Disclaimer: While this story uses some real world settings and organizations, all characters and events depicted are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real world people or events is entirely coincidental. Call of Duty and associated characters are property of Activision. All original characters are property of Ironfingers. Do not use without permission.
Author's Note: Call of Duty tells the story of a few ordinary men caught in extraordinary events. Their actions shaped their world as they knew it and they are forever remembered for it. But in the background, there are those who have not hymns written nor stories told; they are merely forgotten in the wake of those still worshiped as heroes, effaced from the annals of history by the ravages of time. This is the chronicle of one such man.
Episode 1: Landfall
People change. Children grow to be men. Men rise to be leaders. Leaders carve civilizations from dust. Times change. Large nations crush small ones. Old men order the death of young men. Governments crumble. War erupts. Things change. The strong become weak. The invincible become vulnerable. The hunter becomes the hunted.
It is one thing to be a subject of change, but another entirely to be an agent of change. I am Chief Petty Officer Marcus Rae. I slay the invincible. I stalk the hunter. I topple governments and destroy nations. I crush the strong. I raise the weak. I am an agent of change.
I am a Navy SEAL.
Some people dream of being a hero. I live the life of one every day, with one sole caveat: no one will ever know of my actions. My team undertakes dangerous missions that will never be shown on television, chronicled in books, or posted to YouTube. The information is too sensitive; the ramifications, too controversial. As SEAL operators, we are sworn to silence. The very people we protect will never know of our exploits. But that's just fine with me. I didn't sign on to show off. I signed on to win.
Even as ordinary sailors, we were always taught the price of victory. Some would pay in time, others in blood; others still with their lives. Even while serving with the other sailors and marines on my ship, I knew the price of victory and was determined to snatch it from the enemy. Those days seemed an eternity ago. I had almost forgotten the life of an ordinary enlisted man. Now I was sitting in an MH-53J Pave Low chopper with nine other likeminded operators, each one rearing to go in for the kill.
The news had been abuzz with mad speculation after the publicly televised execution of president Yasir al-Fulani by revolutionary leader Khaled al-Asad. How did he come to power? How did he amass the funding and support to overthrow al-Fulani's government without public knowledge? What was the final straw that sent al-Asad over the edge?
I had scoffed at the newsies. I couldn't care less how he got there. The brigand had forcefully seized the reigns of an otherwise peaceful nation and rattled his saber at the United States of bloody America, quite possibly the last nation on Earth even a megalomaniac like al-Asad would want to anger. But anger them he did. Harsh words were exchanged and before long, the hammer fell.
US Marines from the 26th MEU made landfall that dusty morning in March, quickly smashing the opposition and pushing deep into enemy territory. The enemy fought fiercely, but it soon began to show that al-Asad's mercenaries and jihadist militia were hardly a match for battle-hardened, highly disciplined, and heavily armed United States marines and sailors. The beaches and primary harbor were secured by the end of the first day. Another day to regroup and we were off again. So there we were, eight ordinary SEAL operators and two EOD techies on another early morning run, ready to cause general havoc and leave death and destruction in our wake. Just another day on the job…
"Ninety seconds to landfall," came the pilot's voice over the intercom. He sounded almost bored, as if it were all routine. I silently smirked. The helo pilots never saw any action; they always bugged out before the shooting started. They had a right to be bored, but I guess in the end they were better off. After all, they weren't the ones getting shot at. I quickly glanced around at the other operators around me. They were equipped just as I was; heavy body armor, backpacks full equipment, vest pouches full of ammunition, weapons sitting idle in their laps or cinched tight against their chests.
I absent-mindedly fingered the VTAC sling around my own Mk. 18 Close Quarters Battle Rifle. Its stubby 10.5-inch barrel looked almost comical against my bulging magazine pouches, enormous combat knife, and heavy body armor, but I had long since passed the stage of laughing at it. In spite of its size, it was still an Armalite; at once familiar, reliable, and lethal. I racked the charging handle on the CQBR and lightly tapped on the forward assist button, pulling a round from the magazine and ramming it into the chamber. The Lexan window of the attached EOTech holographic gun sight flashed red as I switched it on. A glowing red ring with a central dot appeared, drifting lazily around as the Pave Low bobbed back and forth over the swells of the Arabian Sea.
"Shoreline coming into view. ETA to objective is three minutes. We're going black."
The cockpit went dark as the pilots switched to using their night vision, making the Pave Low essentially invisible in the darkness of the early morning. As I listened to the sounds of the other SEALs doing likewise, I flipped the night vision goggles attached to my helmet down to my eyes and switched them on. The familiar green-tinted image appeared in front of me as the tinny, high-pitched whine of active electronics subsided. My CQBR's EOTech window glowed bright green, completely washing out the reticule in my night vision. I reached down and pressed the button marked NV on the sight's console, quickly switching it to night vision mode. The reticule faded in from the ambient glow, settling at a steady intensity suitable for night use.
"Radio check," a voice called out in the cabin. It was sharp and crisp, higher in range than was particularly befitting of a commanding officer. But at the same time, there was heft and ferocity behind it, more in line with the caliber man who had spoken. I turned towards Lieutenant Anthony Joaquin and keyed my headset radio.
"Rae here," I spoke. Joaquin nodded and gave the thumbs up sign.
"Dongle, checking in," the man next to me said. The others quickly followed suit.
