Memoirs of a Company Man

[reaper239]

i've hit a bit of writers block with The Survivor, so i decided to switch gears and work on another story that i've had rattling around my brain for a while. so let me start off by saying that this is a work of fiction, the people and events depicted here are fictitous and any similarity to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. but it would be cool. so i'm going to start off with an ever expanding glossary of terms so people won't get lost.

Glossary:
The Symphony of Destruction: song and lyrics by Megadeth
The Company: slang for CIA
CIA: Central Intelligence Agency
1SG: 1st Sergeant
Q course: qualification course
Green Beanies: slang for Green Berets
Secret Squirrel: slang for Special Forces
SFG: Special Forces Group
SFC: Sergeant First Class
ODA: Operational Detachment Alpha
MAJ: Major
LTC: Liutenant Colonel
1st SFOD-D: 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta
USSOC: United States Special Operations Command
MARSOC: Marine Special Operations Command/ note: they call it the Marine Special Operations Command, but they still fall under USSOC
Hard Targets: enemies who have some form of cover. whether that's a hard surface to hide behind, or a hostage, they are hard to take down without unacceptable losses.
"Time"... Mark: lets operatives synchronize time peices. saying the time to set it to and then mark tells everyone when to start their watches again.
"But sir, that's Charlie's point" "CHARLIE DON'T SURF": line from apocalypse now
Haaji: slang for a middle eastern man
ATACS: Advanced Tactical Camo System
Mess: Mess Hall
DiFac: dining facility
ricky-tick: quickly
GP Medium: General Purpose mid sized tent
SSG: Staff Sergeant
TSgt: Technical Sergeant
SMSgt: Senior Master Sergeant
TACP: Tactical Air Control Party
GySgt: Gunnery Sergeant
MSgt: Master Sergeant
CPO: Chief Petty Officer
SCPO: Senior Chief Petty Officer
SEAL: Sea, Air, Land Team
I'm your Huckleberry: line from Tombstone
CQB: Close Quarters Battle
PDW: Personal Defense Weapon
PTT: Push To Talk
GMV: Ground Mobility Vehicle, a suped up High Mobility Multi Wheeled Vehicle (HMMWV)
CLU: Command Launch Unit the base unit for the Javelin Missile system
Time is a Luxury: Quote from Enemy at the Gates
AO: Area of Operations
Guardrail: Multi sensor airborne intelligence gathering suite
HVT: High Value Target
Well That was Pretty Ninja: Quote from Medal Of Honor Video Game
mm: Millimeter
203/M203: Rifle Mounted Grenade Launcher
FOB: Forward Operating Base
Thoughts of Us: Line from the monologue of Aldo Raine in Inglorious Basterds
HALO: High Altitude Low Opening
DZ: Drop Zone
Butter Bars: Slang for Lieutenant
SME: Subject Matter Expert

Just like the pied piper
Led rats through the street
Dance like a marionette
Swaying to

The Symphony of Destruction

I fear this title may be somewhat misleading: I didn’t actually come up through the CIA. I am US Army 1SG John Welsh. I joined the Army when I was 18 with ranger school in my contract. I was a dirt eater, a ground pounder; I marched with the Queen of Battle: I was infantry. And after two years of kicking in doors, leading the way, and getting my metal tested like few others, I was given the opportunity to audition for the Green Berets.

I tackled the Q course in one go. Getting a shot at the green beanies at such a young age was not unheard of, but that coupled with my excellent performance in selection and the Q course made me a rising star in the Green Berets, and someone the higher ups felt they needed to keep an eye on.

My first duty station as a secret squirrel was with the 5th SFG, and after a couple years there I moved on to the 10th SFG. I never stopped learning along the way: in the 5th I learned Pashto and airborne assault techniques, in the 10th I learned German and urban warfare. From the 10th I moved to the 3rd SFG where I learned Somali and the finer points of working with Indigenous Forces. After 7 years in special forces I was 27, had attained the rank of SFC and was the Senior Special Forces Medic of ODA 395.

We had just come back from a mission in Zambia where I’d broken my leg: we faced off with a Chinese special forces team and showed them why we were the best in the world, but I got cocky and made a mistake. My best friend at the time and comrade, Devil Driver, saved my life, but it still cost me two months of action. I went up to New York to see some family just before I returned to active duty and when I got back I was called to see MAJ Tomlin, the commander of the 3rd.

When I arrived in his office, there was another man there. He was introduced as LTC Henson and asked me if I wanted to join the Unit: Delta Force. Officially 1st SFOD-D, Delta Force was another piece of USSOC, like the SEALs, or MARSOC, or the Green Berets, they were just more secretive. I jumped at the chance to join the elite of the elites. So after selection and Delta training, I spent another three years doing the do in back alleys across the world. The CIA didn’t come into the picture until my last mission with the Delta’s.

[reaper239]

We got orders to do a job on an oil rig, and we’d be taking in some CIA spooks with us. The gist was: terrorists were holding an oil rig and waving their guns in the air like they were hot stuff, and we were going to demonstrate to them why they were not. Along with neutralizing the enemy, we were to escort the spooks to grab some data the terrorists had with them. I was team leader for the op.

It wasn’t a deep water rig, so we went in on zodiacs. There were four four-man teams and each had a CIA operative with them. That meant twenty men, divided up between four zodiacs. My team consisted of me, Shorty, Deacon, and King carrying a M60, and our spook was G-Man filling the role of the sniper.

Deacon maneuvered the zodiac up to a maintenance pylon and Shorty and I were the first off. We secured the platform as King secured the boat and Deacon and G-Man offloaded our equipment. We finished securing our gear and checked in for status reports from the other teams. All clear.

We took the stairs to the maintenance bay about 100 feet up. When we reached the big double doors we stopped for a quick review, “We go in fast and quiet: slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fast is lethal. Our first objective is the hostages, then we find G-Mans intel, hooah?” The others responded in kind. I peeked through the windows on the double doors and it looked clear.

I nodded to Deacon and he opened his door while I opened mine. The maintenance room was small for the amount of equipment stored there, but fortunately there were no guards. We moved to the door leading to the hall. If we went left it would lead us to the living quarters, or right to the mess hall. Intel said the mess hall was the most likely place to be holding the hostages, so we would be going right.

Shorty opened the door and we filed through making sure the hall was clear. We formed two columns on either side of the hall as we made our way down: on the left was Shorty and Deacon while on the right was me, G-Man, and King. We crept methodically up the hall until we heard voices. Angry voices.

We heard a man shouting unintelligibly at what I could only assume was a hostage. We came up to a corner and looked around it: guarding the entrance to the mess hall were two terrorists. The only weapon that wasn’t suppressed was Kings M60, but I couldn’t risk not getting headshots, so I had Deacon and G-Man line up the shots. When they were ready I counted them down from three. There were two audible cracks, not nearly as loud as they would have been unsuppressed, but loud enough that if the man hadn’t been yelling in the mess, the terrorists might have heard it.

As soon as the bodies dropped my team was moving to their position. My team took up positions on either side of the double doors. I nodded to Shorty on the other side and said, “Knock on the door.” he reached into a pocket on his gear, pulled out a breaching charge, and placed it on the door.

