Prologue
"You supply the pictures, I'll supply the war."
-Attributed to William Randolph Hearst
T-Day -43
09:21:05
Prague, Czech Republic
The guards were discrete, their clothes well-tailored to conceal machine pistols and other covert ways of ending lives. Both men looked completely innocuous wearing conservative business suits. Just two important men of many having a meeting in the middle of the day, one with a gray suit, the other in black. Nothing too unusual to see in the capital of the Czech Republic. However, what they were discussing was unusual.
"The fewer questions asked, the better for both of us," Gray Suit said.
"And the money?" Black Suit asked, taking a sip of his tea and making a face. He hated working in the satellite states.
"It's being wired to your account as we speak. I'm sending the best of my lot. Can your men keep up?"
"Of course. Would you like to hear what we have planned?"
"The less I know, the better. Just remember that he's supposed to be dead."
"I'll make sure of it myself. A bit wasteful though, don't you think?"
"We all make sacrifices."
The black-suited man chuckled. "You'd know about that, eh?"
Gray Suit stiffened. "Bring it up again, and our business is over. I can always find someone else to do the job."
"No you can't," Black Suit said, smugly. "You know it."
"Maybe," Gray Suit conceded. "You have my number if you need anything more."
"Of course," Black Suit said. He got up. "Good doing business, as always."
If only you knew, smug bastard. I've got your number.
T-Day -42
13:58:23
Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan
"Welcome back, sir," Sergeant David Foley shouted over the prop wash and dust thrown up by the landing Pave Low.
"Good to be back, Sergeant Foley," Lieutenant General Steven Shepherd shouted back as he stepped out of the helicopter. "Any trouble while I was gone?"
"Nothing worth telling, sir. Although Major Hassan would like to know why we want his low-scorers to have a final shoot before we get cycled out. I think you might need to have a word with him, Boss."
Nodding to his old friend, Shepherd walked toward the main administration building with the sergeant. Contrary to what most people saw of Afghanistan, Firebase Phoenix and its surroundings were quite green. Some days it looked real pretty and peaceful. The peace was always marred by mortar attacks by Caliphate remnants out for American blood. But that was why they had Ma Deuce and the Rangers.
"How's the up-gunning going?" Shepherd asked as they neared the sandbagged tent.
"The boys are working on the last two as we speak," Foley said. "They're having some trouble with the wiring."
Shepherd had rummaged up spare parts and enough money to pay for what he couldn't scrounge for an up-arming project. The Rangers' HMMWVs needed to be replaced, so he'd authorized an experimental rearmament project to up-armor and update the aging transports as well as mount M134 miniguns with enough battery juice and ammo to keep them running for an hour's fighting.
"Lean on them," Shepherd said, ducking his head to enter the tent. "Same shit, different day," he said, pointing at the maps and waiting officers with a tired grin. "You know what I'm looking for, Foley. Keep your eyes open."
"We've got a new batch hitting the Pit, sir," Foley said, mirroring his smile. "I'll send you the best I find."
It was hard not to like Shepherd. Despite the massive losses his command had sustained five years previous, he remained extremely energetic in his new role in SOCOM. Foley supposed it was the little things that made him so personable. Even though a staff officer of his rank could spend the rest of his career safely ensconced in the Pentagon, he didn't. Instead he was running ops with a hush-hush joint task force and visiting the various SOCOM units. Usually bringing "presents" like replacement parts and new gear along for the trip. He got to know the men as well and remained a qualified shooter despite not having to be. It was the little things like a remembered name, family business, or just the ability to place two overlapping holes dead-center on a man-sized target at twenty yards.
Foley had known him from nearly a decade back when he was just a dead-end specialist in the Tenth Mountain and Shepherd was a SOCOM colonel who needed someone to watch his back for a quiet op in Mazar-i-Sharif. The old man could take a beating and keep moving. He had nothing but respect for the general no matter what some of the others in the service thought. In the interim, he had some Rangers to lean on.
