Papa Jun pulled Stormtrooper onto his feet, and pushed him to the doorway. Stormtrooper was surprised that he could stand without assistance, and said so.
“Naturellement!” said the Frenchman, “there’s nothing wrong with your legs. I don’t know how that witch doctor cured you, it’s something I’ve accepted a long time ago. He may be putting cow dung in my drink for all I care, but that salaud can patch me up in no time.”
Under the bright morning sun, Stormtrooper looked around the small village for the first time. Tiny huts were scattered all over the place, except for a water hole by the side with a large area for farming potatoes and other root crops. He saw the villagers at the center preparing for battle with guns, spears, long knives and some dilapidated shields.
He felt distressed when he noticed young boys along with the men folk.
“Oui, the killing starts early for them,” Papa Jun said softy. “I’ve seen this to be true in every harsh land on earth. Vietnamese children with grenades strapped to their bodies underneath their clothes. Palestinian and Irish boys packing sub-machineguns. Iranian youth being thrown against Iraqi tanks. Insanité!” He sighed heavily.
Stormtrooper stared thoughtfully at the Frenchman. “Who are you, really?”
Papa Jun shifted his gaze to look directly at the doctor. “I was once a French Foreign Legionnaire who, in a moment of youthful stupidity, shot his lieutenant dead for trying to rape a pregnant woman. I ran away a fugitive, and since killing is all I know, I became a mercenary, a soldier for hire.”
He scratched his head reflectively. “At first I was hired by just about anybody not associated with the Foreign Legion, but when I again shot my company commander for trying to force us to destroy an innocent village… Well, this vieux cochon can now only be hired by the ‘right kind’ of people.”
“You’re here now as a mercenary?” asked Stormtrooper.
“Non, I’m here because I like talking with trés imbecile, half-dead doctors who smell like dirty socks and boxer shorts not washed for 15 days.” Papa Jun snorted. “Of course, I’m here for a job. I was hired to track down a notorious gunrunner operating in this area.
"Since I’ve been with this village so many times in so many campaigns, I’ve decided to make this my base of operations. These villagers,” Papa Jun spread his arms wide to encompass the people, “they are my friends, my brothers, my family. They saved my life many times, and I’ve come for them when famine or epidemics strike them hard.”
Papa Jun took Stormtrooper’s arm and walked towards a makeshift garage, where a shabby pick-up truck was parked. Women and children sat on the hard metal flooring, some clutching woven bags and fruit baskets.
“I want you to go with our driver and accompany the women and children to a secret camp in the north, about 20 miles from here. They already know you there, so don’t worry. Tell the camp we’ll be waiting for reinforcements, and if they hurry, they can still have some rebels to shoot at.”
He patted Stormtrooper’s shoulder, then pushed him into the cab, onto the shotgun seat. He said to the driver, “Go now, mon petit. Bon voyage!” and slapped the passenger door hard.
They were about half a kilometer from the village when they heard exploding mortars, and Stormtrooper looked back to see smoke and dust pillars shooting up to the sky. He gritted his teeth, then shouted “Stop the vehicle!”
As the startled driver brought the truck to a screeching halt, Stormtrooper climbed out. “I’m going back,” he said. “Get them to safety,” he said, indicating the women and children at the back of the pick-up truck. Then he started walking towards another nightmare of blood and death.
“Sir?” A startled Stormtrooper shook himself from his reverie to see Musketero holding a phone for him. “Sir, this is Papa Jun’s cellphone ringing right now. We got him on line.”
“Thank you,” Stormtrooper said and took the handset, thinking what his old friend is doing right this very minute.
“Naturellement!” said the Frenchman, “there’s nothing wrong with your legs. I don’t know how that witch doctor cured you, it’s something I’ve accepted a long time ago. He may be putting cow dung in my drink for all I care, but that salaud can patch me up in no time.”
Under the bright morning sun, Stormtrooper looked around the small village for the first time. Tiny huts were scattered all over the place, except for a water hole by the side with a large area for farming potatoes and other root crops. He saw the villagers at the center preparing for battle with guns, spears, long knives and some dilapidated shields.
He felt distressed when he noticed young boys along with the men folk.
“Oui, the killing starts early for them,” Papa Jun said softy. “I’ve seen this to be true in every harsh land on earth. Vietnamese children with grenades strapped to their bodies underneath their clothes. Palestinian and Irish boys packing sub-machineguns. Iranian youth being thrown against Iraqi tanks. Insanité!” He sighed heavily.
Stormtrooper stared thoughtfully at the Frenchman. “Who are you, really?”
Papa Jun shifted his gaze to look directly at the doctor. “I was once a French Foreign Legionnaire who, in a moment of youthful stupidity, shot his lieutenant dead for trying to rape a pregnant woman. I ran away a fugitive, and since killing is all I know, I became a mercenary, a soldier for hire.”
He scratched his head reflectively. “At first I was hired by just about anybody not associated with the Foreign Legion, but when I again shot my company commander for trying to force us to destroy an innocent village… Well, this vieux cochon can now only be hired by the ‘right kind’ of people.”
“You’re here now as a mercenary?” asked Stormtrooper.
“Non, I’m here because I like talking with trés imbecile, half-dead doctors who smell like dirty socks and boxer shorts not washed for 15 days.” Papa Jun snorted. “Of course, I’m here for a job. I was hired to track down a notorious gunrunner operating in this area.
"Since I’ve been with this village so many times in so many campaigns, I’ve decided to make this my base of operations. These villagers,” Papa Jun spread his arms wide to encompass the people, “they are my friends, my brothers, my family. They saved my life many times, and I’ve come for them when famine or epidemics strike them hard.”
Papa Jun took Stormtrooper’s arm and walked towards a makeshift garage, where a shabby pick-up truck was parked. Women and children sat on the hard metal flooring, some clutching woven bags and fruit baskets.
“I want you to go with our driver and accompany the women and children to a secret camp in the north, about 20 miles from here. They already know you there, so don’t worry. Tell the camp we’ll be waiting for reinforcements, and if they hurry, they can still have some rebels to shoot at.”
He patted Stormtrooper’s shoulder, then pushed him into the cab, onto the shotgun seat. He said to the driver, “Go now, mon petit. Bon voyage!” and slapped the passenger door hard.
They were about half a kilometer from the village when they heard exploding mortars, and Stormtrooper looked back to see smoke and dust pillars shooting up to the sky. He gritted his teeth, then shouted “Stop the vehicle!”
As the startled driver brought the truck to a screeching halt, Stormtrooper climbed out. “I’m going back,” he said. “Get them to safety,” he said, indicating the women and children at the back of the pick-up truck. Then he started walking towards another nightmare of blood and death.
“Sir?” A startled Stormtrooper shook himself from his reverie to see Musketero holding a phone for him. “Sir, this is Papa Jun’s cellphone ringing right now. We got him on line.”
“Thank you,” Stormtrooper said and took the handset, thinking what his old friend is doing right this very minute.
2205H: A Remote Area in Thailand
"Te niquer moron!" Papa Jun exclaimed, looking at photographs pasted on a wall as a sheepish Skipperooo shrugged his shoulders and tried looking the other way, whistling as he pretended not to notice Papa Jun's anger.
Although Thailand is one of the "tiger economies" of Asia, the actual concentration of its riches can only be found in its capital city of Bangkok, with some sprinklings in the beach resort areas like Phuket. But a large part of Thailand is still undeveloped, critical infrastructures like paved roads and electric power grids are almost nonexistent in the provinces.
Due to extreme poverty, some villagers have turned to prostitution. More specifically, child prostitution. It has become common practice for parents in remote villages to put up their children's photos on house walls or fences facing the street for gawking foreign pedophiles out for some helpless prey.
"Ah, mi informacion esta mal," said Skipperooo apologetically.
Papa Jun snorted, "Oh, your information is very wrong, mon ami."
They walked to another house to look at more portraits. "Sacre bleu, what I want is a femme fatale! Not... not some... some enfant!" He pointed at a picture of a scrawny girl smiling delightedly at them. "Look! Look at that, you salaud! She looks as old as my niece!"
Skipperooo waved his hand derisively at Papa Jun. "What niece? What are you talking about? You have no family, tu anciana!"
The two mercenaries are widely different poles apart. You can never find a most unlikely pair. While Papa Jun is older and calmer, the Mexican Skipperooo is young and irrepressible. Trained by the infamous terrorist named Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, a.k.a. Carlos the Jackal, Skipperooo diverted from the path of terrorism for a very simple reason: his wild enthusiasm for living at the sharp edge. Terrorism, with its inherent discipline, holds no thrill for him. When asked why he chose to be a mercenary, he would often answer, "Because they pay me insanely huge money to handle explosives and eliminate the scum of the world!"![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/CarlosTheJackal.jpg)
Papa Jun and Skipperooo first met in a rebel camp in Venezuela, and have instantly become kindred souls despite their dissimilarities. Comical entertainers in the barracks, the two mercs become lethal professionals in the battlefield. Their combination of ruthlessness and unconventionality has earned them a fearsome reputation among mercenaries.
After the Venezuelan rebels became a lost cause, the two mercs each went their own ways. But in their small world of conflict, they still manage to see each other in one war or another.
Carlos the Jackal
During a particularly nasty war in Uganda they met in a chaotic battlefield - Skipperooo fighting with government troops and Papa Jun siding with the rebel forces. The two bloody mercs faced each other with blood-thirsty eyes.
"Papa Jun..." panted Skipperooo.
"Skipperooo," nodded Papa Jun.
They moved closer, guns unwavering, eyes fierce and savage with the lust to kill.