There are several schools to breaching a room: typical police techniques simply seek to remove the door as an obstacle, military door breaching seeks to use the door as a weapon against those on the other side, and elite military and special forces will try to avoid using the door altogether favoring instead making their own. Deltas preferred technique is a combination of the latter two: break through the doors with enough force to incapacitate, and surprise the enemy by coming out of the walls. Nothing freaks someone out more than a wall disappearing to let through more people who are trying to kill them.

To breach double doors, you need a special charge. Fortunately, the breaching charges we use are all purpose. They can remain as a lump to provide maximum force behind a single door, they can roll out to breach double doors, or they can roll out and around for a wall breach. Shorty set the breaching charge for double door and stood back. Then he squeezed the detonator.

The door flew inward and took down two terrorists on the other side. Unfortunately they bounced and knocked a hostage unconscious. Unfortunate but not lethal. We took in the mess hall quickly: big open floor, tables moved off to the right, kitchen to the left through an open doorway, metal stairs at the back leading to catwalks above with metal grating, doors leading to the deck from the catwalks. Shorty and Deacon went left towards the kitchen, the King and I went right towards the tables, and G-Man popped his head and rifle around doorway and started dropping hard targets.

I dropped two tangos and then reached the tables which were turned on their sides. They wouldn’t provide protection from bullets, but they would break visual contact between me and the tangos, and that could be almost as good. I slammed my hand on the edge of the table and threw all my weight on it as I vaulted over and crouched, breaking their line of sight, and immediately moved three feet to my left. King didn’t bother dropping behind cover as he sprayed the catwalk, the chu-chu-chu-chu of his M60 bouncing deafeningly off the walls as the catwalk proceeded closer and closer to being unsound.

I stood and fired over the table, lining up three round bursts into the chests of my enemies. There were about 20 tangos in the room when we entered, and 30 hostages. There were 10 tangos left, and 30 hostages. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Shorty and Deacon disappear into the kitchen.

As soon as Shorty and Deacon were through the door there was a bright flash of light, followed immediately by rapid weapon flashes. After three of the longest seconds in my life, I saw a second flash followed by several weapon flashes and then nothing. I waited another two seconds and keyed up my mic as I dropped back behind cover, “Shorty, Deacon, contact report.”

Nothing. “Shorty, Deacon, contact report.”

“Sis, it’s Shorty. There were five guys waiting in here to surprise us with a flash. Lucky for us, they were almost as bad off from it as we were. We managed to drop behind cover and toss one of our own. After that they were easy pickings. We’re good, kitchen cleared, over.”

I let out a sigh of relief, “Get back out here.” I popped back up and saw that there were five tangos left and King was sprinting for his life as bullets were skipping off the metal floor at his heels. His M60 was slung back with the drum off and he had his pistol pulled. I lined up two quick shots and then dove right as bullets tore up the table.

Suddenly, the fire stopped. Other than a screaming hostage, all was quiet. I slapped in a fresh mag and stood up, sweeping the room. Other than Shorty and Deacon moving to cover, there was no movement. “CHECK ‘EM!”

The team moved from body to body as I collected the hostages and checked them for injury. They were fine and the terrorists were dead. I received word from the other teams that their portions of the operation were successful.

Suddenly, King stood from a body and called out, “Soul Sister, I think you’d better take a look at this.” King sounded worried, and that worried me.

I walked over to the body he was looking at and knelt next to him. The terrorist had on a digital watch. That watch was counting down. I stood, “Check the bodies for watches.”

One by one they confirmed my fears: they were counting down in synchronicity. I got on the Delta net, “All Deltas, converge on the mess.” I then switched over to the command net, “Baseplate, this is Soul Sister, do you read over?”

“*Lima Charlie Soul Sister, what do you need, over?*”

“We need immediate helo extraction for the hostages. All the tangos have watches that are counting to some event and we have,” I picked up the dead man’s arm to check his watch, “26 minutes and 30 seconds… mark, over.”

“*Copy that Soul Sister, we have two birds on standby, they will be there in ten, out.*”

Just as I finished with command, the rest of the Deltas arrived. I rallied them to my position, “Something is scheduled to happen in 25 minutes, there are birds inbound. Deltas 3-3 and 3-4, take the hostages to the helipad and wait there for extraction. Delta 3-2, you’re with us retrieving intel. We’re all out in 20, intel or no. We’re Oscar Mike.” Everyone checked their weapons and made sure they were topped off and then moved to complete the mission.

We were now joined by Chief with an MP5 Tactical, Phish who had an SR-25, Monkey with his G36C, Patches with the AG-3F2, and their CIA operative, Cowboy, with his Vector.

I rallied the two teams to me and we moved out. We went up to the catwalks and exited to the deck. The control room was up in a tower overlooking the entire rig. We walked carefully across the deck to the stairwell leading the control room, checking corners and watching for movement in the control tower.

Door kicking is a skill, one that requires timing, coordination, and most of all size. It’s also a very dangerous activity to engage in. When Hollywood shows soldiers breaching a door without charges, they often show one guy kicking the door and another guy will pop out into the doorway and sweep through the door for targets. In reality, that’s only a great technique if your desire is to catch a bullet. Doors are what we in the business like to call: vertical coffins. One guy with a machine gun and a good vantage point could take out a whole squad if they’re sloppy. The proper way to kick in doors is to go in fast and hard, utilizing a soldiers three greatest assets: speed, surprise, and the ability to employ overwhelming force. And that is one thing American soldiers excel at. Just ask the insurgents in Fallujah.

[reaper239]

King wasn’t the biggest soldier I’ve ever worked with, but he was still a very large man, certainly bigger than anyone else present. As such, he was our designated door kicker. The one aspect of door kicking that Hollywood got right was the use of two men. Where space permits, it is better to have your door kicker off to one side so he has time to ready himself to enter, therefore your first man in will on the other side of the door from your kicker to capitalize on the speed and surprise aspects.

King slung his M60 behind his back and drew his pistol as he got ready to kick in the door. When clearing rooms, speed and mobility trump high cyclic fire rate and a large magazine. Phish and G-Man also drew their side-arms as Chief pulled out his screw driver and loosened the handle so the door could be kicked in.

I stood beside King and when Chief was done I nodded to King, “Knock on the door.” King planted his size 13 right next to the handle and the loose door handle shattered, pieces flying all over the bottom landing, and then I was through, followed closely by the rest of the team. We climbed the stairs slowly always making sure to keep an eye on the stairs above. I glanced at my watch, 15 minutes until it was time for us to be gone. We slowed as we neared the top of the stairs and listened: we heard nervous South African voices.

I motioned to Shorty, Deacon, Monkey, and Patches to prep flash bangs, and everyone else to prepare to take down the room. I counted us down from three.

Two.

One.

Bang.

We were up and sprinting into the room, not going for the kills, but instead going to takedowns. There were seven men in the room. Five survived. We tied them up and knelt them down on the floor with ten minutes to spare. I had King and G-Man grab the one who seemed to be the leader and bring him to the section of balcony that looked out over the ocean. I looked him in the eye and introduced myself as Soul sister. He acknowledged me.

