Author's Note: This should be about as many different lasting characters as I want to introduce now, so things will start moving faster from here on out.


Washington DC: The Pentagon. Five years ago.
"What the hell are you saying, General? I..." Admiral Drako lurched forward in his seat, the curly phone cord knocking over the bottle of scotch on his desk,"You... you're joking, right?"
"That's exactly it, Admiral." Shepherd groaned, "We didn't find Al-Asad. We found a nuclear warhead, and the bomb techs... I don't know, they botched the disarmament. We... we're still working on the casualty reports. It's not looking good."
"But... that's... can you give me an estimate? What units were involved?"
"1st Marine FR, 3rd Marine FR, HMLA-367, HMM-268... shit, I can't give you an estimate, Admiral. Marines, Army, Navy SEALs, all of them are dead or dying from radiation right now. I'm doing everything I can, but..."
"367..." Drako whispered, glancing at the picture on his desk. It was of a young woman in a tan flight suit, with her arm around Drako's neck, grinning broadly and flashing a peace sign while standing next to a parked AH-1 Cobra.
"There were several Force Recon teams and light fliers that didn't make the safe distance... they were aiding a downed pilot. Deadly. They picked her up, but... Admiral? Is something wrong? Admi-"
Drako set the phone back down on the receiver, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. It was... he couldn't describe the feeling. In all of his years in service, he had never experienced one like it.
With a roar, he swept everything on his desk off, books, papers, folders, the lamp, and the phone receiver all flying out onto the floor, and sprawled out on to the now-empty space like a discarded ragdoll, feeling just as alone and even more helpless. Anyone who thought a Navy SEAL, three-star Admiral, and genuine roughhead could never cry would be rendered silent at the scene, as Drako began to sob.


Shepherd was on the last flight out. Nothing could brighten his mood to anything above the cold Atlantic storm outside as the C-17 followed its brethren Stateside, loaded down with the last of the marines, soldiers, and airmen involved in the theater.
No one spoke. The massive loss of life had finished tallying at over 30,000 US servicemen alone... more than half of the gradual death toll Vietnam had garnered. Several of the men on board eyed the general sullenly, watching his face for any sign of sorrow at the loss... all they saw was anger.
"I knew it..." he muttered at last. "I knew that we should've gone after Zakhaev sooner. Instead of leaving him to those British pussies... they can't do anything halfway..."

"Sir..." One Marine, a Corporal, approached carefully. "I was given a letter from the Cobra pilot I served under before she took off... she said to give it to you in case she didn't make it back. I don't mean to..."

"Why? Who was this pilot, Corporal?"

"It was First Lieutenant Pelayo, sir. She told me you'd be the only person who could reach her father."


It was the next day that Drako had finished typing up his resignation form. The entire Pentagon was now a beehive of activity, the nuclear blast shaking everyone to their very core. Normally, he would be at the very heart of the beehive, doing everything he could like everyone else, but his own loss was far too great for him to go on like this.

His office was clean and neat, which never happened on a regular basis. For his length of service, he was enormously informal, and his office generally reflected this. He had to prepare it for the next person to occupy it—they'd need it, whoever they were.

"Admiral!" Someone knocked on the door desperately—a familiar voice sounding off. "Urgent letter for you from Brigadier General Shepherd!" The hatch swung open, and the short man ducked into the room.

"Petty Officer Timothy..." Drako said absently, immediately setting off a warning light in Timothy's mind. As was mentioned, Drako was the most informal flag officer in the Navy, and referred to his secretary as 'Tim' or even 'Gary'... the sudden formality, combined with the tidied office and neat dress uniform caused Timothy to stop hurrying for fear that his officer was...

"Admiral, what's wrong? What're you holding?" He asked, wide-eyed, as he contemplated the unthinkable. "You're not... resigning, are you? You can't be!"

"If they don't let me, I'll act up until they discharge me and throw me in the brig. I can't take it any more." Straightening his sleeves, Drako walked around his desk, collecting his suitcase, heading for the door and pushing Timothy aside.

"You... you can't! Not now, we need you at your best! And you ARE the best! Here, take the letter." Drako stopped at the door as the Petty Officer said this, "General Shepherd handed it to me personally! He told me it was top priority."

Drako was motionless, his back to his soon-to-be former secretary.

"I can't take this top priority, top secret, day-in-day-out office bullshit anymore!" He finally yelled, tossing the case to the ground. Its contents spilled out, the rusty old latch of the fifty-year-old pack finally breaking. Papers, pictures, letters, folders...

"Admiral, this isn't anything related to intelligence! Shepherd gave it DIRECTLY to me to give DIRECTLY to you! Told me to show it to NO ONE else! Even if you are leaving... I have a feeling you'll still want to read it."

Finally, Drako conceded, taking the envelope and opening it unceremoniously, pulling out the letter.

