Lacrimosa felt it was his destiny to be counted with one of the toughest and most ruthless military units that ever walked the face of the earth. From his baptism of fire in Afghanistan until the collapse of the Soviet Union, Lacrimosa thought that Communism, with the unselfish sacrifices of valiant defenders like himself, would live forever.
A loner by nature, he would sit or stand silently by a corner, deigning small talk, watching his surroundings with half-closed eyes, his back always against a wall. A comrade on one occasion said he felt safe and comforted with Lacrimosa standing by a corner of the room because it felt like the Politburo -- the highest leadership council of the USSR -- was watching their every move like a surveillance camera.
The next morning the comrade was thrown into The Gulag, the icy-cold, harsh prison in Siberia.
Once a member of the late USSR's elite SPETsNAZ, Lacrimosa felt it was his destiny to be counted with one of the toughest and most ruthless military units that ever walked the face of the earth. From his baptism of fire in Afghanistan until the collapse of the Soviet Union, Lacrimosa thought that Communism, with the unselfish sacrifices of valiant defenders like himself, would live forever.
A loner by nature, he would sit or stand silently by a corner, deigning small talk, watching his surroundings with half-closed eyes, his back always against a wall. A comrade on one occasion said he felt safe and comforted with Lacrimosa standing by a corner of the room because it felt like the Politburo -- the highest leadership council of the USSR -- was watching their every move like a surveillance camera.
The next morning the comrade was thrown into The Gulag, the icy-cold, harsh prison in Siberia.
A true believer of his destiny, Lacrimosa thought he was already nearing the pinnacle of a sterling career when he was promoted to major. But one of his co-officers, the company sniper, angry and jealous of Lacrimosa's promotion, challenged the new major to a shooting contest. The sniper chose wisely than to start a fistfight. With his huge bulk, Lacrimosa was known to smash bones and send opponents into coma. His cold stare alone could make them shake their knees in despair.
Lacrimosa smiled, having piled himself with so much cheap vodka that his piss could have withered the grass. Everyone in the mess hall fell quiet, for they have never, ever seen Lacrimosa smile. Even the sniper felt his bowels starting to give way. With a booming laugh, Lacrimosa stood up, downed the rest of his vodka in one gulp, and raised the empty bottle for all to see. "Fine, yes! Let's have a f**king shooting contest for one f**king thousand rubles! With just this one f**king bottle!"
"Fine!" the bigheaded sniper agreed.
Lacrimosa smiled, having piled himself with so much cheap vodka that his piss could have withered the grass. Everyone in the mess hall fell quiet, for they have never, ever seen Lacrimosa smile. Even the sniper felt his bowels starting to give way. With a booming laugh, Lacrimosa stood up, downed the rest of his vodka in one gulp, and raised the empty bottle for all to see. "Fine, yes! Let's have a f**king shooting contest for one f**king thousand rubles! With just this one f**king bottle!"
"Fine!" the bigheaded sniper agreed.
"Hold your f**king horses, tovarish!" Lacrimosa said. "This bottle won't be standing up like your d*ck when you read those girlie magazines you hide under your bed." The crowd hooted in amusement and derision.
Lacrimosa motioned to the crowd to keep quiet. "This bottle will be lying down, like so," and held the bottle horizontally, "with the opening facing us. Whoever hits the f**king bottom without ever scratching the opening wins the f**king money."
The whole place exploded in bedlam. Hit the bottom of the bottle through the bottleneck? Is that possible? Who cares! I bet a hundred rubles! A hundred, you cheapskate? I bet you five hundred! Covered!
They found a lowly private to place the bottle about 400 meters from the mess hall. The poor fool jogged outside the harsh coldness of winter as the betting started in earnest. Other comrades, officers and cannon fodders alike, heard the commotion and went to the mess hall to participate in the betting. In a lonely outpost even betting on the fastest snails, or the first d*ckhead to get frostbite, becomes a major event.
Lacrimosa stood silently by the doorway, the ice-cold breeze wiping out any trace of his earlier smile. His opponent stayed by the window, fidgeting with his rifle, sweat starting to form into droplets on his forehead. A colonel went out with an upturned helmet in his hand, and told the two contestants to draw lots.
Lacrimosa motioned to the crowd to keep quiet. "This bottle will be lying down, like so," and held the bottle horizontally, "with the opening facing us. Whoever hits the f**king bottom without ever scratching the opening wins the f**king money."
The whole place exploded in bedlam. Hit the bottom of the bottle through the bottleneck? Is that possible? Who cares! I bet a hundred rubles! A hundred, you cheapskate? I bet you five hundred! Covered!
They found a lowly private to place the bottle about 400 meters from the mess hall. The poor fool jogged outside the harsh coldness of winter as the betting started in earnest. Other comrades, officers and cannon fodders alike, heard the commotion and went to the mess hall to participate in the betting. In a lonely outpost even betting on the fastest snails, or the first d*ckhead to get frostbite, becomes a major event.
Lacrimosa stood silently by the doorway, the ice-cold breeze wiping out any trace of his earlier smile. His opponent stayed by the window, fidgeting with his rifle, sweat starting to form into droplets on his forehead. A colonel went out with an upturned helmet in his hand, and told the two contestants to draw lots.
The sniper got to shoot first. He lay down to the classic prone position by the doorway, adjusted his sights now and then, and generally took some ten minutes in procrastination until the colonel angrily said something about shoving the rifle into the sniper's rear orifice to lubricate the trigger mechanism. The crowd laughed in merriment.
The sniper took the hint, breathed deeply, and got his shot off. The bullet ricocheted off the ground a good three meters from the bottle, and half the crowd who bet on the sniper groaned in disappointment.
Lacrimosa never heard the boisterous crowd at all. He was already in "the zone," his mind so totally focused that he was virtually in a universe of his own, where the only things that mattered is his heart and his target.
He remembered how his grandfather taught him how to track and hunt down wild deer. And the amazement that followed when the brought back his first deer within an hour. Lacrimosa just seemed to have faster reflexes and a rottweiller's single-minded concentration.
Kneeling down and resting his rifle on a bench, he began the ritual to transform himself into a killer. Lacrimosa willed his bones and sinew -- from his legs to the spine to his shoulderblades to his neck -- to form a rigid structure to provide a steady platform for his rifle.