Then they shouted with whoops of pleasure and embraced each other like long-lost brothers. In the middle of the fierce, raging battle they managed to find a convenient foxhole where they could sit down and share food and stories. Once in a while they would shoot at any interlopers – friend or foe – as they laughed and reminisced about their unusual lives. Once a mortar round landed very near their foxhole and rained brown earth on them both. They shook their heads, yelling dire curses as they tried to wipe the dirt from their faces. Then they laughed uproariously at one another’s dirty appearances and at their incredible luck to be alive. As the battle was dying down to its last throes, the two mercs gathered their things, stood up, and shook hands. With empty promises to write letters they parted, each to his own camp. And three years later, as fate would have it, Papa Jun and Skipperooo accidentally met again two days ago at the Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok International Airport. They have come from separate projects in Asia, and have chosen Hong Kong for their R & R. Hardly daring to believe the coincidence, the two mercs partied long and hard in the bars and bistros of the Hong Kong night life. After a heavy drinking spree, Skipperooo suggested they go get a flight to Thailand, as his former comrades told him of exotic massages and other sexual pleasures that could be found there. Crossed-eyed and totally plastered, Papa Jun readily agreed. And now here they are in a forsaken place, with the realization sinking into their drunken brains that coming here was a very bad idea. Papa Jun was startled when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist. Turning around, he saw a motherly woman talking to him in incomprehensible phasa thai, the native language. But as the woman tugged at Papa Jun’s wrist with one hand and waving at the children’s pictures with the other hand, it takes no great intelligence to guess that the woman is making a sell. Then the Frenchman’s cellular phone rang. He reached for his phone and said, “Allô!” Then he shook his head at the pestering woman, “Non, non… don’t touch me!” “Papa Jun, is that you? Hello? What the hell are you doing there? What’s all that noise? Is Skip with you? Hello? Hello!” “Stormtrooper!” exclaimed Papa Jun. “I won’t ask how you got my number, you old escroquerie. Shut up with all those questions and tell me why you called. We are in the middle of a very delicate situation,” he said as he fought against the whining woman’s pulls. “Very well,” Stormtrooper replied. “We need you and Skip for a very critical mission. Go to the small airfield, an aircraft is already waiting for you there. We’ll brief you when you get to the northern part of Thailand.” Skip tapped Papa Jun's shoulder. "What does that old enchilada wants?" Papa Jun snorted. “Stormtrooper wants us to save the world. Again.” "I don't like to be a Material Girl here, but ask the muchacho how much we will get. Tax-free, of course." Skip said. "Will you let go? I know karate!" Papa Jun said to the pestering old woman. "Are you threatening me?" Stormtrooper asked incredulously. "Shut up, mon ami! We are dealing with dangerous creatures here!" answered Papa Jun. "I want 10 million US dollars, you know my account." Skip was gesturing wildly at himself, flicking his eyebrows up and down, and flashing his ten fingers, as if saying "Me too, me too! Ten million also!" "And Skipperooo will do it for free!" said Papa Jun on the phone. When Skip raised a fist along with an angry look, Papa Jun relented. "Oui, oui... Give the poor boy a hundred dollars for antibiotics. The stupid salaud got STD last night." Exasperated, Skip grabbed the cellphone. "Stormtrooper, this is Skipperooo. I want 100 million US dollars..." "What!" Stormtrooper shouted. "You are out of your mind! You get two million, tops!" "Hey! How come the old estupido gets ten, and I only get two?" Skip asked indignantly. Stormtrooper replied, "Because Papa Jun asked nicely." "Hey!" said Skip, "I'm nice. I was very nice. How about that time in the spa and massage parlor? I was very nice not to..." "Okay, okay!" Stormtrooper relented. "So you get ten. But not a dollar more! Satisfied?" "Owki dowki," Skip agreed, and tossed the cellphone back at Papa Jun. The old woman tried to grab the cellphone in midair, but Papa Jun slapped her hand away. "Stormtrooper, this is Papa Jun. Since I won't be coming home to my little place in Cannes, would you please send a housekeeper, mon ami? And have her stay the night? She should be young and..." “Waaaaaahhhh!” Skipperooo’s wail interrupted Papa Jun’s spiel. Startled, Papa Jun turned his head to see his Mexican companion wobbling all over the street, a boy clamped to Skip’s leg. Papa Jun laughed out loud when he saw the kid was rubbing the Mexican’s private parts as Skip tried to shake off the nuisance. “Tell Stormtrooper to send in the riot squad!” Skip shouted. "We are being ambushed!" “What’s that?” Stormtrooper asked. “Ah, Skip sends his regards,” Papa Jun said. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. Tout a l’heure! See you later!" Now two boys have grabbed the Mexican's legs. Skip was jumping and shaking his butt, trying to dislodge the clinging boys. "Merde alors!” Papa Jun shouted just before he could shut the phone down. A small girl has embraced him from behind, her arms hugging his chest tightly. He said to Stormtrooper, “Then again, maybe twenty minutes will suffice.” | |||
| |||
2210H: SOE HQ, The Mansion
“Wait a minute. Cobalt is under heavy fire, and yet our monitors do not show any tangos near them,” Stormtrooper commented as he put the phone down.
Brahma stood up and shrugged. “My programming detects movement under the jungle canopy. So the only reason why those tangos don’t show up on our screens is because they aren’t moving.”
Sean Blade stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And we still don’t detect any movement near the Cobalt team despite the firefighting going on right now?”
“None whatsoever,” Brahma answered with a slight shake of his head.
“Then we must be dealing with a Hornlichter Lattice – a crisscross pattern of defensive positions, with each position supported by two or more other positions. This explains why the tangos don’t move about,” Sean Blade said.
"Ingenius,” concurred Brahma. “A Hornlichter is a brilliant defensive strategy in the jungle!”
Stormtrooper nodded his head. “Yes… every tango knows and covers all the positions of nearby comrades, and shoots anyone or anything moving about in the jungle. But they don’t dare move, or they may get shot at by their own. That immobility is their weakness, Sean!”
“We may need some people to stir things up a bit over there. Brahma,” Sean Blade turned to the soldier-hacker, “do we have any team to spare?”
“We have Gold Team just reporting in from our safe house in Kuala Lumpur,” Brahma answered. “They’ve just finished a two-week mission in Indonesia.”
“Send them in,” Stormtrooper said.
“But sir,” Brahma protested, “they just came in from the war zone. The Gold Team is decimated with injuries. The report said only Wotmeworry, Saber7 and Shooter are the only men capable of walking on their own, even though they have also sustained injuries.”
“It doesn’t matter. Send them in, just the same," Stormtrooper insisted.
Sean Blade walked towards Stormtrooper, his eyes holding his mentor’s own. “Sir, you seem quite willing to sacrifice a lot of men – experienced men – today. The SOE might not witness another sunrise if every veteran does not come home tomorrow.”
Stormtrooper sighed. He gazed around the room and saw that everyone was staring back at him. “Hear me out Sean… try to be patient, because this is more than just a history lesson.
"In 1942 an SOE agent accidentally stumbled on one of the most secret projects of Nazi Germany - the atomic bomb project. Hitler funded the expensive experiments needed to make a practical bomb out of Einstein's theories. Our governments were just coming out of the Great Depression, and had other things to do.
"In fact, the UK simply did not have the resources for such a project. It was left for the Americans and their 'Manhattan Project' to try and race the Germans for the first atomic bomb.
"But additional documents captured by the SOE agent proved beyond a doubt that the Nazis were way ahead in research and development. We estimated that they would have a finished A-bomb by the winter of 1943.
"There was great fear in the top echelons of power. The Nazis conquered whole countries in a matter of days, and had created a new 'Fortress Europe' on the world map. Their military might was almost unstoppable. And now they may have the power of the sun itself - their ultimate weapon to enslave mankind.
"Everyone thought it was impossible to disrupt the Nazi atomic research. Everyone - except the SOE.
"For the SOE did not lose focus of the truth. It did not matter if the Allies had the largest military forces at their disposal. All it would take was just one German atomic bomb to insure Hitler’s ‘Thousand-Year Reich’ and his race of super humans.
“The SOE was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifices. And the SOE found a way to stop the Nazis. With the help of the Norwegians, SOE agents destroyed the only hard-water facility that can produce huge amounts of hard water for the German atomic experiments. We destroyed the source heavy water, we effectively stopped Germany and knocked her out of the war.
“Never had so few determined the fate of so many…”
Stormtrooper looked at everyone in the operations control room. “Now, it’s our turn. History has just repeated itself. We are all under the dire threat of a new technology that can obliterate the entire human race from this planet.
“It doesn’t matter if we have the latest gadgets, the most lethal weapons, and the most experienced warriors. It doesn’t matter if we will lose our lives for this one just cause.
"What matters is the future! The future of our freedoms. The future of our children. The future of the world as we know it. For what we do today will linger on in the lives of all free people.
“It is our turn, ladies and gentlemen. Our duty is clear. And we will not falter, we will not hesitate, we will not retreat. We will prevail. Yes, even against death, we will prevail.”
A weeping Musketero was wiping his watery eyes with one hand while the other was pressing his earphone hard to the side of his face. “S-s-sir...” he sobbed, “our ride awaits.”
“Very well,” Stormtrooper replied. “As we are on Code Yellow, we will be relocating our control center to Thailand, where it will be nearer to Team Cobalt.” He looked at Sean Blade. “Sean, I’ve taken the liberty of requesting a fast flight out of here.”
Sean Blade nodded. “We’ll need every minute we can save.”
Brahma shut down his laptop and stood up. “I’ve finished downloading all the necessary data. I’m good to go,” he said.
The four men started walking down a stairway, and into an underground corridor that leads out of The Mansion. Electronic circuitry monitored their progress, automatically turning on the lights in front of the men, then shutting the lights down when the men have passed by.
Musketero caught up with Brahma and whispered, “Why do we have to leave? We’ve just lost contact with Team Cobalt, and may have to regain it again after we land inside the Thai border.”
“Not quite,” Brahma smiled, tapping his laptop lightly. “With this baby, I can monitor our team while in flight.”
”Yeah,” Musketero countered, “but by the time we get to Thailand it may all be too late.”
Sean Blade overheard the conversation, and looked back at Musketero with a slight smile. “Maybe not, Musket… maybe not.”
“Wait a minute. Cobalt is under heavy fire, and yet our monitors do not show any tangos near them,” Stormtrooper commented as he put the phone down.
Brahma stood up and shrugged. “My programming detects movement under the jungle canopy. So the only reason why those tangos don’t show up on our screens is because they aren’t moving.”
Sean Blade stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And we still don’t detect any movement near the Cobalt team despite the firefighting going on right now?”
“None whatsoever,” Brahma answered with a slight shake of his head.
“Then we must be dealing with a Hornlichter Lattice – a crisscross pattern of defensive positions, with each position supported by two or more other positions. This explains why the tangos don’t move about,” Sean Blade said.
"Ingenius,” concurred Brahma. “A Hornlichter is a brilliant defensive strategy in the jungle!”
Stormtrooper nodded his head. “Yes… every tango knows and covers all the positions of nearby comrades, and shoots anyone or anything moving about in the jungle. But they don’t dare move, or they may get shot at by their own. That immobility is their weakness, Sean!”
“We may need some people to stir things up a bit over there. Brahma,” Sean Blade turned to the soldier-hacker, “do we have any team to spare?”
“We have Gold Team just reporting in from our safe house in Kuala Lumpur,” Brahma answered. “They’ve just finished a two-week mission in Indonesia.”
“Send them in,” Stormtrooper said.
“But sir,” Brahma protested, “they just came in from the war zone. The Gold Team is decimated with injuries. The report said only Wotmeworry, Saber7 and Shooter are the only men capable of walking on their own, even though they have also sustained injuries.”
“It doesn’t matter. Send them in, just the same," Stormtrooper insisted.
Sean Blade walked towards Stormtrooper, his eyes holding his mentor’s own. “Sir, you seem quite willing to sacrifice a lot of men – experienced men – today. The SOE might not witness another sunrise if every veteran does not come home tomorrow.”
Stormtrooper sighed. He gazed around the room and saw that everyone was staring back at him. “Hear me out Sean… try to be patient, because this is more than just a history lesson.
"In 1942 an SOE agent accidentally stumbled on one of the most secret projects of Nazi Germany - the atomic bomb project. Hitler funded the expensive experiments needed to make a practical bomb out of Einstein's theories. Our governments were just coming out of the Great Depression, and had other things to do.
"In fact, the UK simply did not have the resources for such a project. It was left for the Americans and their 'Manhattan Project' to try and race the Germans for the first atomic bomb.
"But additional documents captured by the SOE agent proved beyond a doubt that the Nazis were way ahead in research and development. We estimated that they would have a finished A-bomb by the winter of 1943.
"There was great fear in the top echelons of power. The Nazis conquered whole countries in a matter of days, and had created a new 'Fortress Europe' on the world map. Their military might was almost unstoppable. And now they may have the power of the sun itself - their ultimate weapon to enslave mankind.
"Everyone thought it was impossible to disrupt the Nazi atomic research. Everyone - except the SOE.
"For the SOE did not lose focus of the truth. It did not matter if the Allies had the largest military forces at their disposal. All it would take was just one German atomic bomb to insure Hitler’s ‘Thousand-Year Reich’ and his race of super humans.