I said, “We’re looking for the accounts information you had with you. now, you tell me where it is, and you can walk away. We get to shore, and you’re free to go.” He stood there for a moment, staring at me, then spit in my face. I used my glove to wipe my face, “Suit yourself,” then I pulled my sidearm and shot him in both knees. I grabbed his vest and threw him into the water over 600 feet below.

I pointed to the next one as I looked at my watch. Eight minutes, we had to hurry. They pulled the next guy in line up to me. I made eye contact, “You guys are mercs. You’re not here for some ideological reason, you’re here because someone paid you to make a point. So, you tell me what I want to know, and you can go, k?” he nodded, “Great. Where is the account info you guys had with you?”

He pointed at a wall safe, “Ok, now what’s the combo?” he told me and I had G-Man verify the contents of the safe.

G-Man pulled out a bag with a computer, “Looks like this is it.”

I nodded to the terrorist, “Thank you for your help, unfortunately, there is no room on the chopper.” And with that I put a bullet between his eyes. Four bullets later and we were on our way to the heli pad with the intel. I checked my watch: two minutes. There was a Chinook waiting for us on the heli pad with a ranger squad pulling guard. We were lifting off as my watch hit zero. I walked to the front with the pilots and told them they had five minutes until a bomb went off and he throttled up and moved us out. Five minutes later, nothing happened.


One week later I got called into LTC Henson’s office. When I walked in, I was surprised to see G-Man there with a thick file under his arm. I walked in and saluted, “Sir, 1SG Welsh reporting.”

Henson returned my salute and motioned for me to take a seat, “I think you remember Mr Law.” I nodded at G-Man, “I’ll let him fill you in on the situation.”
G-Man handed me the file. Being in special forces, you learn how to read an intel file, but it still wasn’t my forte. The most I was able to pick up was that there was one man funding a bunch of different organizations. After a minute G-Man spoke up, “I assume you can get the gist of that file. The intel we retrieved from the oil rig confirmed reports that different terror organizations were being funded by one man.” He set a picture on the desk, “This man, Isaak Praskoviya. Old Russian money, old school communist, thinks we’re still fighting the cold war. When his father, Borislav Praskoviya, bailed out of Russia at the end of the cold war, he took about half of Russia’s money with him. They’ve been off the grid ever since, but Isaak has decided since 9/11 that now is the perfect time to get back at the U.S.” He pulled out a list of recognizable terrorist organizations, “He’s been spending a lot of money backing these orgs with only one stipulation: they make it their priority to hurt us.”

I put the file on the desk, “This is all very interesting, but what does this have to do with me?”

G-Man looked at Henson, then back at me, “Well there’s a lot of politicking going into the snatch, the joint chiefs want it to be a military team, but the director of the CIA wants it to be one of ours. Plus there’s some kind of international law dealing with his arrest, still being a Russian citizen. The point is we need to pull in an Army element, and you’re it. Well, you and a couple of other people. You’ll be working with a MARSOC, a SEAL, and a TACP. You’re support will be a CIA team. You’ll get more details on the job when you get to the sandbox, that’s where you’ll meet the rest of the team.”

He handed me my orders, I was on loan to the CIA. No longer was I 1SG John Welsh, I was now Agent Welsh. The orders specified that I would be flying into Bagram, then catching a separate transport to the operation staging area. I looked up at G-Man, “Afghanistan? Where is this guy at?”

G-Man looked up from leafing through the file, “Pakistan.”

[reaper239]

“But sir, that’s Charlie’s point.”
CHARLIE DON’T SURF!

I stepped off the bird and stretched my legs. It had been some time since I’d been on assignment in the sandbox, but Afghanistan still looked like Afghanistan. There was a haaji walking around pushing a food cart past soldiers and every now and then one would stop him and he’d pull out a pre wrapped cold cut sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since I left the states, and my stomach was reminding me.

I pulled a five out of my pocket and walked up to the food cart. When they were on base, vendors took US money because the army would exchange it for them before they left, usually at a little higher than the standard rate as incentive for them to take American money. Plus it kept soldiers from having to hold onto too much muj money. Haaji pulled out a sandwich that looked like it’d been in there days, but I was so hungry I’d have eaten road kill. I ripped the plastic off the soggy sandwich and dug in. it wasn’t the most appetizing thing in the world, but at the time it was pretty good.

From across the tarmac I heard, “AGENT WELSH!” I turned my head and saw a man in a set of ATACs without any kind of unit identifiers or rank. I figured this guy was my CIA contact, so I waved.

He jogged over to me, ignoring the wind from the inbound/outbound C-5s. He slowed as he approached and shook my hand as I continued to munch on my sandwich, “Agent Welsh, I’m Harry Lind, I’ll be your CIA contact in Bagram. I’ve scheduled you a flight out to the staging area, but it doesn’t leave until the morning, so I figured this’d be a good time to get you up to speed.”

I cut him off, “Do you mind if we hit the mess first? Much as I love a soggy sandwich, I just don’t think this is gonna do me.”

He nodded, “Sure thing, follow me.”

The DiFac may not count as 5^th Ave fine dining, but it’s nowhere near as bad as most people think going in. Especially for the price. You can get more food, and a more varied and balanced meal, than a supersized Big Mac for about two bucks. Two bucks can generally get you a heaping helping of an entrée, two generously portioned sides of your choice, some type of bread, and free refills on your drink. When you’ve been in the field eating ham and limas, or cheez omelet, the DiFac is 5^th Ave fine dining. Especially for the price. What most people complain about is the MREs, and those have gotten infinitely better since I joined. Young people just don’t know how good they have it. Napoleon said an army runs on its stomach, and the Army took notice of that wisdom.

We got to the DiFac and got in line for today’s special, and everyone’s favorite: lasagna. The DiFac doesn’t make the best lasagna I’ve tasted, but it’s still pretty good. We got our chow, got our drinks, and sat down at a table that had a few soldiers already at it. As we were going to the table, I noticed that the whole DiFac was abuzz with one word: Pakistan.

As we sat down I looked over at the young soldiers who were hunched over their trays talking quietly across the table. I leaned towards them and spoke loud enough to be heard over the din around us, “So, what’s the word gentlemen?” As odd as it was for me to be injecting myself into their conversation, I think they thought it was odder that I called them gentlemen.

They sized me up, then the one on my side of the table leaned towards me, “What are you, new?”

I nodded, “Just landed like, 30 minutes ago.”

The soldiers both nodded in understanding and the other said, “Well you picked a bad time to come out to the suck. Word around base is, in a few weeks, we’ll be rolling tanks through Islamabad.”

I slowly turned my head towards Lind as I said, “Reeeeeaaaaally?” He blessed his food and ate his corn, deliberately ignoring me. I looked back to the soldiers, “So, Pakistan huh?”

They both nodded conservatively, “Yeah, word is, they’ve been aiding terrorists launch attacks against American targets. Nothing confirmed, of course, just rumors, but the rumor mill has never been this precise about anything that wasn’t pretty solid.”

I nodded and returned to my food. This wasn’t just extreme rendition, we were going to war.