The sniper took the hint, breathed deeply, and got his shot off. The bullet ricocheted off the ground a good three meters from the bottle, and half the crowd who bet on the sniper groaned in disappointment.
Lacrimosa never heard the boisterous crowd at all. He was already in "the zone," his mind so totally focused that he was virtually in a universe of his own, where the only things that mattered is his heart and his target.
He remembered how his grandfather taught him how to track and hunt down wild deer. And the amazement that followed when the brought back his first deer within an hour. Lacrimosa just seemed to have faster reflexes and a rottweiller's single-minded concentration.
Kneeling down and resting his rifle on a bench, he began the ritual to transform himself into a killer. Lacrimosa willed his bones and sinew -- from his legs to the spine to his shoulderblades to his neck -- to form a rigid structure to provide a steady platform for his rifle.
His rested his cheek on the riflestock, and aligned his right eye to the slim riflescope. He could clearly see his target, bobbing and floating in view. This is the real enemy, his heartbeat, betraying him with its pulsing, making him lose the target from his crosshairs. He paused, trying to forgive himself for this human imperfection. Then his eye narrowed into a slit as he thought, I am the angel of death... I fear nothing. He breathed deeply, let half of it out.
He fired, and he could see the bullet, guiding it with the force of his will to slip through the small opening, through the bottleneck, and shatter the bottom half of the bottle.
The silence was deafening. No one else knew what happened, it was too far to see. But as the private raised the severed but still intact neck of the bottle, the entire building thundered in incredulous awe.
"I don't believe it," the sniper said.
"That," retorted Lacrimosa, "is why you are a f**king loser," and swiped the pot money into his large pocket. That's when he noticed the stranger standing by the base commandant's door. They traded long stares, until the stranger smiled slightly and walked inside. Lacrimosa stood a while longer, thinking, then turned back to the revelry. I'm tired, he thought.
He went straight to the sniper and hit his face with a huge fist. The hapless comrade sprawled to the ground, half conscious, and the crowd again fell silent.
He fired, and he could see the bullet, guiding it with the force of his will to slip through the small opening, through the bottleneck, and shatter the bottom half of the bottle.
The silence was deafening. No one else knew what happened, it was too far to see. But as the private raised the severed but still intact neck of the bottle, the entire building thundered in incredulous awe.
"I don't believe it," the sniper said.
"That," retorted Lacrimosa, "is why you are a f**king loser," and swiped the pot money into his large pocket. That's when he noticed the stranger standing by the base commandant's door. They traded long stares, until the stranger smiled slightly and walked inside. Lacrimosa stood a while longer, thinking, then turned back to the revelry. I'm tired, he thought.
He went straight to the sniper and hit his face with a huge fist. The hapless comrade sprawled to the ground, half conscious, and the crowd again fell silent.
Lacrimosa shook a finger at the loser. "I'm going to sleep now. And if you ever think about creeping in my sleep like the coward you are, then you better be prepared to die. Very slowly."
Then he left. The crowd turned away and ignored their moaning comrade like he was part of the floor decor, and the noise level rose higher than before.
Then he left. The crowd turned away and ignored their moaning comrade like he was part of the floor decor, and the noise level rose higher than before.
Lacrimosa was starting to pack up and regroup with the rest of the Cobalt squad when he noticed movement from the northwest. Training his spotter scope to the dark specks, he saw an enlarged, greenish view of tangos combing the open fields towards the general direction of Cobalt. This is becoming interesting, he thought. He felt the mission was another milk run, until the chopper's crash in LZ Stratos.
He immediately clicked his radio. "Scorpy, Lacrimosa... what's your status?"
The answer came back quickly, Scorpy's voice interspersed with multiple gunfire, "Lacrimosa, Scorpy. We have engaged some tangos of unknown strength. Can you help us?"
"Scorpy, Lacrimosa. I've got tangos, company strength, heading your way from the northwest through the open. Permission to engage."
A common misconception of civilians is the image of a sniper as a killer before anything else. Although a sniper can deliver death from long distance, his primary role is to scout for enemy disposition and strength, supply lines, locations of ammo dumps, fuel depots and radio comm centers, as well as to monitor the surroundings during operations. In short, to be a spy behind enemy lines.
A superior sniper usually operates alone, but in certain instances he is paired with another, less talented sniper who acts as a spotter. The spotter's primary objective is to keep his sniper alive to fight another day. Only secondary are his duties to help in looking for enemy targets, carrying their ammo, food, water and other logistics, and acting as radioman. Sometimes a sniper develops an utter trust on a certain spotter that he will refuse any other volunteer to accompany him during covert missions.
In the Cobalt squad, Lacrimosa was supposed to have a spotter, but his usual partner contracted STD and had to be sidelined. Thus, Lacrimosa chose to run alone.
He immediately clicked his radio. "Scorpy, Lacrimosa... what's your status?"
The answer came back quickly, Scorpy's voice interspersed with multiple gunfire, "Lacrimosa, Scorpy. We have engaged some tangos of unknown strength. Can you help us?"
"Scorpy, Lacrimosa. I've got tangos, company strength, heading your way from the northwest through the open. Permission to engage."
A common misconception of civilians is the image of a sniper as a killer before anything else. Although a sniper can deliver death from long distance, his primary role is to scout for enemy disposition and strength, supply lines, locations of ammo dumps, fuel depots and radio comm centers, as well as to monitor the surroundings during operations. In short, to be a spy behind enemy lines.
A superior sniper usually operates alone, but in certain instances he is paired with another, less talented sniper who acts as a spotter. The spotter's primary objective is to keep his sniper alive to fight another day. Only secondary are his duties to help in looking for enemy targets, carrying their ammo, food, water and other logistics, and acting as radioman. Sometimes a sniper develops an utter trust on a certain spotter that he will refuse any other volunteer to accompany him during covert missions.
In the Cobalt squad, Lacrimosa was supposed to have a spotter, but his usual partner contracted STD and had to be sidelined. Thus, Lacrimosa chose to run alone.
A sniper's gathered data for proper decision-making by combat officers is considered more precious that his shooting abilities. When a sniper shoots, chances are his stealth is compromised. Therefore, when a sniper shoots, it is because there is no other option left.
With tangos coming at their six, the Cobalt leader can have only one reply. "Lacrimosa, Scorpy. Engage at will. I repeat, engage at will. Good hunting."
Settling down in his makeshift hidey-hole, Lacrimosa laid his custom-made Dragunov sniper rifle on top of a small sandbag that he filled up with soil beforehand. "Copy that," he answered.