"Dad,

It's me, Shelby. Never was much of a letter-writer, just like you, huh? If only writing letters was like giving speeches to motivate these sacks in my squadron.

"Anyway, if you do end up reading this, that means I'm not around. I wish we could've gone to Coney Island one more time, like we always did when I was a kid, when my dad was the heroic Navy SEAL Captain and all, but hey, Heaven's close enough, right? I'm just glad you raised me better than some of these nuts I work with... hell, Keating's an Atheist. I bet you didn't know that. If you hadn't kept me going to Church all my life, this'd all be some sappy bit about the great void and crap like that.

"Being serious, though, I know you must feel pretty awful. We were pretty close, I understand. But the only thing I'd ever truly regret in dying would be that you would be left alone. It's hard, but you have to keep being the same old bastard I knew and loved, for the sake of all those crazies in the Pentagonium and for all of your subordinates. Or you and I're going to have a little sit-down once you get here, trust me on that one.

"There were times I could've been a better daughter, and there were times you could be a better father. Especially that one Thanksgiving. But in the end, we both stuck it out, and we helped each other grow up, so I don't regret one thing.

"Don't be sad that I'm gone. God has a plan for all of us, and if you're still around, there's something you should be doing. Stay strong. Now literally, your little angel."


"Gunnery Sergeant Wattson."

"S... sir." The man on the hospital bed seemed to have more holes in him than a cheese grater, and his condition had only recently stabilized. He was the luckiest Marine Shepherd had ever seen, having been on a medivac bird and barely escaping the nuclear blast that had annihilated his comrades. Before then, he had been shot numerous times when he'd broken from his position to rescue another Marine that had been trapped under debris from a collapsing building, and by the time he'd carried that man to the helicopter, he'd practically collapsed into it himself from blood loss.

"You look pretty smoked, Marine."

Wattson shook his head and leaned back. "What're you here for, General?" He growled.

"I heard of your acts from that man you saved and the crew chief of the medivac bird, and..."

"If this is some damned commendation, you keep it. Use the ribbon to make a uniform and the medal to make a rifle."

"Gunnery Sergeant... they're saying you're probably not going to fully recover." Shepherd said.

"Let 'em say that. I don't care, I'll get back into the field somehow. I'll fight until every single man killed by that blast is avenged a thousand times over."

"But who is responsible for that bomb, Wattson? Do you know?"

"Al-Asad and his cronies. They'll..."

"Not so, Wattson, this isn't something I keep open. When you make that full recovery, you come to me." Shepherd handed the Gunnery Sergeant a sheet of paper. "You and I, along with a few other choice individuals, are going to take the fight to the very men responsible and make them pay for what they've done."

Wattson reached out with trembling fingers and took the paper, unfolding it and reading the header.

"Task Force 141..." it began...


Two weeks after Shepherd began his Task Force, a different Marine was reporting to a different officer in an entirely different place. The Pentagon... hallowed ground. Every step had been taken lightly, and the young PFC had made every effort to avoid upsetting its sacred balance, which was dying down slightly in the wake of the blast.

The man behind the desk, a Petty Officer 1st, punching in characters on the computer rapidly, barely noticed him. He was clearly hard at work, as the beads of sweat down his forehead and the stack of paper coffee cups beside him evidenced.

"Um... excuse me, I don't know if this is the time..." the boy began.

"Go on in. Drake's been expecting you." Without looking up, the Petty Officer tapped the phone. "PFC Miller, coming in, sir."

"Good."

"Thank you, sir." After a second, the NCO looked up. "You still here? Go on in the office, Private. No one's going to eat you."

"Aye, Petty Of-"

"Get in the damned office already!"

The Petty Officer's sudden outburst scared the living daylights out of Miller, who was in the office literally before the desk jockey could finish... and he found himself in a completely different world.

"Welcome, Miller. Take a seat for me, will you?" The man before him offered. He clearly hadn't been doing very much work, and had a massive stack of donuts and an enormous bottle of scotch on his desk. He'd been chipping away at both, and he gave more an impression of the hardboiled Master Chief forced into an office setting.

"Aye, Admiral."

"Please, Drako's fine. Unless you plan on pissing me off." Drako pushed the plate of donuts on his desk closer to Miller's side. "Help yourself."

"Thank you... Drako." Miller nodded, but refrained from taking any of the donuts at the moment. "So, might I ask why I was called here?"

"I'll give you the short version, kid. Your great grandpa... you know him well?"

"He's all right... at least, as far as a 90-year-old WWII veteran can go... but, what does this..."

"I'm getting to it. Your great grandpa was in a very special unit, the 2nd Raider battalion... Carlson's Raiders. I read his files, and I'd say he was damned insane, even by Marine standards. But that's why he did so well. He ever tell you about the time he commandeered a Japanese triple-25 AA gun and used it to fend off a whole company of hostiles?"