"Hey, hear me out, okay?" Corporal Jake Dunn said, barely keeping himself from laughing. "So Shepherd's a Terminator. I mean, did any of you see him last month when the hajjis tried rushing the hill? The dude was just fucking standing there with his fucking Dirty Harry revolver and pegging the assholes." He shook his head. "I mean, the rest of us had our goddamn heads down because the fuckers were tossing RPGs like candy, and then I see the General standing there like there weren't any bullets or rockets or shit like that going right past his head! I'm telling you, that dude is a fucking robot sent back from the future!"
"Bullshit," Private First Class Joseph Allen said, grinning over the table at Private James Ramirez. "I say he's a Time Lord."
"What the fuck's a 'Time Lord', Allen?" Dunn asked. "You're making shit up again, aren't you?"
"Watch more TV, dude," Allen said. "Ramirez, you went to college, you ever hear of Doctor Who?"
"Who?"
"Fuck you, man," Allen said laughing, flicking a Charms candy at him.
The three Rangers sat there watching the mechanics finish up wiring up one of their HMMWVs. Just after their lunch, they had finished up one of the training courses for the local Afghani National Army company so they had plenty of time. At least until Sergeant Foley showed up.
"Ramirez! Draw some ammo and ordnance! Frags and five-five-six!" Foley shouted, walking up to the team. "Dunn, go set up the range. General Shepherd wants you at the Pit later. As for you, Allen, you get to be teacher's pet!"
"Well, whoop-de-shit," Allen said, rolling his eyes. "Ramirez! Trade you teaching duty for getting bullets!"
"Hell no," Ramirez said. "I think Hamed likes you," he said, puckering his lips and making kissing sounds before laughing and walking off.
T-Day -42
14:08:11
Tian Shan Mountains, Kazakhstan
"…So let's get to work, people," General Shepherd finished on the small screen.
"Understood, sir," Captain John MacTavish said. "Please make sure our ride out arrives on time."
"Just keep up your end of the operation, MacTavish, and I'll take care of it. Shepherd out."
Leaning against the boulder, Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson let out a sigh and prepared to get up. They had set up a basic camp at the base of the mountain. Very low-profile visually and thermally. Nobody'd found them even with the heavy patrols, so they hadn't buggered that much up. Now they had a long climb ahead to at least get half-way up the side of the mountain. With his Remington Adaptive Combat Rifle zipped up tight, Roach estimated that he had roughly seventy pounds of kit to be carried up the mountain with him.
"We're burning daylight," Captain MacTavish said, pulling him to his feet. "Let's get moving."
This was most assuredly going to suck.
T-Day -42
15:27:44
Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan
With a box of ammunition under each arm, Private James Ramirez almost tripped over an Mk 17 that someone had left in his way. Sidestepping, he walked past the Hesco-barricaded latrines to find the waiting group of ANA troops. These were the runts of the litter. Not necessarily small, but massively unskilled. Ramirez and the others had been putting them through the paces but these guys could barely get through the Pit as a team.
"Ramirez! Come here and show these boys how you reload!" Sergeant Foley bellowed.
"I think Allen's rubbing off on you, Sarge," Ramirez said with a grin as he dropped the two boxes of 5.56 NATO.
Walking over, he picked up the M4A1 carbine on the table. Pulling the charging handle back, he checked the chamber before starting. He personally preferred the Mk 17 whenever he could use it, but the M4 was perfectly fine. Lighter and with ten more rounds. And who cared if "5.56 is weaker than 7.62"? He'd been shot with 7.62 before. The folks he'd shot with 5.56 back with The Big Red One were probably still rotting in the Iraqi desert. The Mk 17 was just a more comfortable shoot for him, so he stuck with that when he could.
"Any time, Ramirez," Foley said, handing him a pair of empty magazines while sitting on one of the range Hescos. "Load and unload for our friends over here. Full speed."
