Author's note: Review, and I'll stop throwing sandwiches at you. Trust me, I have a lot of sandwiches.

As Tomo stepped out of the Learjet and onto the flight deck of the Reagan, three things jumped out at her. First, the cabin of the 'Jet was heated, while the 4.5 acre tundra-at-sea was not. Second, there was a reason she had been given the brightly colored reflective vest and ear protecs—it was almost pitch black, but jets were still taking off and landing constantly. Finally, there was someone, very important judging from the uniformed Marines keeping exact pace with him, rushing to meet her and the General as they exited the aircraft.

"General, welcome aboard!" Admiral Drako greeted the substantial Shepherd. Drako himself looked a little plump on his own, but seemed to conceal a type of strength that couldn't be measured in muscle power. When the two shook hands, he spoke again. "It's pretty chilly up here on the flight deck. Let's head down to my quarters and chat, shall we?"

"Thanks, Admiral, but you mind if we walk and talk? We've all got business to take care of." Shepherd replied, releasing the hand. "That's our new operator, Private Takino. Former Interpol SWAT. She ran the course better than some of your SEALs, Drake."

"Is that so? Maybe I should..." Drako began, but turned to see her leering at him behind his back. "Wha? Don't do that!"

"'Better than your SEALs.'" She goaded. Two of the Marines mumbled something, but otherwise kept silent.

"Takino, this is Fleet Admiral Drako. Currently the most powerful man in the United States Military, apart from the Secretary of Defense and the President himself." Shepherd introduced, with a hint of envy, "Which means that you don't sneak up behind him and mock him. He could break even me in two if he wanted to, even if he looks like he's gone to seed."

"Oh, I have." Drako dismissed, "I wouldn't need the Sixth Fleet under my feet if I were in my prime. I'd come out here with the crew of Deadliest Catch and a crossbow and end the war before dinner! Sadly, time doesn't treat old dogs very well."

"Yeah, whatev-" Before Tomo even finished her sentence, she felt herself flying over the Admiral's shoulder and landing on the hard, frigid steel of the flight deck. Drako hovered over her with a triumphant smile splashed over his portly face.

"Better than my SEALs, Takino. Not better than me." He chuckled. "Should I have Sergeant Major Goddard show you to your room, or carry you there?"

"She's got to run by Blacksmith first, Admiral." Shepherd reminded, tossing him the Type 89.

"Ah, the Buddy. Decent rifle, although a little isolated." He appraised. "Blacksmith would have more to say. Hey, Takino, better stand up, or you'll freeze to the deck."

"This is his quarters. Blacksmith'll get your rifle rigged up to carry anything we want it to." Shepherd said. "He's a little strange, though. You'll see what I mean. The Admiral's expecting me, so have Blacksmith show you the ropes."

Through the hatch, the bass of David Hasselhoff's "Hooked on a Feeling" could be heard, in addition to a soft, wiping sound. Tomo tilted her head, being reminded of the time she had gone to Osaka's house and found her listening to "Dango Daikazoku" and hugging a punching bag. Suddenly, she missed her high-school years.

"OK... now, by weird, what do you mean?"

The door to Blacksmith's room unlocked and swung open slowly, revealing all sorts of containers filled with assorted gun parts, labeled based on their make. M9 and M1911 pistols were on top, about four or five tupperwares full each, and the lower in the pile you got, the more firepower and the larger the containers, ending with a wooden crate labeled "MINIGUN-M134". A stereo, crammed into the corner of the room behind a dissected Javelin HUD, played the music Tomo had heard outside, and a man wearing a Delta-Force style helmet sat on a swivel-chair facing away from the door, humming while carefully polishing a nickel-plated M1911, seemingly oblivious to the opening of the door, despite the fact that he was the one who unlocked it.

"THAT'S what I mean." Shepherd groaned. "Smith... Smith!"

Blacksmith rocketed to his feet and stood at attention, his right arm springing into a salute.

"Sir!"

"At ease. And for God's sake, turn that garbage down!"