“The SOE was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifices. And the SOE found a way to stop the Nazis. With the help of the Norwegians, SOE agents destroyed the only hard-water facility that can produce huge amounts of hard water for the German atomic experiments. We destroyed the source heavy water, we effectively stopped Germany and knocked her out of the war.
“Never had so few determined the fate of so many…”
Stormtrooper looked at everyone in the operations control room. “Now, it’s our turn. History has just repeated itself. We are all under the dire threat of a new technology that can obliterate the entire human race from this planet.
“It doesn’t matter if we have the latest gadgets, the most lethal weapons, and the most experienced warriors. It doesn’t matter if we will lose our lives for this one just cause.
"What matters is the future! The future of our freedoms. The future of our children. The future of the world as we know it. For what we do today will linger on in the lives of all free people.
“It is our turn, ladies and gentlemen. Our duty is clear. And we will not falter, we will not hesitate, we will not retreat. We will prevail. Yes, even against death, we will prevail.”
A weeping Musketero was wiping his watery eyes with one hand while the other was pressing his earphone hard to the side of his face. “S-s-sir...” he sobbed, “our ride awaits.”
“Very well,” Stormtrooper replied. “As we are on Code Yellow, we will be relocating our control center to Thailand, where it will be nearer to Team Cobalt.” He looked at Sean Blade. “Sean, I’ve taken the liberty of requesting a fast flight out of here.”
Sean Blade nodded. “We’ll need every minute we can save.”
Brahma shut down his laptop and stood up. “I’ve finished downloading all the necessary data. I’m good to go,” he said.
The four men started walking down a stairway, and into an underground corridor that leads out of The Mansion. Electronic circuitry monitored their progress, automatically turning on the lights in front of the men, then shutting the lights down when the men have passed by.
Musketero caught up with Brahma and whispered, “Why do we have to leave? We’ve just lost contact with Team Cobalt, and may have to regain it again after we land inside the Thai border.”
“Not quite,” Brahma smiled, tapping his laptop lightly. “With this baby, I can monitor our team while in flight.”
”Yeah,” Musketero countered, “but by the time we get to Thailand it may all be too late.”
Sean Blade overheard the conversation, and looked back at Musketero with a slight smile. “Maybe not, Musket… maybe not.”
Mystified, Musketero raised an eyebrow at Brahma, who just shrugged and said, "Don't look at me. I didn't call for a taxi cab."
They reached the end of the tunnel, where an elevator awaited them. When they reached the top level, the men emerged from a quaint farmhouse, a very effective replica to hide the elevator from prying eyes. Musketero stepped from the door last, and then gaped in awe and disbelief.
To hide the airstrip from spy satellites, the SOE maintained an illusion of a farm just outside The Mansion. Out of the ground sprouted rubber corn shoots, where a mechanical contraption underneath slowly pushed the fake plants as if they were growing living things. When an aircraft needs to use the SOE airstrip, the rubber corn are pulled back into the ground, revealing an airstrip long enough to accommodate a 747 jumbo jet. Afterwards, the rubber corn are “grown” back to their current size, hiding any trace from enemy eyes.
But it was not the airstrip that caught Musketero’s attention, but a sleek, futuristic aircraft resting just at the edge of the runway. “What the bloody hell is that thing?”
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/VentureStar.jpg)
Stormtrooper faced a rapt Musketero. “Let me introduce the Venture Star, the next-generation prototype of the aging space shuttle."
They started walking to the spacecraft while Stormtrooper continued. "Flying in excess of Mach 20 (20x the speed of sound), the Venture Star will slashes through the atmosphere in a hard climb until it reaches the fringes of outer space, just above the North Pole. Then it will slide back down to earth in a continuous dive until it reaches the other side of the globe.”
Musketero shook his head in amazement. “You really believe that thing can fly?”
Sean Blade smiled again. “We will be in Thailand within the hour.”
“Well,” Stormtrooper rubbed his hands in anticipation. “All aboard that’s coming aboard.”
As they climbed the stairs into the Venture Star, the pilot emerged from the front segment. Her long, silky black hair and homely smile seem to stun the SOE operatives into rapt attention.
"Hi, welcome to the Venture Star, courtesy of the top-secret project of NASA and the US Air Force. I'm Dark Angel, your pilot for this mission."
"Hullo," said Stormtrooper, and shook hands with Dark Angel. He introduced the others, who shook hands in return.
"Well, if you gentlemen will strap yourselves, we'll be on our way to Thailand in a jiffy." She smiled again, and left her passengers to enter the c0ckpit.
Musketero strapped himself onto a seat, and began crossing himself for luck. "I hope she knows how to fly this contraption," he said. The others nodded in agreement.
What they didn't know was that Dark Angel was fully qualified to fly just about anything in the US arsenal. As a member of the elite Black Ops, Dark Angel has flown a large variety of aircraft for covert missions. It is no wonder that she was chosen to transport the SOE control group halfway around the world.
Dark Angel finished the pre-flight sequence, and opened an intercom channel. "This is a non-smoking flight. Anyone caught smoking will be killed on the spot without questioning. There are barf bags under your seats for the times when you feel you have to unload your breakfast. If you mess up my plane, I will personally use your butts to wipe the stink off. Do not push any buttons on this plane. If you do, I will eradicate you from existence. Thank you for your cooperation."
Sean Blade shook his head and said, "Bugger, she sounds just like my mum."
"I heard that!" Dark Angel's voice came through the intercom. "Oh, before I forget... there are no parachutes or floatation devices under your seats. In the event of a crash, we are all expected to die a fiery death. Have a nice flight."
They reached the end of the tunnel, where an elevator awaited them. When they reached the top level, the men emerged from a quaint farmhouse, a very effective replica to hide the elevator from prying eyes. Musketero stepped from the door last, and then gaped in awe and disbelief.
To hide the airstrip from spy satellites, the SOE maintained an illusion of a farm just outside The Mansion. Out of the ground sprouted rubber corn shoots, where a mechanical contraption underneath slowly pushed the fake plants as if they were growing living things. When an aircraft needs to use the SOE airstrip, the rubber corn are pulled back into the ground, revealing an airstrip long enough to accommodate a 747 jumbo jet. Afterwards, the rubber corn are “grown” back to their current size, hiding any trace from enemy eyes.
But it was not the airstrip that caught Musketero’s attention, but a sleek, futuristic aircraft resting just at the edge of the runway. “What the bloody hell is that thing?”
Stormtrooper faced a rapt Musketero. “Let me introduce the Venture Star, the next-generation prototype of the aging space shuttle."They started walking to the spacecraft while Stormtrooper continued. "Flying in excess of Mach 20 (20x the speed of sound), the Venture Star will slashes through the atmosphere in a hard climb until it reaches the fringes of outer space, just above the North Pole. Then it will slide back down to earth in a continuous dive until it reaches the other side of the globe.”
Musketero shook his head in amazement. “You really believe that thing can fly?”
Sean Blade smiled again. “We will be in Thailand within the hour.”
“Well,” Stormtrooper rubbed his hands in anticipation. “All aboard that’s coming aboard.”
As they climbed the stairs into the Venture Star, the pilot emerged from the front segment. Her long, silky black hair and homely smile seem to stun the SOE operatives into rapt attention.
"Hi, welcome to the Venture Star, courtesy of the top-secret project of NASA and the US Air Force. I'm Dark Angel, your pilot for this mission."
"Hullo," said Stormtrooper, and shook hands with Dark Angel. He introduced the others, who shook hands in return.
"Well, if you gentlemen will strap yourselves, we'll be on our way to Thailand in a jiffy." She smiled again, and left her passengers to enter the c0ckpit.
Musketero strapped himself onto a seat, and began crossing himself for luck. "I hope she knows how to fly this contraption," he said. The others nodded in agreement.
What they didn't know was that Dark Angel was fully qualified to fly just about anything in the US arsenal. As a member of the elite Black Ops, Dark Angel has flown a large variety of aircraft for covert missions. It is no wonder that she was chosen to transport the SOE control group halfway around the world.
Dark Angel finished the pre-flight sequence, and opened an intercom channel. "This is a non-smoking flight. Anyone caught smoking will be killed on the spot without questioning. There are barf bags under your seats for the times when you feel you have to unload your breakfast. If you mess up my plane, I will personally use your butts to wipe the stink off. Do not push any buttons on this plane. If you do, I will eradicate you from existence. Thank you for your cooperation."
Sean Blade shook his head and said, "Bugger, she sounds just like my mum."
"I heard that!" Dark Angel's voice came through the intercom. "Oh, before I forget... there are no parachutes or floatation devices under your seats. In the event of a crash, we are all expected to die a fiery death. Have a nice flight."
2226H: LZ Bastion, The Golden Triangle
Even before the echoes of the first shot had faded, Khan left Miakulet and charged toward the place where he last saw Markus. He slung his M-16 onto his back and hefted his worn but razor-sharp tomahawk so he can move quicker while he tracked down his fellow pointman in the dark.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/tomahawkthumb.jpg)
Although a son of a prosperous Navajo farmer, Khan grew up in the shadow of his shaman grandfather, who taught him the ancient language of their forefathers - the Wind Talkers. He also learned the "old ways" of hunting and tracking, and survival in forests and deserts.
He enlisted in the Airborne, and got his lifelong wish to be assigned with the Screaming Eagles. Exhibiting uncanny pointman skills, Khan would always be picked to lead squad after squad into the danger zone.
Ironically, while the statistics goes against the lifespan of a pointman, Khan would return unscathed time and again. In one instance, during Desert Storm, he remained the last man standing when his squad was attacked by an Iraqi armored platoon.
Bathed in the blood of the last Iraqi that he killed with his tomahawk, Khan noticed that three of his squadmates were still alive but hurt badly. With their radio smashed with large bullet holes, Khan managed to keep them all alive in the desert until rescue arrived the next day.
Khan quickly grew tired of the drills, the routines, and the unquestionable orders that he had to follow. He retired from the Airborne and returned to his native Navajo farmlands, confused and without direction in life.
His grandfather was waiting for him by the path, standing proud against the bitter coldness of winter. Old and withered by the erosion of years, the shaman was still surprisingly strong and agile. His eagle-sharp eyes bored through Khan's soul as he said, "It is time."
Khan was immersed in the mystic world of the shaman. He learned about plants and their medicinal values. He learned to track down any animal or person in total darkness. He discovered that he can stay underwater for ten minutes with a single breath, and that he can completely disappear from sight within a heartbeat.
Two winters later, his grandfather ordered him to strip down to his underwear.
"Do I have to take my briefs off too?" asked Khan.
"Keep your briefs. Nobody wants to see your ding-dongs," his grandfather replied. Leading Khan to the door, he continued, "Go to our campsite and get our red flag, and come back here alive."
"What!" Khan exploded. "In my underwear? Are you crazy?"
"Of course in your underwear," grandfather said placidly. "Do not worry, the rabbits will not find you sexy at all."
"It's three miles to the campsite!. Why don't you go, d@mn it!"
Grandpa opened the door. A blast of cold wind sent goosebumps on Khan's skin. Grandpa leaned close to Khan's ear and whispered, "Remember, grandson, the wind is your brother, not your enemy." Then he placed one thick boot on Khan's butt and kicked him out the door.
Khan landed face down on the snow. Shivering uncontrollably, he looked back as the cabin door slammed shut behind him. "Resistance is futile," he thought sadly and started walking to the distant campsite.
After thirty yard Khan was ready to collapse. He could feel the onset of hypothermia as he strove to remember his grandfather's teachings to survive in winter, but nothing came to mind. His ears, fingers and toes are becoming numb, while the rest of his body is shivering so much it hurts excruciatingly. Then he remembered: "The wind is your brother, not your enemy."