Nodding, Ramirez took the two magazines and loaded the first one while the second went into his front pouch. Pulling the handle back again, he could hear the bolt clicking on an empty chamber with each trigger pull, unable to continue. Making sure that the ANA boys were watching, he extended his shooting index finger to press the magazine release while turning the carbine to the right with a flick of the wrist. His other hand was already grabbing the other magazine from his pouches and bringing it up to exchange for the one slung out of the well. Once the magazine was neatly inserted, he slapped the bolt catch. The dropped magazine would go into his dump pouch when he had the time, but more importantly his hand went back up to grip the forearm of the carbine as he righted it. Combat ready in three seconds.
He glanced at Foley who nodded. Settling the M4 down and putting the dropped magazine next to it, he stepped back and started to unpacked the clips from the boxes.
"You," Foley said, pointing at one of the soldiers. "Question?"
The ANA soldier lowered his hand. "Why are we training with your M4s when we will be using Kalashnikovs?" he asked, much of his accent massaged out after possibly years of working with the American advisors.
Foley chuckled. "Because once you've figured out how to work the M4, your Kalashnikovs will be a snap to use. I want all of you to be able to perform that reload in under five seconds when we're done. Since you wanted to know, you get to do this first."
Ramirez grinned to himself as he stacked up the clips of brass to be loaded into magazines. Foley came off as a serious ball-buster, but Ramirez wouldn't have traded him as a team leader for anyone else in the regiment. The sergeant knew his shit, and he knew it well.
"Hey, Sarge, can I get some range time in, too?" he asked without looking over his shoulder.
"After these chuckleheads are done, Private," Foley said. "And get Allen, he's not getting out of teaching them how to shoot straight."
"Hooah, Sarge."
"So just as we're getting out of the Humvees, the dude comes out with an RPG, right?" Allen said, his hand waving in the air in vague circles. "Starts waving it around?"
"Yeah?" PFC MacDonald Hall asked, grinning as he leaned against the side of the HMMWV.
"So then the LT freaks. He had to be some sort of JSOC cherry, right?" Allen laughed. "So he comes up to my team and practically starts screaming at us." He assumed a higher-pitched voice. "Do something! Do something!"
Specialist Matt Summers leaned over the turret, shaking his head. "You're shitting me."
Allen shook his head, wheezing from his laughter and partially doubled over. "I shit you not. This dude's about a second from completely spazzing. So Foley's looking at this guy like he's the Section Eight we all know he is, and then he brings his rifle up to fire. Except this idiot forgot to take it off safe!"
Hall and Summers started laughing, Summers almost rolling off of the top of the HMMWV in convulsions.
"And get this," Allen said, wiping tears from his eyes. "We look at the dude like he's fucking high or some shit, trying to squeeze the trigger all wide-eyed. He looks at Foley and he's like, 'My weapon's jammed!' and tries to take his! I swear, the Sarge was this close to just punching the guy."
"Oh God," Hall said, shaking his head. "So what happened to the dude with the tube?"
"We sponged the guy and searched him," Allen said. "Turns out this dude was the local distributor. Heroin, hash, whatever." He nodded. "He'd been hitting his own merch. That man was so fucked-up on whatever that he probably thought-"
"You're not going to get out of hearing Sarge say 'Aim down your sights' for seven and a half hours," Ramirez said, walking up with his Mk 17 cradled in his arms. "Sooner you get that done, sooner I can get some range time."
"You're getting too much time on the range," Allen said with a lazy grin. "I think you can out-shoot most of the D-boys by now."
"I just need to out-shoot you, buddy," Ramirez laughed. "Get the pain over with already."
"Yeah, yeah." As Allen walked away, he turned to walk backwards for a parting shot. "Hey, Ramirez, tell those jokers about that time Dunn drove us onto the farm! Feathers everywhere, man!"
He saw Ramirez shake his head. "Aim down your sights, Allen!"
T-Day -42
11:42:13
Georgian-Russian Border
Whistling "Serdtse," Vladimir Rostislavovich Makarov carefully reassembled the M4A1 carbine in front of him. His plans were coming into fruition now. Just a few more days and he could pick the fruits of his labor right from the tree. He rather liked how things were coming together now, with all of the gaps of his plan being filled. It was good to be the man with the money. It let him purchase all sorts of things. Like the carbine that he had just put back together after a thorough cleaning.