"Yes, sir." Tenderly stepping over the guts of a Javelin missile, Blacksmith reached the stereo and turned the knob. "Might I ask what you're doin' down here so late?"

"This is Private Takino, FNG to your unit. She's acclimated to this gun here," he handed the younger man the Type 89, "and I need you to get some rails on it. Once that's finished, show her to the rest of the squad and make sure she gets to briefing on time." Shepherd looked at Tomo, who could almost see an apology in his eyes... just for a fleeting second. "Good luck." Turning on the heel, he left the room. Blacksmith immediately cranked the volume back up, racked the slide twice on the 1911 he was working on, discharged the hammer, and slid it into a shoebox that was just laying on the floor, setting it back at the same place. The room had absolutely no semblance of order, to say the least.

"Ah, a Type 89..." Blacksmith said softly, more to himself than to Takino. "I've only got two of those. So hard to find with the anti-export laws Japan keeps these days..." He looked up at her, his blue eyes somewhat disconcerting. "You're Japanese, Takino?"

"Yeah, Captain Obvious. Just for the record, I'm a girl, too. Surprised?"

"I'm not a Captain. I just don't keep track of names and faces in relation to countries. But this..." he measured the barrel of the gun with a ruler he had in the strap on his helmet, "I could tell you where any gun on Earth came from. Not just what country it was made in, but where it was exported, or if it was made under license, I could tell you that, too." He opened the bolt of the rifle. "Hey, did this thing stovepipe when you last used it?"

"It... Yes, it did! How'd you know that?"

"I can tell. Well, from the look of it, it was the round. Intentional. One bullet had a significantly lower powder load than the rest, to guarantee a failure, instead of just a small difference, like a machining problem. Of course, since it's been about two hours, it's a little hard to say for certain how much powder the round in question had..."

"You're a little creepy, you know that? What's with all the guns, anyway?"

"When the guys have a gun problem, they come to me. They know everything. I know more. Hand me the suitcase from the bed labeled 'Howa 89.'"

"All those guns... I've never even seen most of these before! Could I buy one-"

"NO." His face was stoney cold, his eyes glaring possessively at the wall of guns. "ONLY hand me the 'Howa' box. DON'T take ANYTHING."

"Sheesh, gun nut. You American?"

"No. Canadian." Blacksmith said, his voice already having returned to normal after blowing up on Tomo. "Before I joined the Task Force, I worked out the accent. I learned a lot of things about guns because my dad was in the Army and snuck me into the armory every weekend to learn how to care for the weapons there. Since I did all the maintenance work for the soldiers, they didn't complain."

Finally freeing the suitcase from its gridlock, Tomo carefully stepped over the loose pieces on the ground and set it down next to Blacksmith. "Lucky."

"I've had a charmed life." Opening the box, Blacksmith produced two Picatinny rails, some screws, and a screwdriver. "I'll have to fill you in on the world since the Zakhaev attack."

"You mean the American?"

"Yeah. He was 141 for exactly one day. Working deep cover with a bad apple by the name of Vladimir Makarov. He was killed by the terrorists and left there as a scapegoat so that Russia would declare war. The thing is, basic forensics completely blow their whole operation wide open."

"Oh, I thought it was weird that the Americans would support something like that..."

"Plus, I was the one who connected the mess to Brazil. The wear on that cartridge casing was just too... sloppy to have been shipped from the US. Parsing the unique markings on the case, it looked like it had been dropped past the usual 'oh, I fell out of an M240' point. I matched it to Rio's notorious Alejandro Rojas—Alex the Red. Arms dealer from the deep South."

"That's where Mactavish and Sanderson went... Sanderson's badass, by the way."

"You should see him in combat. We'd never move an inch if it weren't for him. We're stuck up here, freezing our asses off, though, and all for some weird modem that none of us are sure about. If it doesn't shoot or attach to something that does, it's not going to win you a war... there. You're railed up. Now, for this mission, I think we're going in by Zodiac, and taking the covert approach, which means that your attachments would probably be along the lines of a Heartbeat Sensor, silencer, holographic sight, and for you, the box."