With tangos coming at their six, the Cobalt leader can have only one reply. "Lacrimosa, Scorpy. Engage at will. I repeat, engage at will. Good hunting."
Settling down in his makeshift hidey-hole, Lacrimosa laid his custom-made Dragunov sniper rifle on top of a small sandbag that he filled up with soil beforehand. "Copy that," he answered.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/Dragunov.jpg)
The 50-inch long, ten-pound, 7.62mm-caliber Dragunov uses not just ordinary rounds, but also tracer, armor-piercing (AP), incendiary and special sniper bullets. Its riflescope allows the sniper to see in low-light and night conditions.
Designed for semi-auto firing instead of manual bolt-action so beloved by American snipers, the Dragunov can dish out its entire magazine of ten rounds in less than three seconds without making any movement that may betray the sniper's whereabouts.
Lacrimosa started going into "the zone," his mind becoming a crystal thought of death. His body metabolism slowed down, his heartbeat going fainter by every second as his eyes start to take on a laser-like focus.
His phenomenal concentration of will and determination is so focused that everything seemed to go into slow motion, and his awareness soared and took every stone, leaf, sound and movement into account.
Designed for semi-auto firing instead of manual bolt-action so beloved by American snipers, the Dragunov can dish out its entire magazine of ten rounds in less than three seconds without making any movement that may betray the sniper's whereabouts.
Lacrimosa started going into "the zone," his mind becoming a crystal thought of death. His body metabolism slowed down, his heartbeat going fainter by every second as his eyes start to take on a laser-like focus.
His phenomenal concentration of will and determination is so focused that everything seemed to go into slow motion, and his awareness soared and took every stone, leaf, sound and movement into account.
He aimed at a tango with a bulky backpack standing by a vintage Jeep, took up the trigger slack, breathed deeply, paused for some infinitesimal moment, breathed half out, and thought, I am the angel of death and I come to kill. And pulls the trigger...
2150H: SOE HQ, The Mansion
"A very talented hacker? Only a very talented hacker? Are you insulting me, Musket? Me, the most incredible hacker genius on this planet!" a man hunched in front of a console snickered, then laughed uproariously.
"Brahma!" exclaimed Sean Blade, his body stress turning to liquid heat and flowing out like melted snow.
Aside from being one of the finest combat operatives in SOE, Brahma is also a renowned hacker in the Internet community -- his ability to hack into any computer or telecom system in any country in any security level is almost uparalleled in skill and stealth. An honors graduate of the renowed Massachussetts Institute of Technology (MIT) with masters degrees in electronics and telecommunications, computer science and computer engineering, Brahma has helped create most of the advanced protocols in data encryption and computer system security.
His master of computers and telecoms is so astounding that he has acquired a reputation of mystical proportions. It is said that he could understand modem-to-modem talk without any special equipment, that he could pound his keyboard a hundred keystrokes per second, or that computers simply fall under his spell. To the computer techies and nerds in SOE, Brahma is simply "God."
There are times when Brahma is brought down to earth. A serious practitioner of combat judo and tae kwon do, he is still a sucker to the swift kicks to his shin by Shiva, his lovely and lethal SOE assassin with a license to kill with extreme prejudice.
"What is the combat status of the Cobalt mission?" Stormtrooper asked as the three men entered the operations control room.
Musketero answered, "Sir, the spy satellite we used for the high-resolution images of the Stratos crash site has already passed by in orbit. We are currently 'hijacking' some other satellites for continuous coverage of LZ Bastion."
Instead of funding millions of dollars into satellite design, construction, launch and orbit management, the SOE -- as a general practice -- resorts to sneakier, but absolutely cheaper, methods, such as taking covert control of a satellite without the owners being aware of such "remote control." Most of the time, SOE needs to "hijack" two or more satellites. This is because a satellite uses microwave radio to communicate. The problem with microwave is that it's a "line-of-sight" technology: irregardless of distance, two microwave stations must be aligned in a straight line without any obstacles in between.
In the case of the Cobalt mission, SOE needed some additional satellites to act as "relay stations" around the earth. More satellites meant greater chances of getting caught. Only a hacker par excellence can face up to such challenges.
Musketero continued, "As you all know, what we are attempting is highly illegal. What we need here is a very talented hacker who can grab some satellites for us without raising any alarms."
Musketero answered, "Sir, the spy satellite we used for the high-resolution images of the Stratos crash site has already passed by in orbit. We are currently 'hijacking' some other satellites for continuous coverage of LZ Bastion."
Instead of funding millions of dollars into satellite design, construction, launch and orbit management, the SOE -- as a general practice -- resorts to sneakier, but absolutely cheaper, methods, such as taking covert control of a satellite without the owners being aware of such "remote control." Most of the time, SOE needs to "hijack" two or more satellites. This is because a satellite uses microwave radio to communicate. The problem with microwave is that it's a "line-of-sight" technology: irregardless of distance, two microwave stations must be aligned in a straight line without any obstacles in between.
In the case of the Cobalt mission, SOE needed some additional satellites to act as "relay stations" around the earth. More satellites meant greater chances of getting caught. Only a hacker par excellence can face up to such challenges.
Musketero continued, "As you all know, what we are attempting is highly illegal. What we need here is a very talented hacker who can grab some satellites for us without raising any alarms."
"A very talented hacker? Only a very talented hacker? Are you insulting me, Musket? Me, the most incredible hacker genius on this planet!" a man hunched in front of a console snickered, then laughed uproariously.
"Brahma!" exclaimed Sean Blade, his body stress turning to liquid heat and flowing out like melted snow.
Aside from being one of the finest combat operatives in SOE, Brahma is also a renowned hacker in the Internet community -- his ability to hack into any computer or telecom system in any country in any security level is almost uparalleled in skill and stealth. An honors graduate of the renowed Massachussetts Institute of Technology (MIT) with masters degrees in electronics and telecommunications, computer science and computer engineering, Brahma has helped create most of the advanced protocols in data encryption and computer system security.
His master of computers and telecoms is so astounding that he has acquired a reputation of mystical proportions. It is said that he could understand modem-to-modem talk without any special equipment, that he could pound his keyboard a hundred keystrokes per second, or that computers simply fall under his spell. To the computer techies and nerds in SOE, Brahma is simply "God."