An hour later I was sitting in a CIA controlled, secure briefing room. Lind stood at the front giving me the whole dog and pony show. He clicked a button and a projector in the back turned on casting an image of Isaak on the far wall. Isaak was mid 40’s with brown hair that had a ring of white at the bottom. He had a neatly trimmed beard that was also white and contributed to the look of the white ring. A large scar streaked from the center of his forehead to the left from when he was supposed to be executed in China. Because the Pakistanis wanted his money, they pulled his bacon out of the fryer on that one. His left eye was also dead, though according to Lind, not from the Chinese incident. Apparently, that was Spetznaz. Somehow Praskoviya had managed to keep his love for his country alive, despite the numerous attempts on his life. That’s when Lind told me that he blamed the west. If it weren’t for the multiple scars, he might’ve been attractive, as it was though, with his physical condition and devoting his life to the downfall of the U.S. he had no family.

[reaper239]

Lind clicked the button again and we moved on from personal history. A map of Islamabad appeared on the wall next. There was a red box around sector two, and Lind clicked the button again and the picture changed to an enlarged picture of sector two with another red box encompassing a street labeled “Street 35.” The picture changed again and this time you could make out buildings. And one of them had an X on it. It was a building on street 35 next to Allama Iqbal Park. Lind pointed to the X, “We have intelligence that this is where Praskoviya is basing his operations. The plan as it stands is that the Navy and Marine Corps will launch simultaneous attacks at Karachi, Omara, and Gwadar. At the same time the Army will roll across the border, straight for Islamabad, blitzkrieg style. We’re going for full on overwhelming force. It’ll take about three hours to reach Islamabad and be ready to go in, during which time the Navy and Air Force will be laying a heavy Shock and Awe style pounding on Islamabad. We’ll be stopping about 3/4s of the way there to top everyone off. They will hold at one side on the edge of the city while you and your team skirt around and slip in. After thirty minutes, the assault will commence.”

He paused to make sure I was following. “More intel will be provided once we are at the staging area and you and your team will plan the incursion into the city and the extraction of the target.” I nodded. “Alright then, we’re on a helo first thing in the morning to Jalalabad, get some rest.” And just like that the briefing was over. I had some time to kill so I hit a few games of ball, and then sacked out. 0500 I was up.


0630 I was in the DiFac when I saw Lind. He was yawning and tired looking. If that’s what would happen working with the CIA, I’d rather stay with the army. I had a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and a tray with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in the other. I walked up to Lind as he staggered through the line and took a deep pull on my coffee. After spending several years drinking the boiling motor oil that passed for autobahn black coffee, army joe seemed rather tame. Not that I was complaining, I used to load my coffee with enough cream and sugar to give an ant diabetes, and blonde and sweet doesn’t look as intimidating as black and bitter.

I drained about half the mug, then smiled at Lind, “Morning sunshine, you look like someone interrupted your beauty sleep.”

Lind yawned at me, bleary eyed, “Agent, I’ve never been a morning person-and is that coffee? Where did you get it?”

I gave him a look of concern and nodded to the coffee. “How long have you been on this base?”

He yawned again, “About two hours longer than you. I don’t normally work off of army bases, in fact this may well be my first overnight stay on a base… ever, so I don’t really know where things are or how the base operates. Also, I normally work at night doing field surveillance, so it’s hard for me to sleep at night.”

I shrugged, “Well, I’ll get you a cup o’ joe.”

Lind called after me, “Two creams, three sugars.”

I held up my cup as I walked away, “Black, gotcha.”


We finished our breakfast and reported to the airfield. Our flight was rolling out at 0730. We walked across the tarmac to where a Blackhawk was warming up, the rotors spinning lazily beneath the radar dome. There were four marines in the passenger compartment a gunner on either side, and two facing each other from front to back.

The whine of the engine picked as we approached. We made it to the open door and I was getting ready to climb in when Lind put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and he leaned in to yell over the helicopter, “This is where we part ways. The rest of your team will be at the staging area, and another agent will meet you at the tarmac. Good luck agent Welsh, and God speed.” And with that he turned around and walked away. Shame too, I kind of liked Lind.

I turned around and climbed into the Blackhawk as the rotors reached full rotation. I sat facing the front of the chopper and the marine I sat next to handed me a headset. I put it on and heard his voice come through the earpiece, “Agent welsh I presume?” I nodded, “The flight is going to be about an hour and a half, just sit back, relax, and enjoy the tunes.” He pointed at the marine across the troop bay who bent down, pulled an old school boombox out from under his seat, definitely not standard issue, smacked it a few times, then hit play. It was a Vietnam playlist. Every song you ever heard or may have heard in a Vietnam movie was playing off this thing. And it was loud. Loud enough that we could hear it over the chopper.
I chuckled in my seat and the guy across from me smiled and nodded, and that’s when I noticed his helmet: he’d drawn the peace sign and born to kill on his helmet. I cocked an eyebrow and looked around at the other marines: one had animal mother stenciled on his helmet, the only black guy on the chopper had a snowman drawn on his helmet holding its crotch. Snow balls, cute.

I looked over at my bench mate, “So what do they call you?” he looked confused so I pointed to each marine in turn, “Joker, Animal Mother, Snowball, so what do they call you.”

He nodded, “Gomer.”

I saw full metal jacket, I know what happened to Gomer Piles, “Why do they call you Gomer?”

He shrugged, “They say I’m slow.” He shrugged again. I thought about it, he did talk kind of slow. I relaxed a bit. He had a point, might as well enjoy the tunes.

[reaper239]

We landed in the middle of Gimme Shelter. I got off the chopper and Gomer gave me a thumbs up, said something into his headset, and the chopper lifted away for some other location. I walked off the helipad and down into a small portable building with the letters C I A stenciled on the side. Discreet.

There was a soldier standing in front of the door with a gun and a clipboard. I guess rejection from this nightclub was a serious deal. I showed him my ID and told him my name and he ran a finger down the list until he found me, tapped the clipboard, and opened the door for me. I walked in and found six guys sitting around with coffee, talking over some maps. As soon as I walked in, they folded the map and stopped talking. They all looked at me but only one spoke, “Can we help you?”

I felt a little awkward, apparently being on the list doesn’t get you the all access pass, “I’m John Welsh. I’m here about the job.”

They visibly relaxed and the map was unfolded, “Oh, agent Welsh. Yes, come in and grab a seat.” I sat, “We were just discussing the mission parameters.”

They each looked like they had seen more field time than the entire body of the special forces community. These guys looked like they had been doing it since the cold war, and still liked to get their hands dirty. I’m a very tough individual: I’m strong, tenacious, resourceful, fast, everything you need to be a great combat operative, but these guys had a look in their eyes that made me feel completely green again. It was a look that said that they could, and would, kill me the moment I so much as considered getting out of line, and there wasn’t a one that would even think about so much as tossing in his sleep over me that night. Yet they were completely friendly, and that is why they are called spooks.

They passed me a cup of coffee that was blacker than homemade sin. I didn’t think it was possible for coffee to get that dark, or strong, but I drank it. It made me miss autobahn black coffee. They caught me up on the discussion so far: the main force would be coming in from the west, while we would skirt around to the south and enter the city. After that we would be able to call in minor air support, but we would largely be on our own. We would be updated on the positions of the invasion force in case we needed to fall back, but our objective would remain the same.

