Welcome to another exciting round, sports fans! Here's the next chapter, plus a commentary on the smokewagons, hog legs and heaters we left out of our previous commentary on the topic. (Guns, for those of you who don't habla.) Enjoy!
Caulfield and her team pulled up at the lot in front of Richard Earlmeyer's base of operations, inadvertently retracing his arrival a good half hour before. Caulfield was armed with a phone warrant and four other FBI agents; that would just have to do. Long-past training filled her head as she pulled a ballistic vest over her suit and checked her gun. Securing the perimeter, checking for sentries, a stealthy approach, violence of action through a well-prepared explosive entry...all those good things she didn't have time for. They'd just have to wing the entry through the front door and hope for the best. She took point without a word, and the team fell in behind her. She jogged toward the front door, gun pointed down and eyes sweeping up to check for snipers out of reflex. After covering the distance of the open lot, they stacked up at the door, and Caulfield took a final breath - this was the point of no return.
At her nod, the agent with the breaching shotgun fed three shells into the hardened door lock, blowing it completely out of the door. A swift kick swung the metal door aside, and again Caulfield took the first steps into a new situation. The loading dock behind the door was a mess of opened crates and discarded plastic wrap, with a bloody trail leading from the door to a pallet. Caulfield took everything in as she moved further forward, her gun's muzzle sweeping the wide open space in search of a target. Finally, she reached the pallet and stopped, with the other agents fanning around to build a perimeter. One called out "Clear!", then another, and Caulfield lowered her gun. At her feet, underneath plastic sheeting, laid a bloody corpse.
"Spread out!" Caulfield shouted. "I need this place searched top to bottom!"
"You got it," one of the agents replied. Caulfield didn't check to see who it was; the dead body was a more urgent matter. Caulfield quickly pushed her rifle onto her back and took a knee, ripping the sheeting away. Professional as ever, she checked for a pulse on the body and found none; given the pool of blood on the floor, it would have been a miracle to see the man still alive. Caulfield quickly pulled out a pair of latex gloves, pulled them over her hands and started checking the body. His legs were badly shot up and mangled, but had been tied off in a rather haphazard manner to staunch the bleeding; the duo of gunshot wounds straight to the middle of his chest was a likelier cause of death. She pulled his shirt open to get a better look at the wounds and found a Globe & Anchor tattoo sitting on top of the man's right pec.
"Marine or poser?" Caulfield muttered, still inspecting the body; the agent that still stood next to her to guard against the off chance that the raid turned into an ambush turned to look at her.
"Sorry, didn't catch that," he said.
"Is he a Marine or a poser?" Caulfield said out loud, looking up the agent. "Good physical build, medium reg haircut, so my guess is he's legit, or at least used to be. The tourniquets on his legs are too tight, but it's the kind of first aid soldiers would try. He made it from the firefight all the way here and then they killed him - he was slowing them down, I guess, but look at this" - she pointed to the discarded foil packets of sterile wound dressings - "they tried to help him. They wanted to save one of their own...but they ran out of time, and whatever they're after is more important than any one of them, so their backs are probably against the wall. And the guys we nabbed are all ex-military. I'm guessing the ones who are still with Earlmeyer are, too. So, he's hiring people who can handle themselves, but as team players - people who follow orders. Where did he find so many of them?"
"Craigslist?" the agent offered, aiming for a quick joke.
"We'll look into that later," Caulfield said. "What else do we have? Crates full of guns, a lot of them are missing." She shook her head. "So, Earlmeyer and his men are headed off to another firefight and they've got nothing left to lose. We have to figure out where they're going, because whatever they're planning next probably doesn't involve asking nicely."
Caulfield hauled herself back to her feet and jogged deeper into the warehouse, past the opened crates strewn about the loading dock. The labels were unhelpfully alphanumeric, but each was tagged with a QR barcode. Agent Eaton saw his boss jangling past and hustled to catch up with her, an bright orange device in his hand.
"You know what this is, boss?" Eaton asked.
"Laser scanner, probably for the QR codes on the crates," Caulfield replied flatly.