"Hey, Big Chief," Viktor Ivanovich Kuznetsov said, walking into the kitchen with the zippered black duffel. "Finally got the last shipment."
Makarov grunted, setting aside the carbine. "Good, I just got the finalized arrival times. Pull up a seat, Viktor Ivanovich. And grab two bottles."
He unfolded the floor plan of the target and accepted the cold bottle of Baltika. The map had already been marked up with his previous notes, but there was plenty of space for more. Makarov had worked with Kuznetsov before his forced retirement from the Spetsnaz. Both men had fought in the long and bloody campaign to pacify Chechnya, and had gravitated to the Ultranationalist cause after the political decimation of their troop. They brought much-needed tactical insight to the cause, only to be ejected again for their beliefs.
But soon the ones who had lost their way would learn a lesson in blood.
"So what do we have so far?" Kuznetsov asked, leaning sideways for a look. "We're going to be inserting through the service tunnels, right? How are we exfiltrating?"
"Same way," Makarov said. He pointed out the first leg of the route. "We'll start from the top and work down. How long do you think it'd take for us to walk twenty meters?"
"Shouldn't be too hard." His old NCO rubbed his chin. "We're going to be doing this one like Shali? Because you get points for style for that one, Big Chief, but there were deductions for common sense that time…"
"As long as the point gets across," Makarov said, punching Kuznetsov's arm playfully. "You find a crew? I think I've got one guy aside from us."
"A few. Bratva. Just means more guns to find for them."
"Look on the bright side you crusty bastard, it means more guns on our side when we're in the field." Makarov twisted opened his bottle and held it up. "To Imran Niktovich."
To all of our sacrifices.
Kuznetsov smiled, clinking his own bottle against his. "To the happy time, may it come again."
T-Day -42
15:39:48
Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan
"Aim down your sights!" Foley shouted, grabbing the forearm of the M16A4 and jerking it up with the stock. "Private Khalid, how do you plan on shooting if you can't shoot straight? Were you not paying attention when Private Allen was demonstrating?" He snorted. "And where the hell is your sling?"
"Sir?" Khalid managed, looking at the Ranger sergeant.
"What the fuck happens if your buddy gets shot? You need to help him! So where does your rifle go? Up your ass?"
"No, sir," Khalid said, visibly paling as he pulled the sling on.
Foley glared at the ANA private before grabbing his own Mk 17. On semi-automatic, he shouldered it and fired a rapid cadence. Each shot knocked down one of the targets as he acquired and dropped each one in turn. Twenty targets, twenty rounds. Lowering his rifle, he ejected the empty magazine and nodded to Dunn when he walked over.
"Got the Pit set up, boss," Dunn said.
"Allen, guess you escaped this time," Foley said. "General Shepherd's looking to tap a shooter from our company. I expect top-notch scores, Private."
"Cool, Sarge," Allen said, getting up from his seat on the table.
Allen and Dunn walked away from the target range for the close-quarters battle range that the Rangers had dubbed the "Pit" owing mostly to its sunken placement. It was nearly complete modular in nature and sported some pretty slick electronic monitoring systems. Until General Shepherd had started to visit Phoenix recently, they had been using lightly-urbanized layouts for squad-level practice. His arrival usually wound up with a reconfiguration for single-shooter operations in a whole variety of settings.
"You going to use the M4?" Dunn asked as they walked through the daily basketball game. "Ow!" he shouted as the basketball bounced off his non-issue vest.
"Yeah, get some more maneuverability out of it," Allen said as Dunn flipped off Corporal Rob Bowling as he returned the thrown basketball.
"Get off the court, dude," Bowling shouted.
Ignoring him and the other Rangers, they finally walked into the staging area of the Pit. After a few years, the edges of the explosively-carved pit had been worn down. However the banks of televisions showing footage from throughout the course hadn't needed to be replaced except the one time when a Caliphate mortarman got really lucky. Dunn sat down at a computer terminal and tapped in the clearance code, the gate leading into the Pit proper unlocking with a buzz.