Even before the echoes of the first shot had faded, Khan left Miakulet and charged toward the place where he last saw Markus. He slung his M-16 onto his back and hefted his worn but razor-sharp tomahawk so he can move quicker while he tracked down his fellow pointman in the dark.
Although a son of a prosperous Navajo farmer, Khan grew up in the shadow of his shaman grandfather, who taught him the ancient language of their forefathers - the Wind Talkers. He also learned the "old ways" of hunting and tracking, and survival in forests and deserts.He enlisted in the Airborne, and got his lifelong wish to be assigned with the Screaming Eagles. Exhibiting uncanny pointman skills, Khan would always be picked to lead squad after squad into the danger zone.
Ironically, while the statistics goes against the lifespan of a pointman, Khan would return unscathed time and again. In one instance, during Desert Storm, he remained the last man standing when his squad was attacked by an Iraqi armored platoon.
Bathed in the blood of the last Iraqi that he killed with his tomahawk, Khan noticed that three of his squadmates were still alive but hurt badly. With their radio smashed with large bullet holes, Khan managed to keep them all alive in the desert until rescue arrived the next day.
Khan quickly grew tired of the drills, the routines, and the unquestionable orders that he had to follow. He retired from the Airborne and returned to his native Navajo farmlands, confused and without direction in life.
His grandfather was waiting for him by the path, standing proud against the bitter coldness of winter. Old and withered by the erosion of years, the shaman was still surprisingly strong and agile. His eagle-sharp eyes bored through Khan's soul as he said, "It is time."
Khan was immersed in the mystic world of the shaman. He learned about plants and their medicinal values. He learned to track down any animal or person in total darkness. He discovered that he can stay underwater for ten minutes with a single breath, and that he can completely disappear from sight within a heartbeat.
Two winters later, his grandfather ordered him to strip down to his underwear.
"Do I have to take my briefs off too?" asked Khan.
"Keep your briefs. Nobody wants to see your ding-dongs," his grandfather replied. Leading Khan to the door, he continued, "Go to our campsite and get our red flag, and come back here alive."
"What!" Khan exploded. "In my underwear? Are you crazy?"
"Of course in your underwear," grandfather said placidly. "Do not worry, the rabbits will not find you sexy at all."
"It's three miles to the campsite!. Why don't you go, d@mn it!"
Grandpa opened the door. A blast of cold wind sent goosebumps on Khan's skin. Grandpa leaned close to Khan's ear and whispered, "Remember, grandson, the wind is your brother, not your enemy." Then he placed one thick boot on Khan's butt and kicked him out the door.
Khan landed face down on the snow. Shivering uncontrollably, he looked back as the cabin door slammed shut behind him. "Resistance is futile," he thought sadly and started walking to the distant campsite.
After thirty yard Khan was ready to collapse. He could feel the onset of hypothermia as he strove to remember his grandfather's teachings to survive in winter, but nothing came to mind. His ears, fingers and toes are becoming numb, while the rest of his body is shivering so much it hurts excruciatingly. Then he remembered: "The wind is your brother, not your enemy."
Khan stopped and closed his eyes. His mind and body were fighting the cold wind; he must make himself one with Mother Earth. He breathed deeply of the icy air, and surrendered to the winter onslaught.
Immediately Khan felt warm, as if the snowflakes beating on his nakedness were only an illusion. "The wind is my brother," he whispered, then laughed out loud.
Three hours later, Khan was standing by the cabin door. "Here's your stupid flag," he said, handing the red flag to his grandfather.
Grandpa laughed, then lighted his pipe. "You are ready," he said, nodding in approval. He then instructed Khan to go to the Los Angeles International Airport to meet a man in black at a certain time and place. "This is your destiny. You will do great but terrible things. You will have friends, and one day all of you will try to save the world. Yes, great but terrible destiny."
"Try to save the world? Will we succeed?" asked Khan in wonderment.
"I am not privileged to see the outcome. I do not know, my grandson. Now go. You destiny awaits you."
Khan waited at the airport, sitting in front of a vendo machine. At 9:32AM, exactly as his grandpa said, a man in black walked to the vendo machine and got himself a soda. Khan quietly sided up to him. "Are you the man they call the Blademaster?"
Sean Blade's hand slid behind him to clasp a small shuriken. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "Do I know you?"
Khan smiled disarmingly. "No. I was sent here by... someone. My name is Khan, of the Navajo nation."
"Of course you are," said Sean Blade, still puzzled.
"You are recruiting, I believe. I want to join the SOE," Khan continued.
"Sure you are," Sean Blade said, his blood quickening with adrenalin, his body getting ready to kill.
Khan said, "Look, to show my sincerity, I was to give you this," and held up a small shuriken, similar to the one Sean Blade was holding.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/shuriken.jpg)
"Bloody hell," the Blademaster whispered. His body went slack with surprise. Taking the shuriken gingerly, he asked, "Where did you get this?"
"From someone," said and exasperated Khan. "Look, I was told you would grant me entry into this... SOE. Okay?"
"Quite," replied Sean Blade. "Do you have a bloody passport?"
"Yes."
"How about a hundred dollars?"
"Yes. Why?" asked a puzzled Khan.
"Ah. Now be a good man and buy me a drink or two. I certainly need it!" said a happy Sean Blade as he led Khan to the airport reception lounge.
Years and battles have now gone by, and now Khan is here in the deepest of jungles, trying to find Marcus as the unseen enemy tries to kill them all.
Khan knelt to the ground, his night-vision enhanced eyes desperately scanning the area for Marcus' footprints. When he failed to find them, Khan impatiently ripped the night-vision goggles off his face and used his fingertips to grope for any slight artificial contours on the ground. After a minute of careful inspection Khan felt a footprint of Marcus' size. "Got it!" he thought exultantly.
Using his grandfather's tracking techniques, Khan slowly followed Marcus' trail, his fingers delicately tracing each footprint - a twist here, a pivot there - trying to analyze what was on Marcus' mind. Slowly, silently, Khan crawled through the jungle foilage, trying to keep up with his pointman buddy while keeping low from the enemy's sights.
Then he came upon the two tangos Marcus killed earlier. "Gruesome," he thought, "Marcus needs more practice. Definitely."
Putting on his NVGs again, Khan noted some splatters of blood on the tall grass and the ground, and some confusing patterns of footprints. "Marcus got hit," he mused. But where in hell is that Marcus?
Immediately Khan felt warm, as if the snowflakes beating on his nakedness were only an illusion. "The wind is my brother," he whispered, then laughed out loud.
Three hours later, Khan was standing by the cabin door. "Here's your stupid flag," he said, handing the red flag to his grandfather.
Grandpa laughed, then lighted his pipe. "You are ready," he said, nodding in approval. He then instructed Khan to go to the Los Angeles International Airport to meet a man in black at a certain time and place. "This is your destiny. You will do great but terrible things. You will have friends, and one day all of you will try to save the world. Yes, great but terrible destiny."
"Try to save the world? Will we succeed?" asked Khan in wonderment.
"I am not privileged to see the outcome. I do not know, my grandson. Now go. You destiny awaits you."
Khan waited at the airport, sitting in front of a vendo machine. At 9:32AM, exactly as his grandpa said, a man in black walked to the vendo machine and got himself a soda. Khan quietly sided up to him. "Are you the man they call the Blademaster?"
Sean Blade's hand slid behind him to clasp a small shuriken. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "Do I know you?"
Khan smiled disarmingly. "No. I was sent here by... someone. My name is Khan, of the Navajo nation."
"Of course you are," said Sean Blade, still puzzled.
"You are recruiting, I believe. I want to join the SOE," Khan continued.
"Sure you are," Sean Blade said, his blood quickening with adrenalin, his body getting ready to kill.
Khan said, "Look, to show my sincerity, I was to give you this," and held up a small shuriken, similar to the one Sean Blade was holding.
"Bloody hell," the Blademaster whispered. His body went slack with surprise. Taking the shuriken gingerly, he asked, "Where did you get this?""From someone," said and exasperated Khan. "Look, I was told you would grant me entry into this... SOE. Okay?"
"Quite," replied Sean Blade. "Do you have a bloody passport?"
"Yes."
"How about a hundred dollars?"
"Yes. Why?" asked a puzzled Khan.
"Ah. Now be a good man and buy me a drink or two. I certainly need it!" said a happy Sean Blade as he led Khan to the airport reception lounge.
Years and battles have now gone by, and now Khan is here in the deepest of jungles, trying to find Marcus as the unseen enemy tries to kill them all.
Khan knelt to the ground, his night-vision enhanced eyes desperately scanning the area for Marcus' footprints. When he failed to find them, Khan impatiently ripped the night-vision goggles off his face and used his fingertips to grope for any slight artificial contours on the ground. After a minute of careful inspection Khan felt a footprint of Marcus' size. "Got it!" he thought exultantly.
Using his grandfather's tracking techniques, Khan slowly followed Marcus' trail, his fingers delicately tracing each footprint - a twist here, a pivot there - trying to analyze what was on Marcus' mind. Slowly, silently, Khan crawled through the jungle foilage, trying to keep up with his pointman buddy while keeping low from the enemy's sights.
Then he came upon the two tangos Marcus killed earlier. "Gruesome," he thought, "Marcus needs more practice. Definitely."
Putting on his NVGs again, Khan noted some splatters of blood on the tall grass and the ground, and some confusing patterns of footprints. "Marcus got hit," he mused. But where in hell is that Marcus?