"Not just any scanner, but an encrypted scanner for reading encrypted QR codes, like Mr. Earlmeyer used here," Eaton said. "Without this, those stickers are useless."
"But we do have it, so..."
"Well, that crate" - Eaton pointed to a small wooden box tipped on its side - "read like a townhall meeting at a small Swiss village. My guess is high-end watches - small, light, valuable. The one over there was rare earths, platinum, iridium, rhodium, stuff like that. Only 150 pounds or so, but worth over four million dollars. There are some gold bricks over in another crate, but he didn't take any of those - too heavy, I guess."
"And the giant walk-in safe?" Caulfield asked, pointing at it as they walked past.
"Completely cleaned out," Eaton said. "According to the inventory, that was full of plastic containers labeled as containing bearer bonds, all sorts of currency, and a dozen small boxes each just tagged with a description and a flash drive brand. I figure he ripped off his clients and ran, but what's up with the flash drives?"
"Cash, bonds and metals get him funds now, and stolen info gets him safety from his clients and picked up and protected by the CIA or someone else as an asset," Caulfield said. She answered Eaton's curious look with a "leave it be" stare. "Another life, Nick. Any weapons missing?"
"Yes, they ripped open a couple of crates," Eaton said. "I'll need a few minutes to get you a list of what's missing, though. They made a hell of a mess of it."
"Do it fast," Caulfield ordered.
"Yes, Ma'am," Eaton said, rushing off to make sense of the chaos around them.
Caulfield jogged up the steps to the warehouse's office, her rifle still held at the ready and tactical vest jangling with each step. Inside, three other FBI agents were turning the office upside-down. The cheap filing cabinets were eviscerated, their drawers hanging out, leaving the beaten 1960's era formica-topped desk to Caulfield.
"Pictures taken of the desk surface, medium and close scale?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," one of the agents replied.
Caulfield rifled through the papers on the desk to being with, sorting them into stacks - most were simple items received or items sent notices or receipts for services rendered, but with names she recognized from DEA, ATF and FBI bulletins, most with notices like "armed and dangerous," "vast criminal ties," and "do not approach". The rest of the mess on the desk was simply loose paper notes with cryptic or meaningless notes that went into a stack of their own. The surface of the desk sorted for processing, Caulfield gingerly opened the drawers one by one. Aside from the standard collection of office supplies, the only items of note were a half-consumed bottle of high-end whiskey, a half-empty box of .45 ACP ammunition, and a locked cash box. A borrowed prybar later, the box's cheap lock gave way to reveal rolls of bills, bound with thick rubber bands and each marked with a dollar amount. Caulfield's quick mental arithmetic came up with a grand total of $22,175, and space for at least five or ten grand more. Probably almost exactly ten grand, Caulfield thought, remembering the amount Barrett confessed to taking to turn the other way while Valdez snuck out.
The search was interrupted by a ringing phone; Caulfield recognized it as the network operator's default jingle, but the muffled sound proved hard to locate. It was only when she grabbed a nearby trash bin and emptied it out on the floor that the phone saw the light of day again.
Caulfield cautiously grabbed the phone; the display read "Valdez". She quickly tapped on the screen to answer the call. "Mr. Valdez, this is Special Agent Sandra Caulfield from the FBI. What is your situation? Are you injured?"
"Your concern is touching, Sandra," came Pope's bemused voice. "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else, though. So, I take it you are at Mr. Earlmeyer's base of operations now?"
Caulfield ground her teeth together at Pope's smug response. "Yes. Where did you get the phone you're calling on? Earlmeyer left a smartphone behind, and when you called, it showed 'Valdez' on the caller ID."
"Mr. Valdez left more of a trace than I initially believed," Pope replied. "Tell me what you've found so far."
"Piles of paperwork," Caulfield replied. "It seems that Earlmeyer is very good at bookkeeping for his criminal enterprise. I need to know more about whatever it is you're not telling me if I'm going to have more context here."
