[Part One]

(Chapter One)

Commander Brian West woke up as the first few rays of sunlight splashed over his face from the cracks between the blinds in his room. Squinting by the sudden illumination of his unadjusted eyes, he managed to swing his feet from under the covers and was able to get in a sitting position at the side. He rubbed his face with both hands, and almost swore that he could still feel the tiger's paws as apart of his hands.

When he looked down, he realized that his dream had become a reality.

Jumping slightly in surprise, he quickly closed his eyes, controlling his breathing, and bringing a picture of his human form in his mind's eye. He spoke to himself, reminding him of the muscular arms, his average height, the hazel eyes, and his short black hair. While most military outfits would require him to have the normal haircut, once you get to any sort of special operations unit, the dress code was thrown out the window.

Especially since no one is supposed to know of its existence.

They were never given an official codename. To do so would to acknowledge its existence. They were the highest choir of guardian angels.

So they were known as the Seraphims. West smiled when he remembered the name. It took a while to explain to the Andalites and the Hork-Bajir that were apart of the unit what angels were, but once they figured it out, they didn't need to be reminded. They approved of the name as well.

Aside from the other species working alongside them, men and women comprised of the FBI, the NSA, the CIA, the SEALs were the american branch of the Seraphims. There was also representation from the German GSG-9, the French GIGN, as well as the British SAS, along with each country's respective intelligence division, with most countries from the now-outdated NATO taking prominent roles within this special operations division. After little deliberation, it was decided that the main language would be english, mostly due to the fact that the majority of the Seraphims (the Americans and the British) used it as their primary language, and the rest were already fluent in it.

The Hork-Bajir could speak broken english at best, while their understanding of it was flawless. An implant in their voice box, however, took care of that particular problem. Using technology that was taken from the now-defunct Yeerk Empire, their voices sounded natural, not the computerized, emotionless tones that came from human devices.

Brian shook himself awake to the sound of his cell phone ringing at his nightstand. He took a look at the clock. It was eight o'clock on the American East Coast. While he was normally stationed in Quantico, the FBI Training Grounds now set up as the Seraphims' base of operations, he had gone to Hereford to look at some potential recruits that were recommended by his British colleagues.

As the Field Commander of Operations, he hand-picked his twelve shooters, along with the five support operatives and the squadron of fighters, a mix of both human and Andalite, with Hork-Bajir warriors used as each fighter's security force. He was the head of the main squad for the Seraphims. The Alpha Dogs, they were called jokingly.

West grabbed the phone and flipped it open, trying hard (but failing miserably) to speak without yawning. "Hello?"

"McCain heah."

West laughed. The British accent of his Executive Officer, Chris McCain, was easly transferred over the airwaves. But then again, I still have my South Boston accent, so I guess I shouldn't be talkin'. Chris was holding down the fort in Quantico while West went to England to look at any possible recruits.

"Yeah, Chris, what's up?"

"We shall be in Hereford in one minute. I just wanted to wake you up."

Brian was up on his feet in a flash. "When did you leave?"

"We just lifted off, chap."

West shook himself awake. "What's goin' on, Chris? You wouldn't be hitchin' a ride lest it was important."

"Call came down half an hour ago. We're on a search and rescue mission. Received a distress signal. Once we pick you up, we'll brief you."

Brian frowned. "Who're we looking for?"

Pause.

"Who're we lookin' for, Chris?" West demanded.

"It's Jake Berenson, Brian. Him and that Marco, oh, Marco Something. After the distress signal, we received a message from Berenson."

Professor... "Well, fack, Chris, out with it!" Brian yelled excitedly, his accent thickening as he started pulling on the artic camoflague pants that was the only uniform any of the Seraphims wore. "What was it?"

"Bloody hell, West. Have some patience!" Chris snapped lightly. "Just two words.

"'Cassie', and 'Iskoort.'"

West frowned. "Kind of a strange combination, don't ya think? What is an Iskoort?"

"I had fuhst thought that the bloody comms people bulloxed up the transmission, but I found that wasn't the case. I don't know what an Iskoort is, but we do know who Cassie is."

Brian nodded, slipping on a black T-shirt, and then proceeding to look for his black duffel bag. "Get ahold of the White House."

Chris sighed. "Already tried. They're holding a cabinet meeting."

"Well, that's too facking bad, isn't it?" Brian replied. "Tell them either she can meet us at Dulles or she can see us on the White House's front lawn! I think that'll get their attention."

"Yes, quite," the Brit chuckled. "McCain out. You should probably hear the commotion on ground by now."

Brian listened. Yeah, there was a ruckus going on outside. "Gimme a minute and I'll be out."

"Roger."

Brian shook his head in disbelief. Professor, what's goin' on? What the hell are you talkin' about?

Hopefully, someone can shed some light about this "Iskoort."