| 2232H: Some 20,000 Feet Above the Golden Triangle The Lockheed C-130 Hercules seemed to float serenely above the clouds of a dark night sky. Build more than 40 years ago, this aging workhorse is still the preferred cargo and jump platform aircraft of the US military and 60 other nations. Designed with old-style propellers instead of modern jets, the C-130 has proven its worth time and time again, from the tundras of the polar regions to the arid deserts of the Middle East. Now its service is called up again to the jungles of Southeast Asia. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/C-130.jpg) The men inside the fuselage of the transport aircraft were silent, the lower halves of their faces hidden by rubber oxygen masks. Above 12,000 feet the oxygen levels decline rapidly, so thin that humans can suffer from hypoxia and lose consciousness. They are also wearing bulky winter clothing – at very high altitudes people face the risks of frostbite due to subzero temperatures.Only their eyes are exposed. Only the eyes tell you that they are human. But still, their eyes are those that have seen death in a thousand places. Their weary eyes have gone beyond the darkness and depair of Hell itself, beyond any possible redemption of their souls. They are the back-up squad for the Cobalt mission, and they are SOE’s personal messengers of death and destruction. The c0ckpit door suddenly opened and the aircraft’s co-pilot entered. He hesitated for a moment, disconcerted to see 16 pairs of eyes suddenly swing to his direction. “Jesus H. Christ,” the co-pilot thought, “if looks can kill, I’ll be flying with the bloody angels by now.” Bracing himself, he walked slowly to the squad leader and whispered. Then he quickly went back to the cockpit and thankfully shut the door. The squad leader snorted in impatience at having to stand up with all the ammo, gears and equipment loaded on him, and signaled the men at both sides to help push him up. Then he slowly walked to the front and took the handset by the wall. “LT speaking! Who the feck is this?” he shouted above the roar of the turboprops. “Oi, LT! This is Musketero. Did you get your instructions all right?” “What bloody instructions?” asked the irate Irishman. “We were in the copters waiting for the green light, when we were suddenly dumped here and flown high up before we can drink our mothers’ milk. We had to dress up quickly before we reached the high altitudes, gardemets! What the feck is happening?” “Sorry about that,” said Musky. “We lost Stratos One as they were approaching the landing zone. Two more copters barely made it back to the airfield.” “Aw, feck!” said LT disgustedly. “So you have to fly at high altitude to avoid the enemy anti-aircraft missiles,” continued Musky. “Remember that small valley we talked about earlier? You will land and assemble there, and stop an armoured battalion from punching through to Team Cobalt.” “Are you out of your fecking mind?” shouted LT incredulously. “Eight of us against an armoured battalion? Why don’t you come jump with us and see how it goes, gardemets!” “Hold one,” said Musketero. The line crackled, and Stormtrooper’s voice came across the handset. “LT, this is Stormtrooper.” “Sir!” “You hold the line, LT,” Stormtrooper’s somber tone was weary but strong. “No armour passes through. We need you to hold the line.” “Yes sir!” “Good man. Your code is ‘Porcupine.’ Emergency code is ‘Balderdash.’ You have your orders. Godspeed to you all,” said Stormtrooper. “Copy that!” LT replied, and replaced the handset on the wall. Then he faced his squad and motioned for radio activation. Hands flew to knobs to switch the radios on. “Listen up!” LT said into his mic, testing the radio system. All seven squad members nodded their heads to signal clear reception of his voice. “HQ has changed our mission,” LT continued. “Instead of a copter insert, we are going for a HALO jump into enemy territory.” The men groaned in unison. HALO (High-Altitude Low-Opening) is a skydiving technique of jumping from a very high altitude and opening the parachute at the last possible second. Used by the military to insert people and equipment within enemy borders without notice, HALO is nevertheless very fatal to a split-second delay in release. “Shut the feck up!” LT said as he grinned behind his oxygen mask, and the rest of the squad grinned back. Because only the eyes can be seen, they all looked like mad dogs after a big juicy steak. “Try to stay within the valley when you land. Use your radios to track down my beacon, and come to me. You’ll have full details by then.” LT deliberately withheld further information in the possibility of a squad member getting captured after the jump, which is the most vulnerable phase of the insert. The yellow light suddenly lighted up the fuselage. LT shouted, “Squad radio check!” “Blue Thunder, ho!” “Brimstone in!” "Gambit in!” “Trauma in!” "Krasny coming in!” “Kyosaisho in!” “J2 in, and all accounted for!” “Copy that,” replied LT. “All stand.” He help the near ones to stand up, while others pushed their neighbors up before being hauled up themselves. “Equipment check!” They formed a circle, then each man checked the parachute, reserves, and other equipment of the man on their right. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/HALOJump.jpg) The green light suddenly went on. J2, who was nearest to the rear door, walked to the large switch and punched it hard. The rear door began to open, and the aircraft buckled against the turbulence.“Let’s go, let’s go!” shouted LT, and ran towards the rear. Upon reaching the edge of the platform he dived head first into the cold inky darkness of the night and promptly disappeared. The rest of the squad shouted in fierce joy and followed LT into the night sky. | |||
| |||
2241H: Near LZ Bastion, Golden Triangle
Moving slowly and quietly in the shadows, Lacrimosa was packing his utility backpack when he sensed something was wrong. He closed his eyes to concentrate on his surroundings. Then he heard it -- a faint, slight buzzing. Without conscious thought the Cobalt sniper immediately dived to the ground as a bullet punched the empty air, missing his head by some mere millimeters.
Upon hitting the ground, Lacrimosa rolled hard through the tall grass. Then he suddenly stopped, and slowly wiggled his way to the side -- an old sniper trick of changing locations to confuse his enemy.
From his hip pocket he slowly pulled out an 8" long tube that, when folded by the two ends, transforms into a handy periscope. With this device, Lacrimosa can safely view his environment without raising his head above the grass. He scanned the hilltop just beyond the open field, where he suspected the enemy sniper was hiding. A small movement under the acacia tree betrayed his foe's whereabouts. There you are, you motherf**ker, he silently breathed.
Then he searched for his Dragunov, and saw it where he left it earlier; leaning against a small tree trunk. Son of a f**king biatch, he groaned. And started to creep closer to his rifle.
The enemy sniper cursed heavily. He missed his shot, and now there will be hell to pay. He knew from long memory that his target is one of the deadliest of snipers in the world. He might not have a second chance.
"Keep your head down!" he whispered angrily at his spotter, his eyes not leaving his rifle scope. He had his Mosin-Nagent M91/30 sniper rifle, aided by a 3.5x PU telescopic sight, centered upon his opponent's Dragunov.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/mnsniper.jpg)
The M91/30 is a bit more than 4 feet long with a 5-round magazine, a bolt-action rifle with an effective range of more than one kilometer. Widely used during the early years of World War II, the Mosin-Nagent proved to be a very reliable weapon, spanning the eras of the Korean and Vietnam wars. Some Communist countries even issued the M91/30s to their elite units in the 1970s. The reason is simple: The rifle is very accurate, and a scope is not an essential equipment for a sniper to kill effectively.
Production for the M91/30 ended in 1963 with the introduction of the Dragunov sniper rifle. But some still prefer the old rifle, which was more reliable and the bolt action practically made no noise.
Sneaking up to the edge of the tall grass, Lacrimosa tried to think through his options. He knew that his Dragunov and the surrounding area has become a killing field, the enemy sniper just waiting for him to resuface. He breathed deeply, bunched his muscles, then exploded through the grass in a rush to reach his precious rifle.
The enemy sniper saw a movement by the side, then a running figure heading towards the Dragunov. His spotter stood up in excitement and shouted, "11 o'clock! The bastahd 11 o'clock!" Tne sniper ignored his spotter, his hands making minute adjustments to acquire his target in his sights. I got you now, he thought, and squeezed the trigger...
Moving slowly and quietly in the shadows, Lacrimosa was packing his utility backpack when he sensed something was wrong. He closed his eyes to concentrate on his surroundings. Then he heard it -- a faint, slight buzzing. Without conscious thought the Cobalt sniper immediately dived to the ground as a bullet punched the empty air, missing his head by some mere millimeters.
Upon hitting the ground, Lacrimosa rolled hard through the tall grass. Then he suddenly stopped, and slowly wiggled his way to the side -- an old sniper trick of changing locations to confuse his enemy.
From his hip pocket he slowly pulled out an 8" long tube that, when folded by the two ends, transforms into a handy periscope. With this device, Lacrimosa can safely view his environment without raising his head above the grass. He scanned the hilltop just beyond the open field, where he suspected the enemy sniper was hiding. A small movement under the acacia tree betrayed his foe's whereabouts. There you are, you motherf**ker, he silently breathed.
Then he searched for his Dragunov, and saw it where he left it earlier; leaning against a small tree trunk. Son of a f**king biatch, he groaned. And started to creep closer to his rifle.
The enemy sniper cursed heavily. He missed his shot, and now there will be hell to pay. He knew from long memory that his target is one of the deadliest of snipers in the world. He might not have a second chance.
"Keep your head down!" he whispered angrily at his spotter, his eyes not leaving his rifle scope. He had his Mosin-Nagent M91/30 sniper rifle, aided by a 3.5x PU telescopic sight, centered upon his opponent's Dragunov.
The M91/30 is a bit more than 4 feet long with a 5-round magazine, a bolt-action rifle with an effective range of more than one kilometer. Widely used during the early years of World War II, the Mosin-Nagent proved to be a very reliable weapon, spanning the eras of the Korean and Vietnam wars. Some Communist countries even issued the M91/30s to their elite units in the 1970s. The reason is simple: The rifle is very accurate, and a scope is not an essential equipment for a sniper to kill effectively.
Production for the M91/30 ended in 1963 with the introduction of the Dragunov sniper rifle. But some still prefer the old rifle, which was more reliable and the bolt action practically made no noise.
Sneaking up to the edge of the tall grass, Lacrimosa tried to think through his options. He knew that his Dragunov and the surrounding area has become a killing field, the enemy sniper just waiting for him to resuface. He breathed deeply, bunched his muscles, then exploded through the grass in a rush to reach his precious rifle.
The enemy sniper saw a movement by the side, then a running figure heading towards the Dragunov. His spotter stood up in excitement and shouted, "11 o'clock! The bastahd 11 o'clock!" Tne sniper ignored his spotter, his hands making minute adjustments to acquire his target in his sights. I got you now, he thought, and squeezed the trigger...
| 2253H: Somewhere in Kuala Lumpur A Humvee came down the hilly road at breakneck speed before stopping and depositing a billowing air of dust on a group of rag-tag people gathered around a huge roaring fire. "Sir, a message from HQ," the driver said, handing a tattered looking piece of folded paper to the only man standing in the group. Saber took the paper, his face hard and his eyes steely. The driver gave a quick salute and left, sending more dust before fading into the dark distance. "It seems," Saber said, after reading the message, "that we are being sent to another mission just north of Thailand." "Daym, we just got here," protested Wotmeworry. "Can't we at least have some bacon and eggs before we go? My bum is killing me." Saber smiled nastily. "Be thankful for that. Maybe next time you will wait for back-up before going inside a tango hideout." "I told you not to go to, you go to. Next time you go to, I say bye-bye," Shooter admonished. "Ah, f**k that!" Wotmeworry protested. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Saber gathered up his things. "Well, HQ said we go pronto. No need to tarry here." The New Zealander hefted his backpack and started walking to the C-130 transport parked at the edge of the runway. "Hey, Shoot, try to carry some of that beef stew, will you?" asked Wotmeworry. He winced as he stood up, and limped slightly as he joined Saber. "And now I'm gonna lie down on my face for the next hour. Great." The American from New Orleans brightened up as he said, "Hey, maybe we can radio our destination to have some jambalaya before we get there?" "You can try," Saber chuckled. A long shot in hell, he thought. They passed by an ambulance near the plane, where some medics were milling around a wounded soldier. "And where the f**k are you going?" shouted the patient. Saber smiled and waved at Hayabusa. "HQ just sent word. We got a new mission." Hayabusa's eyebrow went up. "Another mission? And you're leaving me behind?" Wotmeworry said, "Hey, buddy, just get some rest. That's a nasty wound on your shoulder, and you lost some blood. We'll come visit you as soon as we can." "F**k you and the horse you rode on," Hayabusa said. He pushed a pretty medic aside as he stood up from the stretcher. He grabbed his blood plasma from its stand and handed it to the medic. He looked down appreciatively from her slim legs up to her pretty, startled face and said, "Thanks." He turned around and strode a bit unsteadily to Saber and Wotmeworry, the medic hurrying behind him as she kept the bottle above their heads, the bottle that was still attached to Hayabusa with a butterfly needle on the back of his hand. Wotmeworry's face was a mirror of concern, but Saber was smiling slightly as he said, "Are you sure?" Hayabusa smiled back. "There is no rest for the wicked." Shooter caught up with them. "It's baaad to be goooood. It's gooood to be baaaaad," and slapped Hayabusa on the wounded shoulder. Hayabusa winced and threw a killing look at Shooter, who blightly said, "What, are you looking for me?" | |||
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2305: LZ Bastion, The Golden Triangle
As bullets peppered the large tree trunk in front of her, Scorpy looked around at her squad to check for wounded as well as to make sure that no enemy units have gone around to their rear. She was puzzled at the lack of movement from the tangos. There should have been a rushing advance to overwhelm their positions, but all they did was trade lead. What the hell was going on, she thought. Scorpy looked at her watch, then signaled Miakulet to hook up with HQ.
