Disclaimer: A statement used to cover one's own ass.
Any similarities to both real life and fictional people is purely coincidental (unless specified otherwise). Also, any views (political or social, etc.) pertain to the characters who say them, and not necessarily mine, in an effort to create unique and different individuals. Overall, any language regarding issues of race, sexuality and politics is meant to be reflective of the character, not the author's.
Also, I don't own the rights to Hellsing, its characters, and the music lyrics I quote. They belong to their respective creators.
Prologue: ORDER 0
"Silhouettes and shadows
Watch the revolution
No more free steps to heaven
It's no game"
David Bowie, It's No Game (Part 1)
USS Samar, CG-74
Indian Ocean - Approximately 300 Nautical Miles east of Kismayo, Somalia.
There were several things that had set off alarm bells in everyone's mind about the merchant vessel, but for the Skipper of USS Samar, the biggest red flag was simply his gut instinct. Never mind the vessel's apparent reluctance to answer to the hails over the radio, or the fact that the vessel had previously been reported by USS Grant just prior to that naval vessel's fatal accident that claimed a boarding party. No; the anxious tugging in the back of the Skipper's mind that said there was absolutely nothing right with this picture had been the deciding factor to muster the VBSS team.
Visit, Board, Search and Seizure; Navy SWAT as some sailors occasionally referred them. While often conducted with delivery via RHIB, the sense of urgency that gnawed at his mind had been enough to send the team by fast rope from one of the cruiser's two SH-60 Seahawks. Once the team was on the deck, the helicopter was ordered to stand by for possible air support until the operation had run its course.
But as the Skipper watched the first of his sailors repel down the rope, the sense of dread hanging over him like a storm cloud finally drenched him.
With the final man on the deck, they were ready to move. The team leader, a lieutenant-junior grade, motioned for the team to press forward towards the aft deckhouse where the ship's bridge and crew quarters were. The men wove their way amongst the shipping containers, covering the corners, ensuring deterrence against anyone who may be bold enough, or dumb enough to try and catch them off guard.
"Sir," Chief called, "something don't seem right here to you?"
"Thank god it's not just me! I'm getting the heebie-jeebies from this rust bucket."
The 'jay-gee' let out an audible breath, taking a moment to look at the shipping crates around him before finally turning to look at Chief.
"Something tells me we're not gonna find soap and baby food in these –"
A loud, deafening blast erupted. Chief immediately turned towards his superior, alarmed by the noise and the officer's sudden lack of presence. There before lay on the deck the 'jay-gee', sans head, and with a shotgun totting figure of the 'crewman' that had evidently stowed inside one of the crates. The door slightly open behind him.
Chief didn't give a moment's hesitance. The son-of-bitch was a bullet sponge.
And all hell seemed to break loose.
Word had reached to bridge- the boarding team was taking fire, already one man dead, with their helo taking a few bullets above.
"Weapons free."
The Skipper sent the call out; muster the SCAT teams, and bring the ship as close as they could, have the forward 5-inch turret trained for a possible shot into the bridge, where there appeared to be a majority of the armed 'crew'.
"Sir, incoming transmission, sir."
"Tell 'em to leave a message, we have a goddamned crisis on our hands."
"But sir, its directly from the Pentagon, sir."
The Skipper paused his actions momentarily, seeming to attempt to grasp what exactly was happening. "Patch 'em through" he grunted, picking up the handset next to his chair.
"Call off the boarding party captain." The suit on the other end didn't even give the Skipper a chance to introduce himself.
"I would if I could." The Skipper could hear the suit on the other end curse followed by "…again."
"Excuse me sir?"
"It's too late, there's nothing that can be done now. Your orders are to leave that ship alone."
"Kinda hard to do when it's turned into Mogadishu sir. I can't just pull my boarding team out of there. We've already got a casualty."
"There's nothing that can be done now captain. You're just going to have to leave them."
The Skipper says nothing for a good 12 seconds.
"Are you going to comply?" the suit said harshly. Skipper could tell that he is getting agitated.
"Aye aye. Disengaging." Skipper finally responds.
"Good" the Suit said contently. The Skipper abruptly cuts the feed, denying the suit the respect that he clearly did not deserve.
"Are you really going through with this sir?" The XO asks.
"Fuck no!" Skipper replies with a grin. "Prepare to fire."
The team of four then begins to unload on the armed crew around their immediate vicinity. As they are moving through the crates they begin to receive a lot of fire from the bridge pinning them behind a crate.
"Requesting fire sup…" The Chief is interrupted by a shot from the Samar's 5-inch followed shortly by an explosion from the bridge.
"Get behind something solid." is heard over the team's radios. They duck into one of the open crates and hide behind a BMP. Shortly after the sounds of the Bunker Hill's twin .50s and 25mms open up.
After what seems like the longest 2 minutes of their lives, "Deck is clear, continue to lower decks." is heard over the radio. "Alright let's move!" Chief orders. The team then proceeds to the lower decks.
After a half hour engagement the ship is finally secured.
Samar's bridge was as eerily silent as the blood soaked freighter had become, the crew dead quiet in wait for the radio transmission from the boarding party.
"Chief Freeborn, bridge. Ship secured, over."
A loud collective sigh of relief erupted across the bridge. The Skipper blinked and smiled, raising the handset to his mouth. "Copy that Chief. Commence search of the vessel, we are sending a helo to collect casualties. Over"
"Aye aye, sir."
There was a ten minute space before the first of the reports came in of what was found. The Skipper had an inkling that nothing good would have been found, but he was still in utter shock of the list of material that was being found on the ship.
"Sir, a lot of military grade hardware, possibly Russian. Armored vehicles, missiles, small arms, even a Hind!"
At this point, fuck-it, why not! The collective thought ran through the heads of everyone.
"Sir…" There was what appeared to be a strangled pause in the Chief's report. "This is bad over here. I think… my god."
The Skipper picked up the handset. "Chief Freeborn what is it? Answer!"
Chief Freeborn had completely spaced out in shock of the container before him. Surrounding him were the rest of his team, each one wearing an equal visage of shock and fear.
At first the shipping container didn't appear any different from the rest of the crates surrounding it - except for the profuse amount of blood that had pooled around the doors on the deck; mostly blackened from coagulation.
"Schulz," Chief weakly called. "Open it up."
Schulz set his rifle down on the deck next to him, before hesitantly stepping up to the container's doors. There was no padlock to keep the handle from turning, although a piece of metal - a pin - had been jammed in place of where it would be. Schulz pulled the pin out, tossing it to the deck, turned the handle and pulled the door open.
In an instant the sailors were overtaken by the ungodly stench of blood and decay. Shining the flashlight beam into the dark space…
…and the sheer horror of what they could see was too much. One man doubled over, retching onto the deck, a strangled sob erupting from him.
"Oh god. Sweet mother of Jesus, oh god!"
A reader or two may have noticed previously a continuity error made in which the USS Samar suddenly changes names to USS Bunker Hill.
USS Bunker Hill was a placeholder name before making the shift to renaming it USS Samar, so as not the disrespect both an actively serving ship and its current and future crew. The real life USS Samar, is a fictional ship, both a nonexistent name and hull number (the last cruiser built was CG-73, USS Port Royal.) The name Samar comes from the tradition of naming the Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruisers after historic battles in American military history (Bunker Hill, Cape St. George, Vella Gulf, etc.), referencing the Battle Off Samar, a major naval battle between the US Navy and the Imperial Japanese Navy in the Philippines during late WWII. USS Grant is a generic name fitting with the naming conventions of destroyers.