There are times when Brahma is brought down to earth. A serious practitioner of combat judo and tae kwon do, he is still a sucker to the swift kicks to his shin by Shiva, his lovely and lethal SOE assassin with a license to kill with extreme prejudice.
If there was hacking to be done in the Cobalt mission, then Brahma is the man to do it.
"I was luck to have Brahma come in from a completed mission, so I was able to put his name in that list of people to be called in the event of a Code Yellow alert," explained Musketero.
"Stormtrooper! Sean! Nice to see you, dudes!" greeted Brahma. "And as for you, Musket," he shook a finger, "you dragged me from a perfectly romantic dinner. Shiva, the love of my life, is very angry and wants to hang you to the nearest tree." Brahma rolled his eyes and shook his hands in mock horror. "But enough of that later. We have more important things to do than to cut your balls off and feed them to the crocodiles. Although I don't think any wild animal would want to chew such a disgusting..."
"Uh-hrrrm..." Stormtrooper interrupted.
"Yes, right..." Brahma pounded the keyboard, then pointed at the wall screen. "If you will, gentlemen. I've been able to tap into a US satellite just hovering near the Chinese border. It's been declared as a geological survey satellite for 'scientific' purposes. Yeah, right. What I found out is that this baby is equipped with state-of-the-art infrafed telescopic cameras."
"Yes, but infrared cameras cannot pierce through the jungle canopy," Sean Blade interjected.
"Yeah, you're right," Brahma agreed. "But we've also got some of the latest radar technology right at my fingertips, dude! Perfect for watching wild tangos as they party in the jungle all day long."
Musketero clapped his hands in approval. "You da man, Brahma! You da man!" he shouted.
"But!" Brahma raised a finger in caution. "We have bad news..."
"I was luck to have Brahma come in from a completed mission, so I was able to put his name in that list of people to be called in the event of a Code Yellow alert," explained Musketero.
"Stormtrooper! Sean! Nice to see you, dudes!" greeted Brahma. "And as for you, Musket," he shook a finger, "you dragged me from a perfectly romantic dinner. Shiva, the love of my life, is very angry and wants to hang you to the nearest tree." Brahma rolled his eyes and shook his hands in mock horror. "But enough of that later. We have more important things to do than to cut your balls off and feed them to the crocodiles. Although I don't think any wild animal would want to chew such a disgusting..."
"Uh-hrrrm..." Stormtrooper interrupted.
"Yes, right..." Brahma pounded the keyboard, then pointed at the wall screen. "If you will, gentlemen. I've been able to tap into a US satellite just hovering near the Chinese border. It's been declared as a geological survey satellite for 'scientific' purposes. Yeah, right. What I found out is that this baby is equipped with state-of-the-art infrafed telescopic cameras."
"Yes, but infrared cameras cannot pierce through the jungle canopy," Sean Blade interjected.
"Yeah, you're right," Brahma agreed. "But we've also got some of the latest radar technology right at my fingertips, dude! Perfect for watching wild tangos as they party in the jungle all day long."
Musketero clapped his hands in approval. "You da man, Brahma! You da man!" he shouted.
"But!" Brahma raised a finger in caution. "We have bad news..."
We have pinpointed the Cobalt squad just within the tree line," said Brahma, centering on the wall screen the small cluster of dots representing the SOE rescue and extraction unit. "But our infrared cameras picked up some movement at the open fields to the northwest. Computer analysis suggested that tangos of company strength are heading right behind Cobalt."
"Can we contact the squad?" Stormtrooper anxiously asked.
Sean Blade shook his head. "No. Not until they contact us first. Standard security procedure."
"Unfortunately, we go from bad to worse," Brahma continued. "Radar is not like a movie camera. It can only take snapshots, one at a time. So I made a program to examine every radar snapshot for differences in the images. What we have as a result are dots moving across the screen."
They watched the computer-animated screen as the dots slowly moved across the map. Brahma sighed and shook his head wearily. "Dudes, based on computer analysis, what we have here are four companies of tangos, maybe more. Those larger dots may be armored vehicles. All bearing down to crush our Cobalt squad."
After a moment of stunned silence, Sean Blade walked to the center chair and sat down. Everyone in the room understood the motion: The Blademaster has assumed full command of Operation Cobalt.
"Can we contact the squad?" Stormtrooper anxiously asked.
Sean Blade shook his head. "No. Not until they contact us first. Standard security procedure."
"Unfortunately, we go from bad to worse," Brahma continued. "Radar is not like a movie camera. It can only take snapshots, one at a time. So I made a program to examine every radar snapshot for differences in the images. What we have as a result are dots moving across the screen."
They watched the computer-animated screen as the dots slowly moved across the map. Brahma sighed and shook his head wearily. "Dudes, based on computer analysis, what we have here are four companies of tangos, maybe more. Those larger dots may be armored vehicles. All bearing down to crush our Cobalt squad."
After a moment of stunned silence, Sean Blade walked to the center chair and sat down. Everyone in the room understood the motion: The Blademaster has assumed full command of Operation Cobalt.
"Is our back-up squad on standby?" Sean Blade asked.
"Yes," Musketero replied, "they're at the Thai border awaiting the green light. But they are still no match against four companies of tangos, Sean."
"Maybe more!" Brahma piped in.
"Sean, we need more firepower," Stormtrooper agreed.
"I may have something here!" Brahma exclaimed. "Our database registered the presence of an undercover recon team from NASL. They've just completed a counter-terrorism security assessment in the Philippines, and are now in Singapore for some R&R."
"We need them," Sean Blade said. "NASL is not just additional firepower. That team is an unstoppable force of nature!"
Musketero nodded. "I'll get right on it."
"Whoa," said a puzzled Brahma. "The computer just belched out another bit of info. It seems we got two friendly mercenaries in Thailand right now!"
"Yes," Musketero replied, "they're at the Thai border awaiting the green light. But they are still no match against four companies of tangos, Sean."
"Maybe more!" Brahma piped in.
"Sean, we need more firepower," Stormtrooper agreed.
"I may have something here!" Brahma exclaimed. "Our database registered the presence of an undercover recon team from NASL. They've just completed a counter-terrorism security assessment in the Philippines, and are now in Singapore for some R&R."
"We need them," Sean Blade said. "NASL is not just additional firepower. That team is an unstoppable force of nature!"
Musketero nodded. "I'll get right on it."