"Considering neither of us knew about Mr. Earlmeyer when we parted ways, maybe we are equally clueless about the larger context," Pope replied. "Interesting that he would leave so much of his business simply lying around for you to find, though."
"One of his men is downstairs with two contact gunshot wounds to the chest," Caulfield said, "and it looks like Earlmeyer ripped off his clients for whatever valuables or guns they were storing here. I don't think he's coming back."
"If that was true, there wouldn't be a warehouse for you to search," Pope quipped.
"Not everyone throws their whole life in the incinerator to avoid a parking ticket like you do, Pope," Caulfield shot back. She started to shuffle through the stacks of notes for any clues to his whereabouts left behind.
"And I suppose that is why you were able to find him," Pope replied. "If you are done sniping at me, Sandra, then this conversation is over."
Caulfield stopped cold on a note: "White Tie Events - Debt settled". She snapped her fingers and turned to Agent Eaton. "White Tie Events, that's the company the Spanish contracted for tonight, right?"
"Uh...yeah," Eaton replied, not liking the implications.
"I'm already en route to the hotel," Pope said, drawing Caulfield's attention back to the call. "I'd appreciate it if you called ahead and told Agent Cooper to get out of my way. Update me if you find anything else. I would also appreciate if you could tell me what weapons he has with him."
"Not without a reason," Caulfield replied. "You either tell me what's going on here or play by my rules."
"Earlmeyer has a way into the reception," Pope said. "I know how people like him think. He's not escaping yet. He's making a final run."
"For what?" Caulfield shouted into the phone. "If he's trying to kill Valdez or his daughter, I need to know! If he's trying to steal something that's going to be there, I need to know what it looks like! The time for you and Bledsoe's cloak and dagger bullshit is over, Pope! Tell me what I need to know, or get the fuck off of my case!"
There was an audible breath on the other end of the line. "Sandra," Pope began, "do you honestly think I would be asking you questions if I knew everything I needed to know? I know he's going to the reception and I know that he's not there for the open bar. I assume your men can at least manage to pick out Valdez trying to enter the reception. That leaves all the other guests, but let us assume for the moment Earlmeyer is after the one guest we know is connected to this: Valdez's daughter. Does he want to talk to her, kidnap her, kill her? I don't know, Sandra. I'm not psychic. What I know is you need me up there stopping it. You can be indignant with me and Colonel Bledsoe all you want after the threat has been resolved."
Caulfield fumed at Pope through the cell phone. She could tell that he was half-bullshitting her, the problem was that she could also tell that he was halfway telling her the truth. "Fine. But you and your paramilitary goons step out of line and I will arrest all of you - and the old man can cram it up his ass."
"Less threats, more clearing my way," Pope said. Then he hung up.
"God-dammit," Caulfield cursed before keying down on her radio. "All tactical team members, report back to the SUVs. Earlmeyer is on his way back to the reception, possibly with the aid of the catering service. We leave in two minutes."
Jaime's experience over the last few minutes had chiefly been one of standing in someone's way. After half an hour nearly alone with Gracia, the first group of diplomats and bureaucrats trickled into the Venetian Room for the grand reception. Jaime tried to find a spot to watch Gracia and the whole room at the same time, but standing to the side only left her uncomfortably far from Gracia and feeling incredibly obvious. So, she settled for standing five feet or so from Gracia, head on a swivel - not exactly the least conspicuous position, but Jaime knew that Gracia was never out of her reach in case things went bad.
Gracia's job, to mingle and smile, seemed infinitely easier. Scanning the first few attendees, Jaime took in groups of faces and postures, trying to read the energy of a room much more sedate than her usual crowd. Nobody seemed dangerous or even agitated, and the opening salvos of the chatter around her - have you heard about so and so's godson, she's taking a hiking trip to the Adirondacks, let's discuss the trade deficit after dinner - seemed poised to put her to sleep. Waiters in what Jaime recognized as the hotel's uniforms darted between the socialites, carrying trays of champagne flutes that seemed to slowly empty all by themselves. Jaime didn't need to check her watch to know that the opening speech and the main crowd were still at least fifteen minutes away.