"Hey, listen, dude," he said to Allen. "Heard this from the big chieftain himself. If you manage to pull this one in under a minute, he'll probably pull you for whatever special op he's doing."
Allen grinned as he opened up one of the weapon lockers. "You jealous, Dunn?"
"Hey, we make a great team," Dunn said, shrugging. "Hate to lose you to the prima donna squad." He grinned. "'sides, I'm aiming for the unit."
"You got the helmet down already," Allen said as he pulled out an MP5K to show Dunn. "Okay, who the hell stocked this thing? There's a 240-Bravo, a Glock 18, and an M79 here as well."
"I don't know, man. Shepherd, probably. Guess it's supposed to show what kind of shit you might see as battlefield pick-up."
Allen pulled out a chromed Desert Eagle, snorting in disbelief. "Where're we fighting? Hollywood?"
Chuckling, Dunn settled into his seat. "We done here, Ranger? I think Shepherd wants to see some action before he croaks."
"Yeah, yeah, starting my run," Allen said, readying his carbine.
Dunn saw him kick the gate open, and so the game was on. He toggled the first set of targets. Time to see if he'd make it…
T-Day -42
15:34:29
Northwest of Asadabad, Afghanistan
Standing behind the turret of the M2HB, Specialist Dominic Getts desperately wished he was either a few inches shorter or preferably not even in-country. He didn't dare let up on the trigger as they bounced along the potholed road. The heavy machine gun's spade grip rattled in his hands as if it was trying to slip loose. But he kept his grip, his thumbs jammed down to maintain his fire.
"How close are we?" he shouted below. No response. He tried again. "How close are we to camp?"
Giving up on that endeavor, Getts returned his full attention to suppressing the insurgents. The M2HB was able to be accurately ranged out a mile or so, but he was dealing in knife-fighting ranges with the technical coming up the convoy's flank. They'd be the last through the gates of the camp, but first in line if some wise guy had the idea of hauling out an RPG. Hunching over, he reacquired the repurposed Toyota pick-up and swung the sights over the hood with the Browning still firing.
The .50 BMG is capable of, in common parlance, "fucking your shit up." Each "ordinary" round carried enough kinetic energy to horrifically maim any human being regardless of any armor they might wear. They had loaded up with armor-piercing ammunition for this patrol. He could see the tracers for a brief second before the whipsawed rounds burrowed through the grille and hood of the truck. They made easy work of the engine block as well, but their energy was hardly spent, their work incomplete. After punching through that, the rounds then tore through the dashboard and gas well to tear apart the fighters within. A fine red mist coated the windshield even as Getts swung the turret to the left to engage the next technical trying to edge in on the action.
How had things gone so terribly wrong? The company had gone out to investigate reports of Caliphate insurgents in Asadabad. That had hardly gone accordingly to plan. Making the first cross-over across the Pech River, they had been unopposed right until they hit northern Asadabad and the Asadabad Bridge. The buildings around them had practically exploded with gunfire. Casualties started piling up almost immediately with all of the bullets and rockets flying.
Four of the HMMWVs had been sent back with the wounded, but that hadn't been a guarantee of that casevac convoy's safety. His turret's shield probably looked like a lunar landscape from all of the fire directed at it. Thank God for the up-armor kits and small miracles. But the bullets were still flying, and ducking only made it worse with the near-constant hissing of the rounds passing overhead. He was quickly running out of ammunition, and the tangos just kept popping up. They needed to get back to base before it was-
It felt as if someone had grabbed his head and slammed it back. Getts heard rather than felt his helmeted head bounce off the lip of the gunner's nest. He couldn't feel a thing as he righted himself. A hand went to the top of his head. His fingers immediately found the tear and gouge where the bullet had torn through. Small miracles indeed.
Managing a startled chuckle, he resumed his fire to-
This round was much less miraculous. Getts's knees buckled underneath him as he dropped through the port to land crumpled on the body of Private Jamal Peters, blood pouring from the partially-crushed left side of his head.