"Whoa," said a puzzled Brahma. "The computer just belched out another bit of info. It seems we got two friendly mercenaries in Thailand right now!"
Although "friendly" is hardly a word used for the tough soldiers of fortune, SOE has, from time to time, found itself using the services of a merc to complete many a critical mission. Of course, the SOE tends to retain those mercs who have shown exemplary professionalism in their craft -- thus the "friendly" moniker.
After tapping some more commands on the keyboard, Brahma wiped his tired eyes and said, "I've got their names. And I don't believe it. It's Papa Jun and Skipperooo."
"What!" exclaimed a surprised Musketero. "The two of them, together? Again? I don't recall a civil war going on over there. Is Thailand still above sea level, or have they wiped it off the earth? Those two crazy..."
Sean Blade raised a hand for silence. "They are the best in what they do. If they can start World War 4 inside the Golden Triangle, then I will personally shove their skinny butts off the plane!"
Stormtrooper smiled and said, "I'll deal with them, Sean."
Brahma was frowning at his console, tapping every now and then, and frowning some more.
After tapping some more commands on the keyboard, Brahma wiped his tired eyes and said, "I've got their names. And I don't believe it. It's Papa Jun and Skipperooo."
"What!" exclaimed a surprised Musketero. "The two of them, together? Again? I don't recall a civil war going on over there. Is Thailand still above sea level, or have they wiped it off the earth? Those two crazy..."
Sean Blade raised a hand for silence. "They are the best in what they do. If they can start World War 4 inside the Golden Triangle, then I will personally shove their skinny butts off the plane!"
Stormtrooper smiled and said, "I'll deal with them, Sean."
Brahma was frowning at his console, tapping every now and then, and frowning some more.
"Any more problems, Brahma?" asked Sean Blade.
Shaking his head in confusion, Brahma said, "I don't know, dude. There seems to be a malfunction in the infrared imaging system. Look," he pointed at the screen, "I have a close-up view of the open fields. The tango dots... they are fading out one by one..."
"What does it mean?" Stormtrooper asked.
"I... I don't know." Brahma stammered. "The on-board computer inside the satellite reports no abnormalities. So... either the tangos are going underground, or they... they are dying..."
Sean Blade frowned in deep thought. "It's Lacrimosa," he said.
"Are you sure?" asked Brahma.
"Yes," Sean Blade answered with conviction. "Brains and brawn. Superior eye-hand coordination. Incredibly sharp and unwavering concentration. Absolutely fearless and totally in control. His passion is not in the taking of lives, but in performing a job well done. He is the ultimate killing machine."
The Blademaster's eyes glinted in savage satisfaction. "If those tangos have a god they pray to, they should be kissing the sonofab**ch's butt right about now."
Shaking his head in confusion, Brahma said, "I don't know, dude. There seems to be a malfunction in the infrared imaging system. Look," he pointed at the screen, "I have a close-up view of the open fields. The tango dots... they are fading out one by one..."
"What does it mean?" Stormtrooper asked.
"I... I don't know." Brahma stammered. "The on-board computer inside the satellite reports no abnormalities. So... either the tangos are going underground, or they... they are dying..."
Sean Blade frowned in deep thought. "It's Lacrimosa," he said.
"Are you sure?" asked Brahma.
"Yes," Sean Blade answered with conviction. "Brains and brawn. Superior eye-hand coordination. Incredibly sharp and unwavering concentration. Absolutely fearless and totally in control. His passion is not in the taking of lives, but in performing a job well done. He is the ultimate killing machine."
The Blademaster's eyes glinted in savage satisfaction. "If those tangos have a god they pray to, they should be kissing the sonofab**ch's butt right about now."
| 2200H: LZ Bastion, The Golden Triangle The tango captain stood with his map and compass on the Jeep’s hood, trying to align his coordinates in the dim light provided by his driver’s flashlight. Those accursed foreign devils have dared to invade their tribal lands and have taken off with their captives. The captain was slumbering peacefully after a hot and satisfying bout with his wife when gunfire, massive and unrelenting, shattered the night. There was only time to grab his Krinkov, the small Kalashnikov variant with a short barrel and skeleton folding stock. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/krinkov01.jpg) The tango captain had no idea who the foreign captives were, but he could guess that they were very valuable to the tribal elders. By now he was pretty sure the captives were very valuable -- a rescue mission and the resulting commotion in their base is proof of that.And now here he is, eaten alive by mosquitoes and other blood-sucking insects in the steaming-hot jungle. Making some final corrections, the irate captain raised his head and bawled to his radio operator sitting at the rear of the vehicle to tell the men to make haste. The radio operator nodded silently and raised the handset to his ear. Then a buzzing sound, soft but insistent, came from nowhere. The captain looked up in shock as his subordinate’s head and the radio handset exploded into useless little bits and pieces. Then he heard another slight buzz and felt a nudge on his chest. He looked down and was surprised to see a bright red hole magically bloom on his torso. What the f**k, he thought wildly, and promptly collapsed to the ground like a bag of bricks. The driver just sat frozen, looking at his dead captain without comprehension, when he felt a hard thump to his face. He fell back on his seat, an ugly red third eye on his forehead. Lacrimosa had heavily customized his Dragunov, making it more lethal at a longer distance than the stock factory rifle. But using modified, hand-loaded 7N14 sniper rounds are what made his kills nasty and effective: a true one-shot one-kill system. Each bullet is equipped with a lead plug at the base, a steel “knocker” in front of it, and a small air pocket in the nose, or front end. When his 7N14 hits human flesh, the lead plug pushes the “knocker” into the air pocket, where it rolls around – forcing the projectile to tumble and thereby create a very large “tunnel” inside the body as it goes every which way in a destructive, drunken path. Having eliminated the topmost level in the chain of command, Lacrimosa calmly shifted his aim as he squinted through the riflescope. A lone gun against a human wave of more than 150 angry tangos, the Cobalt sniper’s only chance is to demoralize the regular troops before they come within their killing range. And the fastest way to do this is to purge the tangos of their visible leadership. Luck was simply with Lacrimosa when the tango captain and his staff stayed at the rear of the company; with the distance at almost 2 kilometers, the Dragunov’s roars never reached the tangos, who were unaware that their captain had expired. It was time to extend the element of surprise in his favor. Studying the nearest platoon, Lacrimosa marked the tango leaders, given away by their excessive hand and arm gestures. With smooth pressure on the trigger, the Dragunov kicked hard in his hands. He saw the platoon leader slump down like a deflated balloon, then the point man jumped in a half somersault to the ground. It took a second or two for a squad leader to take in what was happening. With terror shaking his voice, he shouted to his men, “Tireur embusqué! Se defiler!” Sniper! Take cover! | |||
| |||
With his presence now discovered, Lacrimosa’s “slaying” mode went up another notch. He simply remembered where the tangos buried themselves in the hip-high grass. He lowered his aim and started sending one lethal projectile after another through the grass, which proved to be a very pitiful excuse of armor for the hiding tangos. Now and then he would see the grass move when a body brushed against it, sometimes tango arms and legs tumbling in the grass, signifying fatal hits.