"The... box?"

"The box. Shepherd usually plugs it into rookies' guns. Just a tiny microfilm camera set to monitor your combat performance and reactions."

"Shepherd's a control freak, isn't he? Why does he care?"

"By the way, the box is activated at his discretion, meaning that it could be on right now, meaning that he heard that and is on his way here right now."

"Oh, please, he's talking to Admiral Drako or..."

Someone knocked—or, more appropriately, pounded on the hatch.

"No, he's not."

"What we have here is a Beretta M9," Dunn outlined, "also known as the 'Italian-piece-of-crap-that-somehow-gave-the-Colt-1911-the-boot.' Since that was too long to file on a 'This thing sucks' report, they just settled for 'piece-of-crap...' Hey, kid, you listening?"

"It's really cold in here..." Chiyo muttered. Exhaling, she could see her own breath in a cloud of steam—the meat locker must've done its job well before it switched from preservation of beefy freshness to preservation of human life. She realized that it was the first thing she had really complained about all day, despite the horrors she had already witnessed, but she still couldn't help but feel a little guilty, since she wasn't doing any of the fighting. "I... I'm sorry, it's just a little distracting..."

"Yeah, whatever. Look, Sleeping Beauty over there," he gestured to Raptor, unconscious against the wall, "isn't listening, and I've always hated feeling like I'm talking to myself, so just try and pay attention, OK?"

"I'll try..."

"Good, that's all I needed. Now, back to pull-the-trigger 101." Dunn held up the pistol. "See how much this thing sucks? Don't drop it, or it might get an amoeba on the hammer and jam or some crap like that. Obvious lack of production competency aside, the operation's rather simple. Take your magazine here—loaded ones work best, if you have them—and slide it up into the grip, bullets facing nose-first down the barrel. At this point, you take the slide and jerk it back like this." He pulled back on the slide. "Now, being serious and speaking from experience, not condescending in any way, don't try it like this, or you'll get the web of your hand pinched. One thing the Italians got right on this thing is that the spring is powerful, and a pinch from this thing will convince you that not only are you not dreaming, but you never will again. Keep that in mind, all right?"

"All right..."

"Finally, you get to shooting people. Just point, line these three dots up on whoever you're mad at at the moment, and very steadily pull back the trigger. Don't jerk it and don't be scared of it, or you'll bump off your aim just before you shoot, which means three things. There's still someone there, they know where you are, and you have one less bullet to use on them."

"I think I understand it now. I've just never used a gun before."

"Sometimes, it's better that way, kid. One last thing—only shoot at them if there are less than four targets or if you're not alone. If you ARE, and there are four or more, don't bother with aiming." He put the pistol under his chin. "Get my drift?"

"Hehe... right..." Suddenly feeling a little worried for herself, she surreptitiously scooted away from Dunn and closer to the unconscious Raptor.

"Well, it would make things easier for me..." Dunn muttered, handing Chiyo the pistol and pulling out two magazines he had changed out, reloading one from the other. "If Ramirez was a medic, then HE'D be down here chewing his nails and trying to be the nice guy. Mean old Dunn just wants to have things back to normal, but what the hell ever. Stuck babysitting some stuck-up little girl... I bet the SEALs and D-boys and crap never have to put up with this type of..." At about that point, thankfully, his mumbling lost coherence, but Chiyo noted, with some worry, that Dunn had started forcing the rounds into the magazine in such a manner that he sliced into his thumb.

"Ow! Jeez, that stings..." he brought his thumb to his mouth just as the meat locker door opened. Foley walked in.

"Dunn, I... are you SERIOUSLY sucking your thumb, Corporal?"

"N-yeah." Pulling it from his lips, he showed the cut. "Loading a mag when this happened."

"The edges of the magazines are blunted for that very reason... how did... never mind. Ramirez is leading the counterattack on Burger Town, and we're going with him. Tristan will take over watching Falcon and Raptor."