"Man down! We've got a man down!"
T-Day -42
15:40:08
Firebase Phoenix, Afghanistan
"Not bad, my man. You made that course your bitch!" Dunn whooped, clapping. "You sure you don't want to go over that again? Hate to lose a man to the prima donna team."
Taking off his helmet, Allen took a breath. The last ten meters had really taken it out of him even with his lighter "garrison" loadout. He didn't think he did that badly, but it wouldn't beat the records set by some of General Shepherd's "prima donna" men. Hell, he'd seen two of them breeze through set-ups intended for squad-level maneuvers on their own. They made him look like he was wading through molasses.
As he set the carbine down, the general alarm rang. It was hard not to recognize that dreaded sound. When it rang, to say that something bad had happened was an understatement. It had only rung twice before while the Rangers had been stationed there. Both times had been to prepare to repel local insurgents.
"All Hunters, get to your Vics! We're heading out!" Sergeant Foley's voice crackled over their headsets. "Allen, Dunn, get the hell over here!"
"Yeah, we copy," Dunn said, picking up his Mk 17. "Come on, dude!" he shouted to Allen.
The two Rangers climbed out of the Pit to find a scene of utter desolation. Four HMMWVs shot to shit, bullet holes turning most of them into sieves on wheels. Tenth Mountain from what little of the identifiers could be recognized. Soldiers were offloading the wounded and dead that had been piled up inside the vehicles like cords of firewood. Dunn grabbed a Mountain soldier as he climbed out from his HMMWV.
"What the hell's going on?" He could make out "Arnett" and a sergeant's chevrons on his vest through the blood. "What's going on, Arnett?"
"The-they blew the bridge," Arnett mumbled, shivering and wide-eyed. "We gotta move! We gotta get the guys out!"
Shock. Letting go of him, Dunn looked around. There had to be at least a dozen wounded, likely more dead. An ambush?
"BCT-1 company's trapped across the river in the red zone! We've lost contact with them!" PFC Tim Walden shouted as he bounded out of the commo shack while pulling his gear on. It was well-known fact that he'd come to the Rangers from the Tenth Mountain. "Gear up and get going!"
Finding Foley was simple enough. He was one of the few calm spots in the roiling mass of Rangers and Tenth Mountain soldiers. Barking orders and tossing equipment left and right, he gestured for Allen and Dunn to head over to their HMMWV where Ramirez was already waiting.
"Get in your vehicles! We're moving out!" he bellowed to everyone else.
"Rifle?" Dunn asked, glancing at Allen as they jogged toward their vehicle.
"In the Humvee," Allen said before patting the M4. "Gimme a second," he then said, jogging away toward the range. Returning shortly without the carbine but with several spare magazines and a handful of forty-millimeter grenades, he nodded to Dunn. "I'm good."
"You'd better be," Dunn said, walking around the HMMWV to open the driver's side door. "Hey, hold on to this one," he said, handing back his Mk 17 to Ramirez as he sat down. "And get on the gun, will you?"
"Copy that," Ramirez said, grunting as he levered himself up into the turret. "Hey, I think I like this arrangement! Minigun's pretty sweet!"
"Watch how much ammo you're putting out," Sergeant Foley said, walking over to the HMMWV. He rode shotgun as per regulations, his own Mk 17 pointing out of the window. "Hit it, Dunn."
When General Shepherd's voice came on, Dunn could feel his eyebrow raise involuntarily. "All Hunters, roll out."
"Rolling out," Dunn confirmed, his words echoed by others over the radio.
With a basso roar, the convoy's engines turned over and they drove out of the firebase, ready to pull some men out of the fire.
-
Author's Rant: Well, got bored enough and this sprung out like a malignant tumor. As a note, I've ditched the "Day" stuff from the game since it's so ridiculously unrealistic. I think you'll like my new day notation system a bit better once you figure out what it means. As usual, expect the story to be pretty damn grim. Also as usual, all input is welcome.