Miakulet nodded at her squad leader and gripped the handset with her free hand. It would be Mum's birthday the next day, she remembered as she waited for a reply. She smiled slightly at the thought of her mother seeing her precious only daughter now. Born and bred in London's genteel royalty, Miakulet was a young socialite with an enormous appetite for adventure. Prim and proper within the social circles, she had successfully hidden her free-spirited nature underneath a veneer of cool detachment. Only her elder brother knew of her involvement with SOE as one of the most dangerous of licensed-to-kill professionals.
The radio squawked, a metallic voice coming through the headset speaker. "Cobalt, Mother Lode. We have you loud and clear. Be adviced, chickens are running around. I repeat, chickens are running around."
"Copy the running chickens," said Miakulet, knowing that the cryptic message is a code for tangos surrounding the squad. She hoped she would never hear that code, but there it was.
"Hamburgers are raining down, and the porcupine is genuflecting at the delta-charlie-2-7."
"Copy the porcupine." A unit parachuted down, codenamed Porcupine. Miakulet frowned in concentration as she tried to remember the location of delta-charlie-2-7. A small valley just about 20 clicks from them. Why are they over there, far from their position?
"Uncle will come to visit the little children."
Miakulet's eyebrows rose in surprise. Il Supremo coming to the base camp? That would mean the Cobalt mission control would transfer with the top brass... and that only happens when the s**t truly hits the fan. "We read Uncle coming to visit," she replied, then signaled Scorpy to come to her.
"One last thing. Hold on right now lest I come home to eject rabbits."
"Copy the rabbits. Cobalt out."
"Good luck. Mother Lode out."
Scorpy reached Miakulet, who reported on her conversation. "Mother Lode said, 'hold on right now lest I come home to eject rabbits.' What the bloody hell was that?"
Scorpy smiled. "You get the first letter of each word: H-O-R-N-L-I-C-H-T-E-R."
"Uh-huh. Hornlichter," Miakulet said. "And what is that?"
"I should have known," Scorpy slapped her forehead. "Hornlichter is a defensive strategy of holding overlapping positions -- and never moving from those positions, no matter what. It was extensively used by the Japanese in World War II. It was basically a last stand to the death."
Miakulet nodded. "So that's why the tangos haven't overrun us yet. They won't leave their foxholes!"
They both ducked as bullets thudded around them. Scorpy grimaced, then said, "I wonder who Porcupine is."
Miakulet got her handset again. "Why don't we give the bloody bastards a call?"
As bullets peppered the large tree trunk in front of her, Scorpy looked around at her squad to check for wounded as well as to make sure that no enemy units have gone around to their rear. She was puzzled at the lack of movement from the tangos. There should have been a rushing advance to overwhelm their positions, but all they did was trade lead. What the hell was going on, she thought. Scorpy looked at her watch, then signaled Miakulet to hook up with HQ.
Miakulet nodded at her squad leader and gripped the handset with her free hand. It would be Mum's birthday the next day, she remembered as she waited for a reply. She smiled slightly at the thought of her mother seeing her precious only daughter now. Born and bred in London's genteel royalty, Miakulet was a young socialite with an enormous appetite for adventure. Prim and proper within the social circles, she had successfully hidden her free-spirited nature underneath a veneer of cool detachment. Only her elder brother knew of her involvement with SOE as one of the most dangerous of licensed-to-kill professionals.
The radio squawked, a metallic voice coming through the headset speaker. "Cobalt, Mother Lode. We have you loud and clear. Be adviced, chickens are running around. I repeat, chickens are running around."
"Copy the running chickens," said Miakulet, knowing that the cryptic message is a code for tangos surrounding the squad. She hoped she would never hear that code, but there it was.
"Hamburgers are raining down, and the porcupine is genuflecting at the delta-charlie-2-7."
"Copy the porcupine." A unit parachuted down, codenamed Porcupine. Miakulet frowned in concentration as she tried to remember the location of delta-charlie-2-7. A small valley just about 20 clicks from them. Why are they over there, far from their position?
"Uncle will come to visit the little children."
Miakulet's eyebrows rose in surprise. Il Supremo coming to the base camp? That would mean the Cobalt mission control would transfer with the top brass... and that only happens when the s**t truly hits the fan. "We read Uncle coming to visit," she replied, then signaled Scorpy to come to her.
"One last thing. Hold on right now lest I come home to eject rabbits."
"Copy the rabbits. Cobalt out."
"Good luck. Mother Lode out."
Scorpy reached Miakulet, who reported on her conversation. "Mother Lode said, 'hold on right now lest I come home to eject rabbits.' What the bloody hell was that?"
Scorpy smiled. "You get the first letter of each word: H-O-R-N-L-I-C-H-T-E-R."
"Uh-huh. Hornlichter," Miakulet said. "And what is that?"
"I should have known," Scorpy slapped her forehead. "Hornlichter is a defensive strategy of holding overlapping positions -- and never moving from those positions, no matter what. It was extensively used by the Japanese in World War II. It was basically a last stand to the death."
Miakulet nodded. "So that's why the tangos haven't overrun us yet. They won't leave their foxholes!"
They both ducked as bullets thudded around them. Scorpy grimaced, then said, "I wonder who Porcupine is."
Miakulet got her handset again. "Why don't we give the bloody bastards a call?"
2312H: Above the North Pole
"Gentlemen, we are starting our glide down to earth. Our ETA is at oh-2330," Dark Angel's voice piped in the cabin's speakers.
Stormtrooper smiled as he looked at his companions. "Well, it's so nice to know we haven't lost ourselves into outer space."
The others chuckled, but Musketero did not respond. His eyes were tightly closed and his lips moved silently as he muttered his prayers all throughout the flight.
Making some last clicks on his keyboard, Brahma looked up from his laptop. "Sir, we've already notified the Gold squad in Kuala Lumpur. Their aircraft is currently enroute to Thailand."
Stormtrooper rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Excellent! How about NASL?"
"They are already in the base and gearing up," replied Brahma.
"And Porcupine?" asked Sean Blade.
Brahma keyed in some commands, then shook his head. "Still no communication from Porcupine since they HALOed."
"We still got some 15 minutes before landing. I suggest we get some rest before then," suggested Sean Blade.
"Nah, I'm too hyped up for a nap," said Brahma. "Let's play some cards," he continued, and slapped a deck of cards on the small table.
Stormtrooper and Sean Blade smiled at the energetic American, but Musketero still kept his eyes closed and concentrated on his prayers.
"Hey, Musket! Dude! We need four players, so you're in!" said Brahma. Musketero ignored him.
Exasperated, Brahma grabbed Musketero's shoulder and shook him. "Dude, c'mon and play some poker, dammit!"
Still keeping his eyes closed, Musketero shook of Brahma's hand on his shoulder and exclaimed, "Fuck off! Can't you see I'm trying to pray?"
"Gentlemen, we are starting our glide down to earth. Our ETA is at oh-2330," Dark Angel's voice piped in the cabin's speakers.
Stormtrooper smiled as he looked at his companions. "Well, it's so nice to know we haven't lost ourselves into outer space."
The others chuckled, but Musketero did not respond. His eyes were tightly closed and his lips moved silently as he muttered his prayers all throughout the flight.
Making some last clicks on his keyboard, Brahma looked up from his laptop. "Sir, we've already notified the Gold squad in Kuala Lumpur. Their aircraft is currently enroute to Thailand."
Stormtrooper rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Excellent! How about NASL?"
"They are already in the base and gearing up," replied Brahma.
"And Porcupine?" asked Sean Blade.
Brahma keyed in some commands, then shook his head. "Still no communication from Porcupine since they HALOed."
"We still got some 15 minutes before landing. I suggest we get some rest before then," suggested Sean Blade.
"Nah, I'm too hyped up for a nap," said Brahma. "Let's play some cards," he continued, and slapped a deck of cards on the small table.
Stormtrooper and Sean Blade smiled at the energetic American, but Musketero still kept his eyes closed and concentrated on his prayers.
"Hey, Musket! Dude! We need four players, so you're in!" said Brahma. Musketero ignored him.
Exasperated, Brahma grabbed Musketero's shoulder and shook him. "Dude, c'mon and play some poker, dammit!"
Still keeping his eyes closed, Musketero shook of Brahma's hand on his shoulder and exclaimed, "Fuck off! Can't you see I'm trying to pray?"