Along with the discussion were ample amounts of BS. These guys sounded like old construction workers shooting the breeze over beers, except they talked about killing people instead of construction. One told me a story. He had to “retrieve” a Columbian drug lord from the clutches of his enemies so he could be interrogated back at some CIA base. so he snuck into the drug cartels base and got the guy, but somehow an alarm got tripped. So now he had to make his way out without either him or the target catching a bullet. Well, he shot his way to a jeep, hotwired it and drove ricky-tick to the airport where a CIA plane was waiting. They made it in one piece, but only barely. At some point during their escape, the targets shoe had come untied. So they’re walking to the steps of the plane when the target trips and hits his head on the steps and scrambles his brains. Died right there on the tarmac, mission over. His biggest complaint about that mission: he didn’t get his bonus.

So after about an hour of sitting there listening to non-wartime war stories, one of the operatives looks at his watch and signals to the others, “Time to go.” Then to me, “The rest of your team should be arriving in the mission room as we speak.” And with that we were making our way through the staging area.

The whole base was alive, an absolute beehive of activity, every part in its place working efficiently. I missed that buzz in the air that signaled that an op was about to go down, that electric feeling that everyone had but no one could acknowledge or it would be gone. It was better than that coffee I had earlier.
We made our way to gp medium and were waved inside by guards at the “door.” There was a large table in the center of the tent with a battle field map, and 7 other soldiers. The closest of which was a man I knew.

SSG William Roman call sign Devil Driver. I walked up to him to show him some love, “Bill Roman, where the hell did they dig you up?”

He gave me a hug and laughed, “10^th SFG my man, how have you been holding up? How’s the leg?”
I patted my leg where the break occurred, “Like it never happened.”

We spent a few minutes catching up while everyone settled into the gp. After a few minutes, Specter, one of our CIA handlers, got my attention and, starting with me, introduced everyone on the team, “This is US Army 1SG John Welsh, call sign Soul Sister, Delta force. His buddy here is US Army SSG William Roman, call sign Devil Driver, 10^th SFG.” He pointed to the next man, “US Air Force TSgt Michael Shane, call sign Moon Man, Para-rescue. This is US Air Force SMSgt Joseph Quartz, call sign Dirt Digger, TACP. Next is USMC GySgt George Bailey, call sign Big Dog, MARSOC. Here we have USMC MSgt Kwamie Mbadinuju, call sign Priest, also MARSOC. Next is US Navy CPO Kevin Abernathy, call sign Bugsy, SEALs. Finally US Navy SCPO Richard Halls, call sign Ogre, SEALs.”

After the introductions he brought us to the center, “Alright, so what we’re going to do is plan the extraction.” He dropped a book on the table, “Here is a list of the assets at your disposal, along with the battle plan. Get to it.”

Over the next three days, we planned and prepared. We were ready.

[reaper239]

“Well, didn’t think you had it in you. Shall we?”
I’m Your Huckleberry
“Why Johnny Ringo, you look like someone just walked over your grave.”

I love guns. A man’s selection of firearms when heading into a combat scenario can tell you a lot about a man, and Special Forces tend to get carte blanche when picking their treats from the candy store. Take me for instance, I am a CQB specialist. Put me in a tight space and I am one of the most lethal men in the US Army. I carry a Mk18 Mod 0 with an EO Tech XPS2 Zombie Stopper with an HHS II so I can still reach out and touch somebody, a UTG Deluxe Ergonomic Foregrip, a Beamshot TRIZM R laser and infrared sight and illuminator, and a Surefire V2 Vampire Tactical Light. I also carry a M1014 Joint Service Combat Shotgun with an EO Tech XPS2 Zombie Stopper (you say why, I say why not) and a Surefire V2 Vampire. I am a master of the quick-draw.

My man Bill Roman, aka Devil Driver, preferred to put a little distance between him and his target with his M16 A4 with M203 40 MM grenade launcher, an ACOG, a Tactical Light, and an Infrared Illuminator. We worked really well together. Aside from meshing really well as people, our approaches to combat complimented each other: when the enemy was at a distance he could engage while I advanced, but when we hit a house I was the go to man, speed and surprise, and that’s how I liked it. I was curious to see how the rest of my team filled out.

About the second day into planning the op, the last four guys for our squad arrived. They were all CIA spooks with varying degrees of field experience and specialties. These men are still allegedly active field agents so I will only be giving their call signs. Odin joined the company when they were still committing original sin, he may well have helped Cain dispose of the body. He was missing his left pinky and the first digit of his right ring finger and had more scars than skin it seemed like. The man had to be pushing 60 but he was in better shape than some of my active duty Special Forces team members. What color was left in his hair was blonde and he had these piercing green eyes. Odin killed more men than cancer, and that’s gospel. Odin was one of our weapons specialists and I had a feeling that he had more time on any individual weapon he chose, than the rest of us had on all weapons we’d ever fired. He could knock the eyes out of a jack of spades at 100 yards using his M60. I couldn’t even see the jack of spades at that distance.

The next was an engineer. Mouse was a short guy who looked very scrappy, and unlike Odin, seemed fresh out of the spook academy. He was a little squirrely but I thought that in a pinch, he’d be the one to get us out of dodge. He was scrappy and looked serious, but clocking in at 5’ even, it was a little hard to take him serious. Still, he conducted himself like he knew what he was doing, and I had no doubts that his skill set would come in useful. He was also built for close quarters and for that he carried a Knights Armament Company PDW.

Next I was introduced to Munky, our tech expert. Munky looked like your average computer nerd, except that upon closer inspection it was clear that he was in very good shape and not just some skinny kid with no muscle mass. He wore glasses that seemed too big for him, and his clothing hung loosely from him. His hair was a bit longer than usual and he seemed a little introverted. And he came with an AC-556, with optional leather seating upgrade.

The last addition to my team was Sydwinder, our intelligence officer and sniper. Sydwinder looked like he was on his way to becoming like Odin. He had a bunch of scars crisscrossing what you could see of his skin, but he looked about 20 years younger than Odin. He had a strong jaw with scars running in different directions that indicated he was either terrible at his job, in which case he probably wouldn’t be here, or he had come back from missions that he had no business coming back from. He used a Tactical Weapons Solutions .308 rifle.

[reaper239]

Because you can’t just throw a brand new team into the field, we went and did some kill house training. Then we did some force on force using simunition. Here is my evaluation.

In the kill house we did individual runs first. I took the house down first, moving fast and aggressive. Next was Devil Driver, who decided to take the house down with his sidearm. He was smooth and efficient but also a little cautious, as I knew he would be. Next came Moon Man.

Moon Man was a simple man from the south. He reminded me a lot of another operator I worked with in the berets called Hillbilly. He stood about 5’ 11” with a shaved head and blonde stubble covering his face. Moon Man was a very vanilla guy and wanted nothing more complicated than a Mk16 Mod 0. As soon as he stepped into the kill house, the quiet reserved guy from the briefing room was gone. He attacked the house with a religious fervor, it was not a kill house for him, but a house of worship. Moon Man spoke in tongues as his rifle barked orders for the targets to lie down, every command met with a response. He stepped out and the zealot was gone. I was impressed. If he brought the same fervor to the battle field, he would make an excellent comms specialist.