"He pretends to forget he told me just to tell me again."

"Old age'll do that to you... son, the Marine Raiders were disbanded seventy years ago, but... I have a feeling that its legacy lived on somewhere in you. And, if you're up to it..."

Drako reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velcro MCCUU unit patch of simple design, showing a skull in front of two crossed lightning bolts.

"We can revive that legacy. Starting, with the 5th Raider Battalion. Pelayo's Raiders."


"Pelayo's Raiders..." Sergeant Miller mumbled, inaudible over the roar of the Sea Knight's engines, his eyes fixated on the battered old dogtags. MILLER, CRAIG J, they said. All that remained of that man now, he thought, clenching them tightly in his fist.

His mission briefing stuck in his mind. The first step was insertion, which was to be done by boat. Specifically, both teams would conduct a 10-10 insertion near two Navy SURCs that were in the area. They'd hit the beach from there and sneak into Tokyo.

From there on, they had two objectives. Disable enemy anti-air around the area that was going to be their primary LZ, and take out the propaganda radio station in Tokyo Tower. Just another day at the office?

"Damn, old man," he muttered to the dogtags, "I never knew how you felt... I feel like I will soon enough, though..."

"Victor 2, this is Victor 1." The radio crackled to life, as the pilot of the first Sea Knight raised that of Miller's bird, "we've got a mystery noise coming from the aft rotor and some bad vibes. We're returning to Whiskey November, how copy, over?"

"Solid copy, Victor 1." The pilot of Miller's bird switched communication lines. "Fourthwall, this is Victor 2. Victor 1's having engine troubles, please advise, over."

"Victor 2, Fourthwall. Recommend mission abort, over."

Miller made his way to the chopper's cockpit. The flier noticed this, and nodded.

"That's a negative, Fourthwall. Scratch that, we'll handle the mission as planned, over."

"Copy that, Victor 2. Good hunting, over and out."

The pilot looked back and gave Miller a thumbs-up.

"Team 2, you're on your own once you're off the SURC. Don't die on me, over." He recommended."


"Load him into that Humvee, Private. You're with us now." The National Guard Sergeant instructed, as soon as he saw Ramirez hobble up with Raptor over his shoulders. "Get these cars moving back, soldiers. Regroup at the old mall..."

"Wait, wait, what?" Ramirez asked, setting Raptor down in the Humvee and walking toward the Guard sergeant. "Excuse me, Sergeant, but my commanding officers were just taken prisoner, along with an HVI we were tasked with protecting. I can't fall back to any rally point."

"You, excuse ME, Private, but your commanders' inability to defend themselves isn't my concern. Wars aren't won in a single day..."

"I don't believe this!" Ramirez drew the attention of every National Guardsman in the convoy, but he didn't care about all of the eyes that were on him now. Dunn and Foley had been captured, were probably under interrogation right now, and Mihama... the thought brought a fresh wave of seething anger over him, and he let his 'superior' know it.

"I'm an Army Ranger, for God's sake!" He spat furiously, "Special Forces! 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment! I went through RS at Fort Benning, I've been fighting through hell for the past few hours, and you come along and tell me to abandon my mission, my comrades, and a girl, not even twenty years old, who've all fallen into enemy hands! Well, EXCUSE ME, but I'm not going to be taking orders from a National Guardsman who won't guard the nation!"

Before the Guardsman could retort, Ramirez stormed off to one of the trucks and threw off the cover on a few weapons crates. He removed two Stingers and one AT-4 launcher, slinging them over his back, and a few extra magazines for his M4.

"I'll be needing these, sir." He growled, starting back the direction he'd come.


"You like jokes?" The Russian asked, almost insultingly, as he toyed around with the slimlined laptop Chiyo had been carrying in her bag, probing at it to determine how to proceed. His English was broken and accented. "What fails 91 days after you buy it?"

Chiyo, while having been treated better than Foley and Dunn, the soldiers she'd been captured with, was still trapped in a small room with an armed man... which scared her too much for her to respond.

"A toy with 90-day warranty!" He finished, practically falling over himself laughing. "You need to loosen up! Here, I've got some candy I pick up from a store. You like candy?" He made good on his word, picking a couple of caramel squares from his pocket, before noticing the expression on her face. Muttering something in Russian, he set the candies in front of her before resuming his work on the laptop.

"You were used, you know this? The Americans, they forced you to carry computer with them, yes? This computer is... very, very important for us. You will be released without injury.

"What about the soldiers that were captured rescuing me? Will they be released?" She asked, prompting a strange look from the Russian.

"Is... not that simple. They are the criminals we are punishing now. We cannot release murderers and deceivers. Is not our way."

His efforts to crack the computer failed again, and it flashed a yellow screen at him. Swearing in Russian, he abruptly drew his pistol and fired it several times at the wall. Chiyo ducked and screwed her eyes shut, hoping she wasn't his next target.