| 2318H:Trang Lo Valley, The Golden Triangle "As you can see, this fecking road is the only access point through the mountain range," LT said, his finger tracing the line on the map. "And this gardem valley is the only defensible position." The men nodded. They have followed LT's radio beacon after they landed and collected their gears and ammo boxes, and are now kneeling around the map like it was some kind of religious icon to be worshipped. "It's going to take a lot to fight against an armoured battalion," said J2. "Yeah, it will," LT agreed. " But we don't need to take on the whole fecking battalion. We just need to blow up the lead vehicles. We stop the fecking arseholes from getting through." He looked into their eyes. “So, who wants to kill off the fecking lead armour?” All of them raised their hands. “Gardemets! We can’t all be heroes! Thunder, Brimstone, Kyosaisho and J2, you’re Able fire team. The rest is with me as Bravo fire team. Able is the defensive front line. Set up a perimeter of claymores and landmines. Where will you be firing your rockets?” Blue Thunder looked at the map. “I think we’ll be on this ridge. We’ll be on top of the armoured column, and can fire on top of them, which is one of their weakest spots.” LT nodded in agreement. “Bravo will need to set up some ambush positions for those fecking lead scout patrols the tangos will surely dispatch in front of the fecking armoured column.” He pointed at a small clearing on the map. “This is where we will rendezvous for our second line of defense. Agreed?” The Porcupine squad nodded in silent agreement. “All right. Hop and go, then!” The Alpha fire team grabbed their boxes of anti-personnel and anti-armour weapons and disappeared into the night. Krasny said, “LT, Cobalt on the line,” and held out his radio handset. LT took the handset. “This is LT. Who the feck is this?” “LT, you still haven’t lost your charm,” the Scorpion said on the line. “And why are you so far from us? Don’t you like to shoot some chickens? We’ll leave you some if you hurry up.” LT shook his head as he laughed. “No, thanks, Scorpy. We’ve got some turtles for breakfast. Why don’t you come to us? Our fecking turtles are tastier than your gardem chickens.” “Turtles, huh,” replied Scorpy. “I think we’ll stick with chickens for a while. Your turtles are too hard for my teeth. We’ll see you then?” “Why, after this turtle breakfast I think we’ll be strolling by your place for a nice jog to Bastion.” “Brilliant idea, old chap! Cobalt out.” “Isn’t LZ Bastion being overrun by tangos?” asked Krasny as he replaced the headset. “Don’t we have another alternative extraction point?” LT shook his head wearily. “That’s the problem with this gardem forsaken jungle: There are no other fecking landing zones! We’ll just have to make our plans as we go along, for now.” He looked at his Bravo fire team. “Okay then. Let’s fall out,” and walked into the night. | |||
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| 2323H: LZ Bastion, The Golden Triangle For what seemed like an eternity Markus was on his back with his right hand holding a pistol and his left hand pressing a bloody bandage to his left thigh. He was confused; he was expecting tangos rushing in to finish him off. Instead, the only things rushing to him were enemy bullets. Satisfied that he had a few more minutes of relative peace, Markus laid down his pistol and raised the bandage to inspect his wound. A deep graze, no torn arteries, nothing really serious. He breathed deeply in relief. He silently pulled out a fresh bandage from a pouch and proceeded to secure his left thigh. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/M1911.jpg) Then he grabbed his pistol and checked for any dirt that may render his sidearm ineffective. It was a reflex action, for he was supremely confident of his Colt M-1911 Government Model.Its interesting history underlies the reason for the M-1911’s enduring legacy. It started in 1906 when the US Army had a hard time subduing the Moros in Mindanao, the Islamic island in the southern Philippines. There the Americans saw their trusty .38 revolver become incapable of stopping the human waves of wildly wailing, bolo-wielding Juramentados. An ordnance board was set up, chaired by then Col JT Thompson, who was the youngest colonel to be promoted at his time and the most effective chief ordnance officer in the US Army. Under his supervision came the Springfield 1903 rifle (US), the Enfield rifle (British) and the Mosin-Nagant rifle (Russia) that were all extensively used in World War I. But his most significant contributions would be the Thompson submachine gun and the M-1911. Col Thompson reached the conclusion that the US Army needed the stopping power of a .45 caliber cartridge, the only caliber strong enough against the Filipinos. Enter JM Browning, considered to be the greatest gunmaker in the world. He revolutionized the arms industry with the use of expanding gases of a muzzle blast to create repeated, automatic firing. Designing this principle into a pistol for Colt, Browning was determined to pass all the tests the US Army can throw at him. In March 1911 Browning’s pistol underwent a series of torture tests: 6000 rounds with 100 rounds of continuous firing and 5 minutes of cooling down, firing of deformed and misplaced cartridges, then immersion in acid, sand and mud, and finally arother period of firing. After 16 grueling days the US Army’s evaluation committee selected the Colt “… because it is more reliable, more enduring, more easily disassembled when there are broken parts to be replaced, and more accurate.” With his pistol ready to kill, Markus flipped over onto his stomach as a barrage of bullets came his way. He ignored the firing, knowing that the tangos could not really see him, but were trying to draw his fire and determine his location. Using his NVG he navigated through the thick brush with very slow, sloth-like movements. Locating a foxhole to his right, Markus ignored the pain in his leg as he advanced, inch by agonizing inch. When he could hear the tangos whispering to each other, Markus slowly unsheathed his KA-BAR, the famous fixed fighting blade of the US marines since World War II that has become their unique symbol. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/ka-bar01.jpg) Centering himself until there was nothing on his mind but his heart and his kills, Markus leaped to the foxhole, timing his action to the loud firing of the doomed tangos. He plunged his KA-BAR into the back of the neck of the nearest tango, the point protruding out of the throat and effectively silencing the tango from shouting any warning. At almost the same time Markus placed the barrel of his M-1911 against the skull of the other tango and fired, the bullet messing up brain matter before exiting out of an eye socket. As both tangos slumped to the ground, a third tango dropped down from the tree behind Markus. With lightning reflexes, the SOE pointman parried the tango’s AK-47 with his gun hand. In the same circling motion Markus pulled out his KA-BAR from the dead tango’s neck and buried it into the heart of the remaining tango. With a surprised grunt the tango embraced Markus in a deathgrip. Bullets suddenly ripped across the tango’s back, and Markus felt his leg give way under the dead weight. Smacking down to the ground with the dead tango on top, Markus again raised his pistol defensively. He tried to push off the tango whose arms were still around his shoulders, but to no avail. Then he heard movement coming nearer, and his body froze, his pistol pointed across the night to the source of the noise. He hoped the dead tango atop him would stop any bullets coming his way. The movement stopped. Then Markus saw a shadow rising from the tips of the grass. Khan surveyed the two men locked in a tight embrace: Markus on his back with a man on top in what looked like a humping position. Khan shook his head as he hissed at Markus, “What the hell are you doing brokebacking in the middle of the jungle, you fool!” | ||||
2336H: Cobalt Base of Operations, Thailand The airfield personnel gawked in stupified silence as the sleek, unusually designed spacecraft rolled to a stop, its carbon-steel and porcelain skin still smoking from the intense hot temperature of re-entry into the atmosphere. If not for the spotlights, they would not have been able to see it in the darkness of night. "Bloody 'ell," the crew chief said. Their jaws went down to touch the ground when the cabin door opened to reveal a woman in a tight, black spandex flight suit, her long black hair spilling down like silk. "Bloody 'eaven," the crew chief spoke again, with still wider eyes. "I hope you're all comfortable during the flight," Dark Angel said, smiling at Stormtrooper. Stormtrooper smiled back. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "We really do appreciate your immense help. You people have never let us down in our times of need." "Nor have you," replied Dark Angel. "What are friends for?" "Well, thank you again," said Stormtrooper, and shook her hand. "I hope to see you soon." Dark Angel smiled impishly. "Oh, I think you'll see me soon enough, sir!" Stormtrooper raised his eyebrow quizzically, then nodded his head and disembarked. Sean Blade and Brahma gave their thanks and their delight at their latest flying experience. A slightly pale Musketero came down the stairs last. He slowly went to the side of the plane, bent down and retched. The others looked at him in amusement, then turned around to a dark green vintage jeep coming their way. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/WillysJeep.jpg) First seeing action in World War II, the Willys Jeep proved to be a tough and versatile small truck, capable of living a life in the military. Its four-cylinder engine was designed to become an electric generator to power portable radar and radio, welding and other electrical equipment in the field. The headlamps could be swung inward to illuminate the engine compartment during repairs. It was small enough to dart through tight spaces, light enough to trudge along rice paddies, and strong enough to pull trailers and other vehicles out of the mud. In peacetime, the jeep was derided for its very bumpy ride and loose canvas top. But in wartime, the jeep showed its true mettle. The flat hood served as speaking platforms for officers, as altars for mass, and as card tables to pass away the time. The jeep can carry ammunition, food rations and water to the frontlines in a hurry – and then becomes an ambulance for the wounded on its trip back to the command posts. With its 4x4 grip on any road, paved or dirt or none at all, the jeep can go to places where other vehicles cannot, not even the mighty tanks. The jeep can go to battle like a war chariot armed to the teeth, mounted with heavy .50 caliber machine guns, bazookas or rockets. Although replaced in 1981 with the Humvee, the jeep still evoked fond memories. So much so that officers usually pull rank just to drive the veritable small giant. And Stormtrooper did precisely that. “Move over. I’ll drive,” he told the driver as the jeep came to a stop beside them. The driver executed a preppy salute, smiled and slid his massive frame to the back seat. “It’s nice to see you too, sir,” he said. Stormtrooper laughed and shook Porterhouse’s beefy paw. “It’s good to see you, old friend.” Musketero walked to the jeep as the SOE warriors greeted each other. Porterhouse tossed a bottle of mineral water at Musketero, saying “You’ll be needing that, I think.” “Gracias,” a grateful Musketero said and washed his mouth, spitting at the side. Wiping his mouth, he asked, “Where’s the mobile command center?” ”It’s that tent with the huge antenna, of course,” Porterhouse answered, pointing at the heavily camouflaged tent near a clump of trees. He turned to Sean Blade and asked, “Any chance of saving the downed chopper pilot and his crew?” Sean Blade shook his head sadly. “We got some high resolution satellite feed. There were no survivors. I’m sorry.” Porterhouse stared at the moolit sky for some moments. “Well, that’s life. I’ll tell the other flight crews. We’ve been waiting for some news for some time now.” “Sorry about that,” Stormtrooper said. “We have to tighten our security as we prepare to escalate our operation.” “Yeah,” agreed Porterhouse, “but you can’t stop the speculations around here.” He pointed to a large tent beside the command center. “People here are buzzing like crazy when Papa Jun and Skipperooo landed in. Then that NASL bunch came over.” He shook his head in wonder. “What’s the world coming to?” Stormtrooper slapped Porterhouse’s back. “You’ll get used to it. So how’s your detail here?” “Well, it’s f**king hot. But the veggies are fresh, the native chicken is tasty and the local fish is very good. I just can’t get over the f**k how everything is spicy, even the bread!” Sean Blade laughed. “Good thing I brought a candy bar along, then.” He looked at the tents, then back to his companions. “Why don’t we go meet our motley crew?” They nodded in agreement and got on the jeep, with Stormtrooper on the driver’s seat. | |||
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2339H: Near LZ Bastion, Golden Triangle
Running hard towards his Dragunov, Lacrimosa saw a telltale muzzle flash from the distant hilltop. He immediately stopped for a split-second, then resumed his mad dash towards his weapon. He hoped his “stop-start” maneuver would put him out of the bullet’s lethal trajectory, but a sudden lancing pain on his left forearm told him the sniper’s lead got him.
Without stopping to think, Lacrimosa made a desperate dive towards his rifle leaning on the tree, his body almost horizontal in mid-air as his right hand stretched out to grab the Dragunov.
The tango sniper fired another shot, but it was too late. Lacrimosa had rolled safely to the cover of the tall grass, his rifle firmly grasped in his hands.
Releasing the rifle’s safety, Lacrimosa tried to get his bearings, trying to remember where he saw the sniper’s muzzle flash. Then he suddenly stood up and pointed his riflescope at the general direction of his enemy. He got movement in his sight, and pulled the trigger.
“I told you to f**cking stay down!” the tango sniper said angrily at his spotter, who was excitedly pointing at the distant, dim silhouette. There was a slight buzzing sound in the air, then the spotter’s eyes registered shock as his abdomen opened wide. He tried desperately to collect his spilling guts, looked somewhat reproachfully at his partner, and thunked down to the hard ground.
“F**k!” the tango sniper cursed, and got off another shot. Again it was too late to do anything. Lacrimosa had dived back under cover as soon as he fired, not even looking to see if he had hit his target.
The tango sniper slowly slid back under the grass and bushes, out of sight. Then he thought of his options while making a combat load. Without his spotter, the sniper had to make the difficult task of searching for his foe without being seen. But he was still very confident, and he thought his chances are much better. In the deadly game of hide-and-seek, all it takes is just one well-placed shot to win. And to win, he needed to flush out his opponent from cover.
The tango sniper reached for his spotter’s radio, wiped the blood off the dials, and called his base. “Faucon, calling Faucon. This is Hibou. Sektor 7 dash 3. Go!” He waited for the affirmation, then replaced the handset. He smiled in satisfaction as his hands caressed his rifle.
Lacrimosa had slowly wiggled away from his last known position, then stayed very still in the tall grass. He inspected his wound and put a bandage on it. Then he slowly took a chocolate bar from a pocket and started munching slowly as he thought. There was something amiss in this scenario, and he just could not get this missing piece out of his mind. He felt like he knew his adversary from the way the shots were fired. He mentally shrugged and tried to think of his situation.
He broke off another piece of chocolate and started chewing softly. When two snipers clash in a classic duel, the one with the most resources can get the advantage. In this case, something to make the other break from hiding. It was much like dogs scaring off ducks or partridges to fly over the grass, giving their masters a moment to point their shotguns and shoot.
Lacrimosa nodded to himself, and replaced the remaining candy bar into his pocket. He then drew his Stetchkin 9mm machine pistol, took its shoulder stock from a leg pocket and proceeded to lock the stock to the pistol grip, forming a somewhat outlandish rifle.
Running hard towards his Dragunov, Lacrimosa saw a telltale muzzle flash from the distant hilltop. He immediately stopped for a split-second, then resumed his mad dash towards his weapon. He hoped his “stop-start” maneuver would put him out of the bullet’s lethal trajectory, but a sudden lancing pain on his left forearm told him the sniper’s lead got him.
Without stopping to think, Lacrimosa made a desperate dive towards his rifle leaning on the tree, his body almost horizontal in mid-air as his right hand stretched out to grab the Dragunov.