With every final wail or grunt from dying lips, the fear factor within the tango company rose higher and higher. Tango squad leaders trying to control their troops would raise their heads a fraction above the grass, but a fraction is all Lacrimosa needed. Shocked and shaken, the troops witness their officers crumple like puppets without strings. Panic rolled across them like dark clouds of doom. At first a tango or two would make a run back to where they came from. Then others started dashing in retreat, unmindful of the rain of lead heading their way.
Lacrimosa, finding no honor in killing a retreating enemy from behind, ignored the cowardly tangos. He saw tango officers, desperate for control, shooting their own retreating troops, and ignored them as well; after all, they were helping him diminish the threat.
But he continued to hunt for the ones left behind. A brave officer shaming his squad to face death, encounters his own under Lacrimosa’s deadly aim. A corporal ordering his troops to flank the hilltop suddenly pirouettes to the ground, his blood spraying red all around. Searching, ever searching, Lacrimosa aims for those who could gather troops and mount a rushing attack against him and his Cobalt team.
Then he stopped. As suddenly as it started, the battle is over. Lacrimosa just ran out of worthy targets. Through his scope he watched more than 50 tangos scampering away in mindless terror. Even the murderous officers have started to run for their own lives. With a contemptuous smile, Lacrimosa let them live. He had observed, during his military career in Mother Russia, how long regular troops remember the humiliating treatment they received from their officers, and how they wait ever so patiently for payback time. Lacrimosa has little doubt what those tango officers will receive from their men for their harshness.
Scanning the horizon again, Lacrimosa felt satisfied that there are no other threats lurking to endanger the Cobalt mission. He dusted himself off and started to pack up for his delayed rendezvous with his squad.
Unknown to him, a tango sniper team from another hilltop was watching him. The sniper whispered to his spotter, who then relayed the message to their Shuk Tung general.
With every final wail or grunt from dying lips, the fear factor within the tango company rose higher and higher. Tango squad leaders trying to control their troops would raise their heads a fraction above the grass, but a fraction is all Lacrimosa needed. Shocked and shaken, the troops witness their officers crumple like puppets without strings. Panic rolled across them like dark clouds of doom. At first a tango or two would make a run back to where they came from. Then others started dashing in retreat, unmindful of the rain of lead heading their way.
Lacrimosa, finding no honor in killing a retreating enemy from behind, ignored the cowardly tangos. He saw tango officers, desperate for control, shooting their own retreating troops, and ignored them as well; after all, they were helping him diminish the threat.
But he continued to hunt for the ones left behind. A brave officer shaming his squad to face death, encounters his own under Lacrimosa’s deadly aim. A corporal ordering his troops to flank the hilltop suddenly pirouettes to the ground, his blood spraying red all around. Searching, ever searching, Lacrimosa aims for those who could gather troops and mount a rushing attack against him and his Cobalt team.
Then he stopped. As suddenly as it started, the battle is over. Lacrimosa just ran out of worthy targets. Through his scope he watched more than 50 tangos scampering away in mindless terror. Even the murderous officers have started to run for their own lives. With a contemptuous smile, Lacrimosa let them live. He had observed, during his military career in Mother Russia, how long regular troops remember the humiliating treatment they received from their officers, and how they wait ever so patiently for payback time. Lacrimosa has little doubt what those tango officers will receive from their men for their harshness.
Scanning the horizon again, Lacrimosa felt satisfied that there are no other threats lurking to endanger the Cobalt mission. He dusted himself off and started to pack up for his delayed rendezvous with his squad.
Unknown to him, a tango sniper team from another hilltop was watching him. The sniper whispered to his spotter, who then relayed the message to their Shuk Tung general.
2201H: A 5-Star Hotel in Singapore
“Mistel Andelson, you have a call flom a Mistel Shalp?” a shapely Chinese woman said in a sing-song voice as she laid a tequila sunrise on the low table.
“Yeah?” queried Spitfire, smiling brightly at the waitress but feeling a bit anxious by her message. He rose from his chair by the pool and followed the woman’s undulating hips to the hotel lounge.
“Anything wrong?” asked Spark, but Spitfire shook his head, gesturing that everything’s fine. The others looked at the departing figure, then went back to their chitchat.
Spitfire wondered who the mysterious Mr. Sharp is, since his team has just undertaken a covert operation in the Philippines. And how in heaven's name did the caller know about his “Mr. Anderson” cover? He saw the waitress gesture to a telephone, and he went and picked up the handset.
“Uhrmm,” Spitfire simply said, a throat-clearing sound that is actually used as a standard precautionary technique of not saying anything when he didn’t know the person on the other line.
“Mr. Anderson? This is Mr. Sharp,” a voice introduced itself.
Spitfire immediately recognized the voice. “Sean Blade! It’s been a long time. Have you all decided to come and work for us?"
Sean Blade laughed, "Sorry to disappoint you, Spitfire."
"Well, it's your loss," Spitfire replied. "Our ranch belts out the best grilled beef and mashed potatos in the civilized world! I hope that outfit of yours feed y'all right."
"The SPAM is tender, of course," said Sean Blade.
"SPAM?" sputtered Spitfire. "I heard they're feeding you Mah-Ling nowadays!"
"We've got some budget cuts, but we're not exactly on starvation diet yet, sir!" replied Sean Blade.
"So what can we do for you, my friend?" Spitfire inquired.
“We need your assistance. Something critical has come up. Can you and your team help us?” Sean Blade asked.
The team is NASL, the North American Security League. Composed of former elite soldiers from Canada and the US, NASL is what the SOE fondly calls as “the mercenaries of conscience.” While a typical mercenary goes to war either for blood or money, NASL exempts itself by fighting for justice and the common good.