A tiny rumble from within her purse broke her concentration; with her eyes still watching over Gracia, she fumbled her cellphone out of the purse and glanced down at the screen to find a short message from Becca.
OMG saw Shawn at B Library says he wants you back 4 volunteer work MAYBE a job later Whos the best lil sis? :D
Jaime smiled at the thought of being back with her old friends. Then a thought struck her, and the smirk flipped to a frown before she looked down at the phone and tapped out her reply. So you and Will went after all? He didn't tell me...
There was a longer-than-usual pause before Becca's reply came back; Jaime glanced down to read it. Oops. Sorry :( But he just wanted to work and I really had to go to the library and I'm REALLY sorry :( :(
Jaime sighed and wrote a new message in bursts between looking over the husband and wife that approached Gracia. You don't have to apologize to me, you have to apologize to Will. You'd better mean it, he really wanted to spend time with you.
Becca's reply came in as fast as it could be typed. Jaime please I'm really REALLY sorry. :((
Jaime shook her head slightly as she watched Gracia continue to make small talk. Then say that to Will. We'll talk about this when I get home.
Becca's reply was to the point: Okay fine. :( Sorry.
Jaime sighed, her eyes lingering on the phone for a few seconds. Even she felt bad about scolding Becca like this. Becca, I'll NEVER leave you, ever, but you need to give Will a chance, okay? :) *hug*
...okay. :) *hug* Love you, Jaime.
Jaime smiled again as she tapped out a final message. Love you too, Becca. Later.
As Jaime slid her phone back into her purse, being careful not to scratch it on either the gun or the taser, Gracia slid up next to her. "Any word on my father? Or any problems?"
"Only for my little sister," Jaime said with a smile. "So, where to next?"
Gracia nodded across the gradually filling room to the almost-empty bar. "The man and woman over there work with my father on promoting trade on the United States west coast. I should probably shake hands."
Jaime watched as the couple impatiently waved for the bartender to stop stocking the bar for the night's event and take their order. "They seem...nice," Jaime said as the wife rolled her eyes as the barman approached.
"They are horrible people, but they do a lot of business, so I have to smile for them." Gracia put on an exaggerated grin.
Jaime laughed. "Then let's go entertain the horrible people," she said, a bit wiser about how difficult Gracia's life really was.
"Gracia!" the wife declared as Gracia walked up, Jaime close behind. "How are you, dear?"
"Excellent, Cristina," Gracia replied, keeping up the approved facade that all was well with a smile and warm handshake. "And yourselves?"
"Dying of thirst," the wife replied, and gestured towards the approaching barman. "Armand?"
The husband nodded and turned to the barman. "Finally," he said. "An Old Fashioned and a Sidecar for my wife. And in this century, if you please."
"Yes sir," the barman replied. Gracia continued to make small talk with the couple, while Jaime took another look around the room. The ballroom was still nowhere near capacity; the newest arrivals either stuck together and dissolved into the few existing clumps, leaving wide spaces between each group. Between the plumper shapes of the older diplomats, the lean figures of what Jaime figured were a handful of military officers stood out. She wondered idly how much military procurement money was going to get spoken for that night. However, she also saw the handful of waiters circling around to clear their tablets before rushing off to get more champagne flutes. Where's the rest of the crew? she wondered.
Jaime turned back to the barman, who she saw frantically running through a cocktail guide book. Her eyebrows shot up. How long has this guy been tending bar? she thought. I think even Becca knows how to make an Old Fashioned and a Sidecar by now. Gracia's conversation fortunately distracted his two patrons from his desperate search, but when he reached for a bottle of an aged and smoky scotch for his Old Fashioned, Jaime cleared her throat and tapped on the bar. The barman snapped his eyes to Jaime, who quickly shook her head and mouthed "No" before reaching over and sliding out a bottle of decent bourbon instead. The barman nodded in gratitude and started mixing drinks. Jaime cringed as he spilled half of his jigger down the side of the glass and made up the rest with a pour. Okay, has this guy ever tended bar before? Jaime turned back to the floor, and watched a waiter struggle to put silverware out in the correct order. Has anyone here done their jobs before, this is supposed to be some fancy diplomatic event -
An instant later, Jaime snapped upright as the two different thoughts of the threat to Gracia and the curiously incompetent waitstaff collided. Carefully, she turned back to the bartender and looked him over again. This time, she noticed that his whole shirt was too tight - not like it needed a new fitting, but like it wasn't his shirt. The collar was too tight, the sleeves too short, and the tails popped out of his pants as he continued to fumble his way through mixing drinks. A brief pop of static from his belt as he turned around drew Jaime's eyes to another bad sign - a radio, and one much more complicated than she had seen before. Ginsburg's advice snuck back across her mind. If it feels off, get out. Well, this feels really off.