The tango sniper fired another shot, but it was too late. Lacrimosa had rolled safely to the cover of the tall grass, his rifle firmly grasped in his hands.
Releasing the rifle’s safety, Lacrimosa tried to get his bearings, trying to remember where he saw the sniper’s muzzle flash. Then he suddenly stood up and pointed his riflescope at the general direction of his enemy. He got movement in his sight, and pulled the trigger.
“I told you to f**cking stay down!” the tango sniper said angrily at his spotter, who was excitedly pointing at the distant, dim silhouette. There was a slight buzzing sound in the air, then the spotter’s eyes registered shock as his abdomen opened wide. He tried desperately to collect his spilling guts, looked somewhat reproachfully at his partner, and thunked down to the hard ground.
“F**k!” the tango sniper cursed, and got off another shot. Again it was too late to do anything. Lacrimosa had dived back under cover as soon as he fired, not even looking to see if he had hit his target.
The tango sniper slowly slid back under the grass and bushes, out of sight. Then he thought of his options while making a combat load. Without his spotter, the sniper had to make the difficult task of searching for his foe without being seen. But he was still very confident, and he thought his chances are much better. In the deadly game of hide-and-seek, all it takes is just one well-placed shot to win. And to win, he needed to flush out his opponent from cover.
The tango sniper reached for his spotter’s radio, wiped the blood off the dials, and called his base. “Faucon, calling Faucon. This is Hibou. Sektor 7 dash 3. Go!” He waited for the affirmation, then replaced the handset. He smiled in satisfaction as his hands caressed his rifle.
Lacrimosa had slowly wiggled away from his last known position, then stayed very still in the tall grass. He inspected his wound and put a bandage on it. Then he slowly took a chocolate bar from a pocket and started munching slowly as he thought. There was something amiss in this scenario, and he just could not get this missing piece out of his mind. He felt like he knew his adversary from the way the shots were fired. He mentally shrugged and tried to think of his situation.
He broke off another piece of chocolate and started chewing softly. When two snipers clash in a classic duel, the one with the most resources can get the advantage. In this case, something to make the other break from hiding. It was much like dogs scaring off ducks or partridges to fly over the grass, giving their masters a moment to point their shotguns and shoot.
Lacrimosa nodded to himself, and replaced the remaining candy bar into his pocket. He then drew his Stetchkin 9mm machine pistol, took its shoulder stock from a leg pocket and proceeded to lock the stock to the pistol grip, forming a somewhat outlandish rifle.
![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/stetchkinmachinepistol.jpg)
Roughly equivalent to the NATO standard of the 9mm Parabellum round, the Stetchkin was originally issued to the KGB and GRU. But its 250-meter accuracy and full-auto firing capability brought the Stetchkin to the military’s attention. Typical to Russian gun designs, the Stetchkin is ready to fire under tough conditions. Its profile exactly fits a sniper’s need for firepower in close engagements, where the sniper rifle’s advantage is completely negated.And with its removable shoulder stock, the Stetchkin solved the problem of uncontrolled recoil when shooting in full-auto mode. Most pistols with full-auto capability, such as the Glock 18C, have proven useless; the hands simply could not compensate for the pistol’s continuous recoil, making the bullets fly anywhere but on target. The Stetchkin, on the other hand, provides a steady shooting platform with negligible kick-back, making it ideal for CQBs, or close-quarter battles.
Using his handy periscope, Lacrimosa scanned the opposing hilltop again, but saw no sign of the tango sniper. Then he heard the distant roaring, breaking the stillness of the night.
| 0017H: Cobalt Base of Operations, Thailand Sean Blade strode to the pedestal in front of the seating warriors of NASL. Papa Jun and Skipperooo chose to stand at the back, quietly sipping coffee. “Listen up!” Sean Blade said, his eyes piercing the crowd. “I intend to put your lives in harm’s way. Anyone who does not want to face death today, step outside right now.” No one moved. But instead of fear, the Blademaster saw solid resolve in their eyes. Some even smiled tightly in anticipation of the coming challenge. “May I join this party?” Dark Angel asked, standing at the door. “The President of the United States has just ordered me to represent the country in this mission.” “All right,” Sean Blade said, and waited for Dark Angel to be seated. “Welcome to Operation Cobalt,” he continued. “I know the SOP is to tell you only what you need to know, but we have decided to fill you in with all the details. Then you decide if your life and the lives of your comrades are worth the sacrifices, if so demanded by this mission.” And he told them everything: the kidnapping, the rescue and the aborted extraction, the overwhelming odds to get the Cobalt squad out. And he told them about the possibility of creating anti-matter and its resulting devastation in the hands of terrorists. The audience froze in silent awe and realization. The mood was broken when Dark Angel stood up and walked to the back, talking silently into her compact communicator. Spitfire whistled in astonishment of the magnitude of the operation. “Sean,” he said, “this is one big bad Momma. We gonna need firepower big big to beat the f**king tangos in their own turf.” Sean Blade shook his head. “You know the rules. You can only arm yourselves with what you see in the armory at the back. The tangos must not know where we came from.” “Excuse me,” Dark Angel said. “The President has just mobilized our carrier group just off the coast. He is sending in some heavy armaments – you know, black market stuff. Just tell us what you need.” She looked at Stormtrooper. “The President puts this mission under national security, under your jurisdiction, of course.” Stormtrooper nodded and said, “Please inform your President that we are very grateful for the help.” Spitfire asked, “Where are we headed?” Sean Blade pointed at the map, due south of the Cobalt squad. “We need you people there. We think that’s where the RPGs came from. You have to clear that southern sector for our choppers to come in and extract everyone.” “And where do we come in?” asked Skipperooo. “We have something special for you two,” Sean Blade said. “You have to reach Cobalt and reinforce them.” “What!” shouted Skipperooo. “F**k that! Gimme some real challenge, muchacho!” “Oui,” agreed Papa Jun. “Drop him in the middle of the tango base. I am sure the world will be a better place when you do that.” “Shut up!” Skipperooo retorted, jokingly throwing the hot coffee to Papa Jun’s face. “You’re just too old to stay up with me.” He looked at Stormtrooper. “Oi, Stormy! Tell this old fart he should have retired from this game five years ago.” “Sirs!” Porterhouse broke up the revelry inside the tent. “What is it, Porterhouse?” asked Sean Blade. “Communications just came in,” Porterhouse reported. “Porcupine has just engaged the enemy.” | |||
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| 0053H: Trang Lo Valley, The Golden Triangle “Give it to the sons of bitches!” shouted LT, his voice rising above the staccato of lethal firepower. He clicked his throat mic. “Thunder, LT. We have tango scouts, advancing in force. We are going to retreat.” “LT, Blue Thunder. We need 5 more minutes.” “Thunder, LT. You have 3 minutes!” LT lifted his head a bit above the brush, his NVGs showing him a whitish glow of his surroundings. He noticed a platoon of tangos standing up and firing their automatic weapons, advancing towards them in a walking pace. Gardemets, he thought. A skirmish line! Used by numerically superior army units, a skirmish line is a simple line of soldiers in parallel to their enemy’s line of defense. In a deliberate effort to overwhelm the enemy, soldiers in a skirmish line advance in a walk, firing at any suspicious location, each of them about 10 feet away from their comrades at their sides. They need to walk in a straight parallel line, with no one advancing or lagging behind, to keep the firepower and to prevent any of them getting hit from behind by friendly fire. The platoon leader’s job is to walk behind his men to keep the line straight at all times. Although very easy to execute in theory, a skirmish line is very hard to implement in a battlefield. It goes against a soldier’s instinct for self-preservation, making him stand and advance while seeing his comrades being mowed down by enemy fire. It takes training and discipline to make soldiers execute a skirmish line. And that worried LT – that his Porcupine Squad is fighting against a tough and disciplined tango unit. “Krasny, LT,” he radioed, “don’t let them flank us at the right. Cut those fecking tangos down!” “Roger that,” answered Krasny, adjusting the sights on his M-249, and proceeded to chop the advancing tangos down into fertilizer. ![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v681/lomuntadflr/M249ParawithPIPkit.jpg) The M-249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) belongs to the family of the NATO Minimi SAWs, manufactured by Belguim’s Fabrique Nationale (FN Herstal). However, there are some distinct differences between the Belgian Minimi and the M-249, made by FNH USA, such as weight and ammo feeding design. Aside from the standard 5.56mm 200-round disintegrating feeding belt, the M-249 can also use the 20- and 30-round M-16 rifle magazines through a side-mounted port. Additional design improvements, such as fast combat loading, rapid barrel changes during firefights, and point accuracy of some 800m, have made the M-249 the machine gun of choice for many military special units.Answering the need for support and suppressive firepower, the M-249 replaced the Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) of World War II and Korean vintage, and the M-14/M-16A1 light automatic weapons doctrine of the Vietnam War. Providing accurate and heavy fire, the M-249 can replace two M-16 fire suppressors in an assault, or even 15 riflemen in a defensive position. For covert missions, the SOE favors the M-249 Para variant with PIP (Product Improvement Program) kit. Designed for paratroopers and light recon units, the M-249 Para has a shorter barrel and retractable stock. The PIP kit includes a cloth ammo pouch (replacing the plastic box that produced noise), and modified barrels, handguard, stock, pistol grip, buffer, and sights. Other improvements include Picatinny rails for scopes and heat shields. Just as his M-249 blasted two more tangos to their death, Krasny had to duck behind a tree trunk as the remaining tangos zeroed in on his position. “LT, Krasny,” he shouted into his mic. “There’s too many of ‘em! We have to retreat!” LT bit his lip. Able fire team needed time to lay down the mines and traps for the tango armored vehicles. But if they stayed, the tango scouts would surely overwhelm their positions. With only four of them in the Bravo fire team, they are spread too thinly to hold the line. LT made his decision. “Bravo, LT. Execute Iron Fist. I repeat, Iron Fist. Go!” LT, Trauma and Gambit threw hand grenades into the air. As the grenades exploded, they lashed out with their sub-machine guns while Krasny picked his M-249 and ran to their rear like his butt was on fire. The Iron Fist maneuver is a simple strategem for controlled retreat. Like a spread hand with each finger folding back to the palm until they form a fist, the Bravo fire teammates would retreat, one by one, to a designated ambush location and then hit the enemy with devastating firepower. After a couple of Iron Fists, the enemy would usually advance at a slower pace, wary of another ambush with each step they take. Upon reaching the designated area, Krasny immediately located his extra stash of ammunition hidden in the brushes, set up his machine gun, and made a combat load. Machine gunners are always the first to run, since they need a longer time to establish their base of fire. Krasny noticed movement in front and he tensed, slowly moving his sights. Then he relaxed as he recognized a fellow Bravo member. To prevent friendly fire during a retreat maneuver, each retreating soldier raises his weapon and walks at a brisk pace, showing a non-threatening pose to the comrades behind. Krasny raised his hand, and Trauma raised his in answer. Getting his stash of claymore mines in a pouch that he hung earlier on a tree branch, Trauma proceeded to set some mine traps about 200 meters in front of their defensive line. Gambit came in and helped out. “The fecking bastards are coming in,” LT said as he emerged from the shadows. He checked that all mines were set properly, then clicked his throat mic. “Thunder, LT. Chickens are running hot tonight. See you in five minutes.” There was only silence. LT was going to click his mic again when the radio squawked. “LT, Blue Thunder. The turtles are early! And they are running hot and heavy!” The Bravo fire team looked at each other, stunned. Their way out has just been shut down. | |||
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