"Oh, hell yeah!" Dunn couldn't get to his feet fast enough. "Well, good luck, kid! Hope a bomb drops on you or something! See ya!"

Foley rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Tristan entered the meat locker, which was then slammed shut once again.

"Hey, Mr. Shepherd, I have to ask you something." Osaka whispered into the radio, her laptop's backlight giving her gentle features a gaunt, haggard appearance. "The whole invasion thing... on America..."

"What're you getting at, Furball?" Shepherd replied hoarsely. He sounded like Osaka looked—tired and stressed.

"I was wondering if you knew anything about a Mihama studying in... Virginia, I think. Yeah, that's what she said..."

"Chiyo? Chiyo Mihama, you mean?"

"Yeah! That's it! How do you know about her? Is she all right?"

"As soon as VC was made on the invading forces, a scramble was made to get all high-value individuals that might be targeted specifically by the Russians away from the East Coast to ensure their safety. Most of them made it out OK, including her father, but there's been no confirmation on the younger Mihama ever having left the state."

"Oh... I see..."

"I wouldn't worry. She was put in with a unit I know personally... I served in it for around twenty years. They've never failed me before, and they won't start at a time like this."

"That makes sense, but... I still worry."

"Furball, there's only one thing you can do to help Mihama, and that's to help us. That modem you programmed is our best hope to opening up the Axis front. Even now, their soldiers are starting to land in the streets above you. There's a lot more at stake than just the lives of our respective countrymen—never forget that."

"...oh."

"Anyway, one of my Task Force soldiers was killed in action, so I pulled another from a Japanese unit. She'll be your flag carrier for the modem run. I'm sending you the file now."

The email icon in the action tray popped up, and clicking it, Osaka was shocked at what she saw.

"Tomo..." she breathed. Suddenly, she felt like something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong...

The IL-76 was filled with spirited cheering that Lance Corporal Mikhalkov didn't have the heart to join in, as the Lieutenant, Kruschev, led the entire parachute unit in the recital of the national anthem. Fortunately, there were enough people crammed into the plane to hide the Lance Corporal's lack of participation.

"Predkami dannaya mudrost narodnaya! Slavsya, strana! My gordimsya toboy!" the singing was loud enough that Mikhalkov knew it could be heard from the ground. He settled for raising his rifle in the cheer that followed.

"Soldiers!" Kruschev yelled, "Today, we fight not just for our country! Not just for our families! We fight because blood has been spilled within our own borders! We fight for vengeance! For the loved ones we lost to JOSEPH ALLEN!" The American's name was practically spit out, like it was a rotten fish. "We will not rest before death or before their blood has been repaid in blood a million times over! They will know the fear our brothers, sisters, cousins, parents felt before they were murdered by the hundreds! THEY WILL KNOW TERROR!"

Another round of cheering. Mikhalkov was still silent.

"Saving your breath for the killing, Lance Corporal?" Another soldier asked, elbowing him in the rib. "You were always the smart one, you know."

"I just don't understand why we're going to Japan. They wouldn't have fought unless they were attacked."

"Japan is a shell, Mikhalkov! The Americans crawl under their surface like termites, even if Japan looks like its own country!"

"Explain to me why we flew right around South Korea, then, Bardzecki?"

"Because they're getting their asses HANDED to them! Besides, as soon as we crush Japan under our boots, nothing can stop us from crossing the Pacific and assaulting America from the west!"

"RED LIGHT!"

"Today will be forever known to the American cowards as the beginning of the end!" Kruschev finished, turning to face the ramp.

"Bardzecki, don't get carried away. We are soldiers, not murderers. There is a difference between us and Allen that makes our cause just. Be moral."

"You should listen to yourself. I'm no softie."

"GREEN LIGHT! Go, go, GO!"

Author's note: No country-bashing was intended, of course. That means that Italy, I'm not saying you're a terrible country. I'm just trying to get the story along. Having said that, read and review, fellas!