Next was Dirt Digger. Dirt Digger would be handling our air and fire support, one of the best in his field. He was a fit man with joyous almond shaped eyes and an easy smile. His mother came from Korea and his father from China, so he was short at 5’ 2” but had to be pushing 175 lbs. All muscle. He carried a FN P90 to the starting line. Dirt Digger crouched into a low walk and raced through the house taking down each target in a spray of fire. He took corners smoothly and slammed through doors with his shoulder, putting his mass into it. Every room was an exercise in balancing speed and efficiency.

Next in the pit was Big Dog. He certainly lived up to his name at 6’ 1” and very muscular with tattoos almost from head to foot. His arms had prison style sleeve tats depicting an epic struggle, on one side was good, and on the other was evil and on his body they clashed. Rumor had it that he would make the people he worked with characters in his tattoos, and as they survived they would be fighting victoriously, but if they fell in battle he would memorialize their deaths on his body. I couldn’t help wondering when I saw him changing his shirt once, if I would wind up somewhere on there. You could see where things had been inked over to be replaced with a fallen comrade, or to have someone who got out of the game move off to the side and support away from the battle. His body was an ever changing canvas, and it kept him sane in the action. Big Dog carried a Bushmaster ACR, a balance between power, precision, reliability, and versatility. Big Dog moved into the house with an earth shattering presence. The targets almost dropped before he shot them as he moved through the house like a force of nature, every footstep threatening to bring down the house, the violent presence of his countenance seeming to be the only thing holding it up. He would make a good team sergeant.

After we made sure the house was still structurally sound, we sent in Priest. Priest was a solidly built black man who immigrated to the US from Jamaica. He already earned his citizenship and so now was in the Marines for the love of it. He kept tight corn rows and had random bits of scripture tattooed all over his arms, scripture about everything from trusting in the Lord, to the armor of God, to resting in the Lord. Priest was a calm man and had a tattered bible always in his back pocket. During free moments he would pull it out and read from it, meditating on the knowledge contained within. He was a loving man, who rarely raised his voice and always thought through his actions, no matter how quickly a situation developed, thanks in large part to his genius 170 IQ. The man was brilliant, well read, and one of the greatest men of faith I’ve ever met. He felt his calling was not academia, but service to his country. Priest carried an American classic, the M16A4, an homage to American ingenuity, and one of the best designed rifles in service today. He entered the house at a very calm pace, not reserved, just not hurried. He moved from room to room in the house like he was taking a stroll, each step measured, each shot a bulls-eye in the center of the head. He stayed cool under pressure, he took his time, but everything was spot on. And he was one of the best medics in the field, by far better than me. He could outperform most doctors. In fact, he turned down several requests by the Marines to enter training to become a surgeon.

Next up was our other medic, Bugsy. Bugsy was a good old boy from Chicago, but because of Chicago’s famously corrupt politics, he could no longer stand living there, though he did still love visiting the windy city. Bugsy stood at 5’9” with short brown hair. He was an everyman, decent looks, built, charming smile, you’d think he was a snake oil salesman if you didn’t know he was honest, but his face just had a quality of honesty. He rolled with a M14 Rogue with a full auto mod, allowing him to take out targets at range, while still giving him the edge over other full sized rifles in close quarters. Bugsy’s first occupation was as a sniper, and it showed. He took the house with care and caution. He applied speed where necessary, but he was all about taking it slow and easy. He had one of the slowest times, but still very respectable.

Next was Ogre, our other weapons specialist. Ogre was a big black man from New York. Clocking in at 6’ 5” he stood well above everyone, easily pushing 350 he could knock down walls and kill a man with a punch. Not as massive as another operator I worked with named Barbarian, but still pretty dadgum big. He carried around his M60 like a toy and had it outfitted nearly identical to Odin’s, the only real difference being in name brand. Where Odin was almost half Ogre’s size but could still lug around the M60 without problem, Ogre walked around like it wasn’t there. Ogre had to duck into the house, being careful not to hit his head. He maintained a brisk walk, but with his massive stride it was like he was jogging through the course. He showed a high degree of weapon mastery, a welcome addition to the team.

Then it was Odin’s turn. Odin walked into the house with his M60, and walked through the course like Jason. He never ran or picked up his pace past a walk, but he got the third highest time for the day, and every shot was a kill, in three round burst. His degree of mastery in the house was unnerving, but I suppose that’s what comes with nearly 40 years of covert ops. It was like watching an artist at work; every movement advanced the goal of making the kill.

Next up was Mouse. Mouse had something to prove. He lined up and about sprinted all the way through the house. He double tapped every target center mass without so much as slowing down, reloads on the fly, sliding, jumping, vaulting, climbing, it was like an acrobatics show, a true showcase of skill. I found out later that in his free time he made parkour videos and posted them on youtube. He always covered his face, and took care not to give away his location, but if you knew him, it was obvious. He managed the second best time of the day.

Then Munky went through. Munky was definitely the slowest, and most cautious, but he never put himself needlessly out there either. Skill doesn’t mean a thing if you run headlong into a bullet. Munky may have been the slowest but he always considered the best way to tackle each room, and he still managed what would be considered a very good time in regular infantry units.

Finally, Sydwinder went through. He didn’t use his sidearm like Devil Driver opted, but stuck with his TWS .308. Even with a sniper rifle, he landed right in the middle of the times with only two misses. Not exactly easy, but any of us could go through with a sniper rifle. Still, impressive.

Next we did it in teams: first three teams of four, then two teams of six, and finally one team of 12. Everyone gelled, no egos, no status, no pissing contest, everyone did what was expected, but then I expect nothing less of the best warriors our nation has to offer. I won’t bother with details of the force on force, I already said we were the best in the US.

We loaded our GMVs with everything we might need going into the city, from Javelins to Spider Man Band-Aids (Munkys request). We checked and double checked everything, and then it was zero hour. Time to go. Time to prove to them why we were the men for this particular job.

[reaper239]

The air force had been pounding on Islamabad now for the past two hours as we drove through Pakistan. The Marines were engaging a military force just to the south of us, buying us passage to the capital. Two hours in and we were getting bored. We didn’t want to charge into the fight, but we were tired of waiting. The convoy slowed and the fuel trucks pulled ahead and set up what looked like a gas and go. There were multiple lines for tanks, humvees, Bradleys, Strykers, everything. They moved quick but it still took about an hour, which was very quick considering the size of the force.

30 minutes after we got word that we were moving again, we saw the city. There was smoke rising in dark angry pillars as the bombers did their best to keep Pakistani military out of the city while fighters engaged around them. It was surreal: above us was a canopy of metallic carnage, while before us Rome burned. No one had seen an invasion like this since Iraq. Apaches and Blackhawks escorted us to the staging area as the radio squawked to life with intermittent status updates.

We reached the staging area and we received word to break off and begin our ingress into the city. The main force would take Kashmir Highway into Islamabad while we would take N5 to IJP Road and then into Islamabad’s Sector 2. IJP would take us within spitting distance of the targets home. The term “Shock and Awe” gets misused a lot for a military doctrine called “rapid dominance.” Rapid dominance involves using flash, ferocity, and speed to break the enemies will to fight, and to that end, we were in the process of taking the capital city of Pakistan. We made one final pit stop and we were off.