After years of cold, inhuman orders from faceless officers to “stand down” when they felt they should have stood up for the helpless and the innocent, the NASL mercs now apply their deadly crafts to right the wrongs in a world going mad. Because they work for an ideal that transcends their own personal goals, NASL have become more fierce, but more compassionate, warriors.
For the SOE, Spitfire can only say one thing. “We can, and we will. I’ll round up the gang. So how’s the procedure?”
“A Mr. Go Teng Koh will fetch you there in ten minutes, and will take you to Changi Airport, where you will board a private jet to Thailand,” Sean Blade said. “We’ll brief you when you get there. Will that be fine?”
“Ten minutes is more than enough,” assured Spitfire. “Don’t worry, Sean. You can count on us.”
“We always have, sir. Thank you.”
Spitfire replaced the receiver. Jesus H. Christ, ten minutes! The crisis may be worse than he thought. He stopped by the doorway and looked at his recon squad, some splashing around the pool while others lay contentedly at the chairs for some sun. He sure hated to spoil their vacation, but saving the world comes first.
Spitfire walked rapidly to where his friends are lounging by the pool. Spark saw their leader's eyes, and sighed. After so many years, they all know that "Spitfire look," and it can only mean death and destruction.
"Gather 'round, ladies! The boss man is coming!" Spark shouted to his friends.
"Watch it!" said Lady Croc, the only woman in the recon squad. "I could slap you with gender discrimination, you know."
"Aw, shut up, compadre!" said Apollo. "You're just a boy with a wig. Be a man, why doncha?"
"Hey, look who's talking!" retorted Lady Croc. "Ain't you just a gurl with hair all over your body? I know you're a gurl, comadre! You shrieked like a gurl when that grenade booted you out of that nipa hut you were cowering in!"
"I don't shriek like a girl!" replied an indignant Apollo, and promptly gave out a high-pitched shriek when Ryback tickled his belly.
"I think you're a girl," said Rhino, looking shyly at Lady Croc.
"That's so sweet of you," she replied.
"Rhino really needs new eyeglasses to see better," said Hellspawn.
"And you need a bullet between your eyes," Lady Croc retorted.
“Listen up!" Spitfire said. They all looked up at him. "Pack up and be at the lobby in five minutes. We've got five minutes! We have a new mission, and I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, let's saddle up!”
"Man oh man! I have plans for this evening!" Omega Jagger said dejectedly. "I spent twenty minutes this morning to convince this hot chick to have dinner with me."
Spitfire smiled. "D@mn, that's bad."
"Yeah," Omega Jagger agreed. "I can feel my self-pity coming up to my throat just about now."
As they all went to their rooms to prepare for war, Lady Croc said, “Well, I say it’s about time we get some proper exercises. I’m getting bored to death around here."
“Mistel Andelson, you have a call flom a Mistel Shalp?” a shapely Chinese woman said in a sing-song voice as she laid a tequila sunrise on the low table.
“Yeah?” queried Spitfire, smiling brightly at the waitress but feeling a bit anxious by her message. He rose from his chair by the pool and followed the woman’s undulating hips to the hotel lounge.
“Anything wrong?” asked Spark, but Spitfire shook his head, gesturing that everything’s fine. The others looked at the departing figure, then went back to their chitchat.
Spitfire wondered who the mysterious Mr. Sharp is, since his team has just undertaken a covert operation in the Philippines. And how in heaven's name did the caller know about his “Mr. Anderson” cover? He saw the waitress gesture to a telephone, and he went and picked up the handset.
“Uhrmm,” Spitfire simply said, a throat-clearing sound that is actually used as a standard precautionary technique of not saying anything when he didn’t know the person on the other line.
“Mr. Anderson? This is Mr. Sharp,” a voice introduced itself.
Spitfire immediately recognized the voice. “Sean Blade! It’s been a long time. Have you all decided to come and work for us?"
Sean Blade laughed, "Sorry to disappoint you, Spitfire."
"Well, it's your loss," Spitfire replied. "Our ranch belts out the best grilled beef and mashed potatos in the civilized world! I hope that outfit of yours feed y'all right."
"The SPAM is tender, of course," said Sean Blade.
"SPAM?" sputtered Spitfire. "I heard they're feeding you Mah-Ling nowadays!"
"We've got some budget cuts, but we're not exactly on starvation diet yet, sir!" replied Sean Blade.
"So what can we do for you, my friend?" Spitfire inquired.
“We need your assistance. Something critical has come up. Can you and your team help us?” Sean Blade asked.
The team is NASL, the North American Security League. Composed of former elite soldiers from Canada and the US, NASL is what the SOE fondly calls as “the mercenaries of conscience.” While a typical mercenary goes to war either for blood or money, NASL exempts itself by fighting for justice and the common good.
After years of cold, inhuman orders from faceless officers to “stand down” when they felt they should have stood up for the helpless and the innocent, the NASL mercs now apply their deadly crafts to right the wrongs in a world going mad. Because they work for an ideal that transcends their own personal goals, NASL have become more fierce, but more compassionate, warriors.
For the SOE, Spitfire can only say one thing. “We can, and we will. I’ll round up the gang. So how’s the procedure?”
“A Mr. Go Teng Koh will fetch you there in ten minutes, and will take you to Changi Airport, where you will board a private jet to Thailand,” Sean Blade said. “We’ll brief you when you get there. Will that be fine?”
“Ten minutes is more than enough,” assured Spitfire. “Don’t worry, Sean. You can count on us.”
“We always have, sir. Thank you.”
Spitfire replaced the receiver. Jesus H. Christ, ten minutes! The crisis may be worse than he thought. He stopped by the doorway and looked at his recon squad, some splashing around the pool while others lay contentedly at the chairs for some sun. He sure hated to spoil their vacation, but saving the world comes first.
Spitfire walked rapidly to where his friends are lounging by the pool. Spark saw their leader's eyes, and sighed. After so many years, they all know that "Spitfire look," and it can only mean death and destruction.
"Gather 'round, ladies! The boss man is coming!" Spark shouted to his friends.
"Watch it!" said Lady Croc, the only woman in the recon squad. "I could slap you with gender discrimination, you know."
"Aw, shut up, compadre!" said Apollo. "You're just a boy with a wig. Be a man, why doncha?"