"Engels here."
"Danes at the ready."
"McBurney has you."
"Weaver up."
"Archie copies."
"Joker ready."
"Kilionski."
"Comms are good. Go to secure channel," the lieutenant said. I reached behind me and opened the pouch containing my radio. In the dull green glow of the night vision, I could barely make out the markings. I pressed one of the buttons and waited for the radio to synchronize its encryption with those around it. A double beep confirmed that it had succeeded.
The chopper was flying low to the ground now, the downwash from its blades sweeping up dust as it crossed over sandy areas. I watched out of the corner of my eye as we quickly and quietly skirted a village and headed out toward a palm grove not far away. Off in the distance, the lights of the capital graced the horizon, though it was much too far away to provide illumination. As we neared the palm grove, a large radio antenna materialized out of the black mist of morning.
"Ya'll ready?" Joaquin's voice came over the radio.
"HOOYAH!" I said in unison with the other SEALs. There was not a hint of shakiness in the chorus. Training and experience had clipped our collective nerves and put hard caps on our fears. We would go. We would fight. And we would win.
"This one's a quickie, boys," Lt. Joaquin continued. "The next phase of invasion is set to begin in a few hours, so ol' McQueen back at HQ wants us to do the Jarheads a favor."
"If it's buyin' drinks, I ain't putting a single cent down!" Seaman Joshua Hicks, better known as "Dongle" said, slapping his thigh. His remark elicited sparse laughter from the other SEALs.
"Can it, Hicks," I said, jabbing him with my elbow. He playfully punched me back, but held his tongue.
"There's a network of radars around the capital that are used to coordinate their anti-air defenses. Recon says that they're linked to a headquarters station a few miles from shore. If we take out the HQ's main antenna, they'll be unable to coordinate their defenses."
"We're poking the Hajjis in the eye, Dongle," Ensign Ryan Brockman, the man across from Hicks, summarized. "That should be simple enough for you to remember."
"At least give me some credit," Hicks muttered under his breath.
"Rules of engagement, sir?" Petty Officer Danes asked.
"Terminate on contact."
"Thirty seconds, guys!" one of the pilots spoke over the intercom. We went silent as the Pave Low slowed and lightly touched the ground. The downwash from the rotors created a swirling vortex of sand around the LZ.
"Perimeter out, GO!" Joaquin barked.
We quickly poured out of the chopper, weapons raised. I stepped out and advanced three yards, taking a knee and sighting my CQBR. The glowing green ring of my EOTech's display hovered in front of me, ready to zero in on a target should one present itself. On the edges of the green circle of night vision, two more SEALs advanced; Dongle to my right and Sn. McBurney to my left. They stopped and knelt with weapons ready, their heads scanning the horizon, just as they had been carefully taught.
"We'll be back to pick you up in twelve," The pilot said on our frequency. "Don't be late."
The Pave Low lifted off again as the last man touched the ground, the chopper's rotors showering us with sand. I brushed the corners of my goggles with the back of my gloved palm and adjusted my night vision as the dust cloud settled.
"Joker, take your team and head into the east side of the palm grove," came the orders from the LT. "Be ready to support us if we come into contact."
"Roger," Ens. Brockman replied, responding to his nickname. He waved to his fire team and they split from the perimeter, heading east along the edge of the grove where the palms met the sand.
"Team one and EOD, you're with me," Joaquin said. "We're sweeping through the middle."
"Move out, troop," I ordered and gave the move up hand signal. We formed up in a wedge and pushed forward into the palm grove. The transition from sand to grass was very abrupt, producing a noticeable change in traction and noise level. There was assorted shrubbery, but most of it was confined to the base of the palms, making for clear lines of sight all the way to the dirt path ahead that would lead to the communications array.
Ninety seconds. I gave the halt hand signal and took a knee. The SEALs behind me stopped and scanned their sectors, searching for movement among the palms. The command center loomed ahead. It was a squat, yellow brick structure, dusty with both age and erosion. Shrubbery lined the exterior walls and vines snaked their way towards the flat roof, giving it a quaint, if not slightly disheveled appearance. The perimeter appeared to be clear of guards and there was no exterior illumination or evidence to suggest that it was monitored. The only light came from a curtained window that I could barely see around the corner from us.
"Lieutenant?" I whispered.
"Hold fast," he responded. Joaquin keyed his radio. "Joker, take team two and circle around the far side of the compound and make for the antenna. The rest of us will sweep through the main building and secure the compound."
"Acknowledged," came the curt reply.
"Rae, on point," Joaquin finished. I nodded and motioned forward. We rose and advanced on the building, hugging the walls as we rounded the corner and came to a door near the window we had spotted from the dirt road. We stacked up and prepared to breach. I listened closely and could hear animated chatter coming from the inside. There were three or four distinct voices, prattling on in Arabic about something or other.
There was a significant amount of light, so I flipped my night vision off, instead opting for my CQBR's flashlight. A tap of the EOTech's mode switch and the red ring became visible to my unenhanced eyes. As I did this, I could hear the sound of the others doing the same and see circles of light floating past me as their tactical lights came on. I reached behind my back and pulled one of the breaching charges from my web gear, silently sticking the RDX tape to the hinged side. The charge set, I backed up and yanked hard on the friction fuse, starting the five second countdown.
The banter continued on. They didn't suspect a thing…