We rolled down the N5 and started seeing cars parked in the opposite lane, the occupants standing outside their cars, watching their city burn, some turned to follow us. Suddenly, I felt like a villain. We weren’t here to hurt these people, we were here because their government had been doing things to help hurt our people. We turned onto the IJP Road and carried on.

We passed the Social Security Hospital and saw that it was overwhelmed. Much as I wanted to stop and help, we had a mission, so I passed the intel along to command so they could help out once we owned the city. Everyone was somber as we drove into the city, no one spoke, no one cracked jokes, no one smiled, it was game time.

We passed the railway carriage factory when Ogre called from the gun that he saw something up ahead about 600 meters. Suddenly he started yelling “T-80, T-80!” Sure enough, there was a tank squadron rolling out from behind some warehouses. And they saw us.

The turret on the lead tank started turning toward us as I yelled, “EVASIVE MANUEVERS!” All three GMVs started swerving back and forth throwing up dust and using the entire road, really putting the suspension to the test. Suddenly, one of the tanks emitted a puff of smoke followed by a sound like thunder and a plume of concrete and dirt erupted behind us. Mouse was in the backseat of my GMV and spun around to look at the divot in the road then spun back around, eyes wide as dinner plates, “Whoa, lucky that ain’t an Abrams.” True enough, it might’ve hit us.

I looked at the map; we had to get away from those tanks, most ricky-tick. I pointed up to the right, “There’s a side street up here to the right, hit it.” I pulled out my pencil and started trying to find a way through the maze of housing. Dirt Digger nodded from the driver’s seat and yanked the wheel right as we approached the side street. He made me draw a line across my map.

The Pakistanis really need to take more pride in their infrastructure, the roads in Islamabad were terrible. Full of potholes and debris, made it hard to read my map, but about 400 meters up was an offshoot road that would give us our straightest shot to Praskoviya. I related this to Digger.

Suddenly, my radio sprang to life, “Sis, this is Devil, Moon Man just relayed that we have enemy helo’s inbound. Command is trying to take the heat off, but we’ve gotta be on the lookout, over.”

I hit my PTT, “Devil, sis, solid copy on all, out.”

Dirt Digger glanced at me, “Should I still hit the offshoot?” I nodded in the affirmative.

So he cut left onto some little no name road. And there, 150 feet ahead, was a mob of civilians trying to leave town, and blocking the road. We didn’t have a lot of options so I said, “Next left.”

We drove for about a minute, and then we started seeing angry Pakistanis popping their heads out of their huts. Then we started seeing them running into the streets. Then Ogre yelled down, “RPG!” just as one flew by us and smacked into the building on the other side of the street, fire splashing into the road mixed with debris and dirt. And suddenly he was firing, “Contacts left.”

We had the windows down and I situated my rifle so I could still see my map, but engage any hostiles. So far they were just on the left. Suddenly, Priest was on the horn, “TAKING SMALL ARMS FIRE, CAR 2!” we had to get off this road, so I glanced back down at my map.
I pointed to the right side, “Make a right up here, then you’ll make a quick left.”

He jerked the wheel right and suddenly we weren’t taking fire anymore. After about 100 feet he turned us left. I guided Dirt Digger along the most direct route to get us to Praskoviya, but there was no truly direct route. I got us onto a main road that would lead to another main road that would get us there with the least twists and turns. But, as the SEALs say, the only easy day was yesterday.

We were traveling on this long road when I started to hear this thrumming. My heart sank as Devil Driver came over the net to confirm what I already knew in my heart: the helos had found us.

I started looking at my map again and tried to figure out where we were as the helicopters gained on us. I pointed left, “Turn left at this next road. Maybe we can buy some time.” Then I got on comms, “Moon Man, order us up some air support.” I got an affirmative and Dirt Digger made the turn. Onto what seemed like the straightest stretch of road with no turns in all of Islamabad. At least now I knew where we were.

Mouse spoke up from the back seat, “Whose brilliant idea was it to sell these guys American hardware anyway?” I looked back at him slightly confused, I hadn’t exactly studied Pakistani air power, since I figured they’d be occupied with the main force. Failure to plan is planning to fail. He took my look at its meaning, “Bell AH-1J Sea Cobras, they bought ‘em from us in the early 70’s. In fact, almost their entire air arsenal is American made.” He looked bitter, neat piece of information, not exactly helpful here.

Now I was in the lead GMV, so I got this second hand from Devil, who was in the last GMV. Here is what he says happened. Their GMV hit a major pothole, almost flinging Big Dog from the gunners turret. There was concern of a broken bone, so they helped him down and Devil took his place. It turned out that he had some deep tissue bruising, and some bone bruising, but when they heard the crack over the sound of the GMV, just his hip joint, they were naturally concerned.

Devil Swiveled the Ma Deuce to the rear as the helicopters crested the building, and he opened fire, trying to walk the rounds into the lead chopper. It’s pretty hard to bring down a helicopter with small arms fire, but there isn’t a whole lot outside of heavy armor that is impervious to the .50 caliber Browning Machine Gun round. Well, when Devil started firing at the helicopters, Ogre, in my GMV, joined him on the M240 7.62 mm machine gun. If nothing else it made them swerve to avoid the MG rounds. Odin was in the second GMV manning the MK 19 40mm grenade launcher, so instead of wasting his ammo on targets he couldn’t hit, he just scanned for targets. Or maybe he could hit them and just felt we had it under control, I mean, it was Odin after all.

Devil was closing in shooting bursts as the 20mm Gatling gun on the chopper whirred to speed. It started spraying rounds into the ground to the right of the rear GMV as Bugsy swerved left. It was a short burst, but it renewed Devils resolve to save his skin. He had about fifty rounds left and decided to fire sustained. He was following the chopper from his left to the right when he nailed it. Right in the engine. In order for helicopters to achieve flight, they have to be light, which means little to no armor, which mean that .50 BMG round cut through the engine housing like butter, and tore into the engine.

Suddenly, the helicopter started shaking and smoking, something popped and it did a nose dive, eating dirt, then flipping end over end, flinging shrapnel at the other chopper, which banked out of the line of fire. Devil threw his fists in the air and yelled, “WOOOO!” This has been confirmed by those in his GMV. He unlocked the top of the M2 and lifted it, removing the drum and passing it into the passenger compartment calling down, “I need another one, quick, before the other chopper comes back." From what I was told, he got it reloaded as we were turning to get off the strait-away-of-doom, and I led Digger to the other main road we were originally going to. We turned on the main road, and there was that other helicopter.

It was waiting for us, and as soon as we swung around onto the road, it launched 4 Hydra 70 rockets. Thankfully, the Pakistanis don’t have the greatest equipment. The rockets flew around my GMV landing just behind, with one close enough to make our rear end skip into the air. And then it was moving. Ogre called it out and swiveled his turret to engage. As the others came on line with us, Devil swiveled to reengage.