"Hey, look who's talking!" retorted Lady Croc. "Ain't you just a gurl with hair all over your body? I know you're a gurl, comadre! You shrieked like a gurl when that grenade booted you out of that nipa hut you were cowering in!"
"I don't shriek like a girl!" replied an indignant Apollo, and promptly gave out a high-pitched shriek when Ryback tickled his belly.
"I think you're a girl," said Rhino, looking shyly at Lady Croc.
"That's so sweet of you," she replied.
"Rhino really needs new eyeglasses to see better," said Hellspawn.
"And you need a bullet between your eyes," Lady Croc retorted.
“Listen up!" Spitfire said. They all looked up at him. "Pack up and be at the lobby in five minutes. We've got five minutes! We have a new mission, and I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, let's saddle up!”
"Man oh man! I have plans for this evening!" Omega Jagger said dejectedly. "I spent twenty minutes this morning to convince this hot chick to have dinner with me."
Spitfire smiled. "D@mn, that's bad."
"Yeah," Omega Jagger agreed. "I can feel my self-pity coming up to my throat just about now."
As they all went to their rooms to prepare for war, Lady Croc said, “Well, I say it’s about time we get some proper exercises. I’m getting bored to death around here."
| 2201H: SOE HQ, The Mansion As Stormtrooper waited for a connection with the two friendly mercenaries, he recalled vividly the first time he met Papa Jun. Waking with a start, Stormtrooper's upper body snapped up like a jumping jack. He immediately regretted it as he felt woozy and disoriented, his chest and back like some burning mass of coal. He looked down to see swatches of white gauze around his torso, with a reddish stain by the middle. Then he remembered. The whole village, people and animals alike, were startled by a long, loud wail of despair. They looked for a moment at the hut where Stormtrooper was bedded, then went about their usual business, the elders shaking their heads and the children silently slipping away to the edge of the clearing so their playful cries won’t disturb the white stranger who came back from death’s grip. Stormtrooper was sobbing heavily when the light at the door was blocked by a shadow. He wiped his eyes self-consciously and roared, “Who the hell are you!” “Bonjour!” the shadow shouted back, “and a good day to you too, you ungrateful swine!” He stepped inside and aside, letting the sunlight bathe his features. Stormtrooper was surprised to see a short man with slim yet powerful musculature, and wearing the traditional garb of the Congo. Yet the skin tone is light, definitely not African at all. The newcomer continued, “Mon Dieu! Such a hothead! And here I was so good to cook you breakfast.” Stormtrooper noticed a small African girl carrying a tray of food. “Eat up, mon ami,” the stranger said more gently, “you will need your strength to recover from your wound.” “Who are you?” Stormtrooper insisted. “And where am I?” The strange Frenchman sat by the foot of the bed. “I am called Papa Jun. Don’t ask my true name or else I will have to put two wounds in your chest. Maybe one bullet in your head, but I don't think you were born with a brain, mon ami. I don't like wasting bullets." "And where's the camp?" Papa Jun shrugged. "You are in a village, maybe five miles from that medical camp where we found you.” “How long have I been here?” “Oh, around seven days, I think. Sacré bleu, but it was touch and go for a while there. I was all ready to dig your grave, mon petit, but the witch doctor would stay up all night and day, keeping me away from you. In the end, he was right, le enculé, for here you are, all sunny and stinky, le phew!” said Papa Jun and held his nose shut. Stormtrooper sat silently while he ate slowly and thoughtfully. Then he looked up at Papa Jun somberly and asked the question with reluctance, “How about the others?” Papa Jun stared out at the window, looking far away at a distance, his face silent and solemn. Then he stared straight at Stormtrooper. “There are no others. Africa has claimed them as Her own. Je suis regretté. I’m sorry.” | ||||
“Why?” Stormtrooper could not halt the flow of tears. “Why does this have to happen? All those people… my friends… My God, why did you let this happen!” He put his hands to his face and wept, his sobs wracking his whole body in utter anguish.
Papa Jun’s eyes turned hard, and said in a harsh voice, “Alors! I was beginning to like you, but you are so trés imbecile!” He stood up and leaned by the door. “You want to know why? Bien, it is tres simple. Money!”
Stormtrooper, stunned by the callousness of Papa Jun, asked truculently, “And what’s money have to do with the deaths of all my friends and patients?”
“Like I say, you are a true imbecile!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Fear is a very powerful emotion. This is what you do.
"First, you 'donate' three M1 Garand rifles and a few ammo swiped from some ancient WW2 depot for Tribe A as a sign of goodwill.
"Then you tell Tribe B that Tribe A has guns and will wipe them out… unless they buy guns to defend themselves. And here you are with lots of guns and ammo at 'bargain' prices.
"So you sell Tribe B some old AK sub-machineguns and a crate of low-quality bullets at higher prices than the true value. Then you 'donate' a BAR, Browning Automatic Rifle of WW2 vintage, as a sign of goodwill.”
Stormtrooper dejectedly laid his head back to the pillow. “Goodwill? Jesus H. Christ, what a business…”
“Oh, it gets better, petit mon! Then you go to Tribe C and scare the s**t out of those savages, and sell them two BARs at premium prices!
"And who knows how many are killed, not by the enemy, but by their own s**tty guns that blow up in their faces.”
Papa Jun reached for a slice of bread at a nearby table, and started chewing thoughtfully. “Gunrunning is a major business since the time of the Roman Empire, mon ami. Your friends died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that is all. Some people are making a lot of money when they sell fear and death.”
“Death and destruction… so wanton… so wasted…” murmured Stormtrooper. “We only came here to provide medical aid to those…”
“Bah!” Papa Jun exploded. “Medical aid, what is that? You think you are helping these people with your fancy medicine and expensive equipment? You think you are changing the world with your ‘medical aid’? By coming here, you think you are angels from heaven with salvation in your hands?”
The Frenchman spat in disgust. “You come here to patch some bloody holes, that is all. You feed the starving, you give out dummy legs to minefield victims, you give blood and medicine to the wounded...”
Papa Jun pointed an accusing finger at Stormtrooper. “But you never did anything to stop all these craziness in the first place, mon petit. You did not stop the fighting. You just fix them up so they can fight again… so they can die again.”
An African boy ran pell-mell into the hut, and said something to Papa Jun, who immediately rose up to leave.
He turned to Stormtrooper. “You have to leave, petit mon. Rebels are coming this way. They will undoubtedly wipe out this village. Come.”