Both soldiers were tracking through the air as it strafed around us to come up back behind, spitting out chunks of lead at us like an angry baseball player. With it dodging our rounds, and us dodging its rounds, we couldn’t draw a bead. But slowly it made its way back around us as we drove towards our destination. Devil and Ogre kept firing in bursts as we drove into more congested neighborhoods. I told Dirt Digger to make a left ahead to try and buy us some breathing room. He gunned it into an alley, just barely big enough for the GMVs and the chopper was right behind us. Now though we were at a stalemate: to shoot us he had to hold still and become an easy target for our shooters.

The chopper kept swerving in and out of sight, until finally Ogre (I think) winged it, hitting something clearly vital, because we didn’t see it again. At least I thought it was vital. It hadn’t occurred to me that it would be trying to herd us into a trap us, until I saw the T-80.

I slammed on my imaginary brake and yelled, “RIGHT!” Digger obeyed and we were off down another road. We couldn’t see far because the road kept turning, but with no other turns to make, we just had to follow it. Until we saw another tank. There was an alley between us and it, so I told Digger to hit it.

And we were in a dead end. Digger kept going to make room for the other GMVs, but there was nowhere else to go. So I did the only thing I could do, “Everyone out, grab mission critical gear, make sure we’ve got some javelins handy.”

[reaper239]

Everyone piled out as quickly as possible and tossed every piece of gear we had through the doors and windows of the building immediately to our right. It took us about two minutes to unload the GMVs, mostly because we weren’t being careful with the equipment; we were just trying to move it as quick as possible. When we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted we beelined into the building, and not a moment too soon as the T-80 rolled around and blew the hell out of the GMVs.

We had escaped into a three story Pakistani home that housed multiple families. When we were in our gelling process, we had already broken down into teams.

While standard US Infantry squads break down into three fire teams of four, a special ops team breaks down into two teams of six. This may be viewed as a disadvantage, except that each team can, if necessary, operate completely autonomously from the other team, and even breaks down further into three man maneuver teams. So what you wind up with is essentially two fully functional squads, just a little smaller. Team alpha was myself, Devil Driver, and Munky on the maneuver element, and Moon Man, Odin, and Priest on the fire element. Team bravo was Big Dog, Dirt Digger, and Mouse on the maneuver element, and Bugsy, Ogre, and Sydwinder on the fire element.

As the smoke settled I rallied alpha, “Grab some javelins, we’re going up stairs to see if we can take care of this little tank problem. Bravo, keep the first floor secure.” We went upstairs to the third floor, which was much smaller than the second and let out onto the roof. The six of us spilled onto the roof and helped Odin ready a javelin. I moved over to the edge to see where the tank was now, and that’s when their gunner saw me.

Before I could shoot him, he disappeared through the hatch, closing it behind him. Suddenly the tank started moving , the turret whirring to bring its main gun to bear. I back peddled from the edge, “Uh, we should hurry.” Everyone looked at me, and then worked faster.

Odin got the missile on, and then said, “The CLU is cooling.”

I nodded to the edge of the building and he got up and switched the view finder to IR and started looking for his target. The tank stopped moving but the turret was still going. The CLU beeped to signal that it was ready and Odin worked to sight it in on the tank. He found his target, pulled one trigger, then the other. After a moment the missile launched, just as the barrel of the tank stopped. Odin and I turned and dove from the edge as the tank fired, taking a huge chunk out of the building. And then the javelin streaked down and we were met with a large and joyous “BOOM.”

We walked over to the blown edge of the building and saw that the turret of the tank had been blown clear off, laying upside down next to the tank. my ears were ringing, which is why it surprised me so much when three Apaches flew overhead.

I looked back and pointed at Moon Man, “What’s the word?”

He was listening to his handset intently when he looked at me and gave me a thumbs up, “They’re our support, they say pop smoke.” Devil was on it and Moon Man was back on his handset saying, “Friendly’s marked by red smoke.”

I walked over with Odin, “At least one tank to the west, maybe more.” Moon Man relayed this to the air support who began flying in circles around us. We watched as they located the tank and then fired hellfire missiles until it presumably stopped moving. They made a few more laps around us in an ever widening circle until they found another tank, disposed of it, and determined that there was nothing left to be done. Moon Man gave me the all clear.

It was surreal to suddenly go from pulse pounding adrenaline to calm seas so quickly, and still not be through the most dangerous part of the mission, but I got over it. We headed back down to join the others and found them watching the entrances to the building. I rallied them to me, “Alright, so what did we lose in the GMVs?”

Big Dog stepped forward, “Me and Sydwinder went through the stuff while the others secured the entrances. It looks like we just lost some minor stuff: some MREs, some minor electronics equipment, anything bolted to the GMVs of course,” he grinned as his eyes stopped on Munky, “and Munky’s Spiderman Band-Aids.” Munky hung his head and sighed, this gave us all a good and much needed laugh.

I chuckled for a few seconds, then back to business, “Alright, so we’re good on gear. Mission is still go so, any suggestions on wheels?”

Odin pointed out a window, “You can always count on the Pakistanis to have an abundance of cheap Japanese trucks, I say we ‘requisition’ some transportation. I would suggest 4 trucks if we can find them, help spread out the weight of the equipment.”

I nodded, “Alright, let’s go find some vehicles.” We split the team; alpha would find trucks while bravo secured the equipment. It took about 20 minutes to find and hotwire trucks that had full or nearly full tanks, but eventually we had 4 Toyota pickups of various colors lined up outside waiting for us. 10 minutes later and we had the gear loaded.

We loaded up and wove our way down the streets, keeping our heads down. It took many twists and turns but eventually we found our path. We crossed a bridge and then, at the end of the road, we saw Allama Iqbal Park. We were just one street over from our objective.

Praskoviya’s house was at the end closest to the park, so we would wind up swinging around the end of the block and pulling up into his drive way. We took it easy so as not to spook him, plus the trucks weren’t exactly handling the weight of the equipment well; the shocks were bottomed out.

We pulled up in front of the house and unloaded. I signaled bravo team to circle around and enter from the rear and break squelch when they were ready. We moved fast. Alpha was set to breach in 30 seconds, bravo in 40. Bugsy broke squelch and Devil Driver kicked in the door.

Munky and I were through and in the living room with Priest and Odin close behind. It wasn’t a big house, but there were still lots of places to hide. The living room had a couch, a recliner, a TV a closed door on the right wall and an open doorway looking into the kitchen. I signaled Priest and Odin to grab the closed door while Devil Driver and Moon Man secured the front entrance and Munky and I made our way to the kitchen.

Through the door we went, Munky checking left, “Clear left,” and me going right. There, movement at the other end of the kitchen, a figure stepped around a corner and I snapped to the target, finger on the trigger. Big Dog was staring at me, barrel pointed at my chest, finger equally on the trigger. We recognized each other at the same time and lowered our weapons with a nod. Dirt Digger and Mouse came around the corner after him. On the back wall of the kitchen was a closed door leading to yet another room.

We stacked on the door, Big dog ready to enter, Dirt Digger standing by to open the door, me behind Big Dog, and Munky behind me. Munky squeezed my shoulder, so I squeezed Big Dogs shoulder, and Big Dog nodded to Dirt Digger. The door was open and we were walking through like conga line. I followed Big Dog with my hand on his shoulder until he was clear of my line of fire going left freeing me to hug the wall to the right. It was a study. It had books, papers, a computer, but no Praskoviya.