She turned and snatched Gracia away from her sparkling conversation. "We need to go now," Jaime whispered to Gracia, taking measured steps across the room with Gracia held just behind her. She stepped quickly towards an exit Jaime knew would lead them to the nearest elevator. Gracia knew better than to draw any attention to herself and fell in step after a second of trying to pick up Jaime's pace.
"What's going on?" Gracia whispered.
"I don't know who that guy at the bar is," Jaime replied, "but he's not FBI and he's definitely not a bartender. We're going back to the suite."
Jaime kept her back to the man at the bar, so she didn't see him reach for the transmit button on his radio. But underneath the harrumphing from Armand and Cristina over Gracia's abrupt exit, her bionic ear did pick up what he said next: "I think we're blown." Those four words sent Jaime's heart, already pounding in her chest, up into her throat. Oh God, oh God, they're everywhere, keep moving, get out of here! Every instinct told her to break into a flat run and drag Gracia along for the ride, but Jaime forced her panic down and didn't look back; her eyes flicking between the propped-open side exit and checking anyone even close to Gracia and herself for weapons, radios, or any sign of threating intent. "I think I'm in trouble, Ruth," she whispered.
Stay calm, Ruth advised her. Can you cover her, Ginsburg?
Setting up now, Ginsburg said.
"Who's Ruth?" Gracia asked.
"One of those friends I mentioned," Jaime replied. "We're almost at the door."
Got eyes on you, Ginsburg said. Looks like you're clear -
The main entrance to the ball room was flung open with a bang, the overly-dramatic opening denting the pillars on either side. Even before Jaime could get eyes on the new threat, she felt her adrenaline spike, the knot in her gut leaping up and constricting her heart. Four men in waiter uniforms topped by tactical vests stepped confidently into the room, brandishing big guns. The lead man, face concealed by a ski mask, fired an impossibly loud burst into the ceiling as he crossed the threshold. Jaime winced and reflexively ducked to the right, away from the automatic gunfire ruining the ballroom's expensive ceiling. "Everybody on the fucking floor, now!" the lead gunman shouted. The waitstaff reacted first. Half of them cowered down in fear, arms drawn over their heads, but the other half moved with purpose. They reached into their vests or trays or underneath tables, coming up with weapons of their own, and the bad feeling from before now plunged ever deeper inside Jaime's stomach. Her throat clamped shut and her train of thought narrowed to a single track: get the hell out.
Jaime grabbed Gracia's hand, aimed herself at the back exit and broke into a dead sprint, all but dragging Gracia behind her. Behind them, the attackers stormed into position and shouted commands while the VIPs on the floor screamed, scattered and scrambled for cover. Jaime pushed through the gaps between the panicked guests, cursing her heels, while Gracia followed in her wake. They rushed past a bodyguard who had just enough time to draw his pistol before one of the not-waiters shot him in the back; a gaggle of panicking diplomats shielded Jaime and Gracia from the intruder's sweeping look. The exit was tantalizingly close; so close that Jaime couldn't wait and shoved Gracia through the doorway to safety before hurling herself after her charge. The shifting momentum bounced her off the propped-open door and swung it shut behind her. Jaime almost rolled an ankle as she clattered to a stop, bracing herself against a nearby wall to keep from falling off her accursed heels.
Jaime turned to Gracia to make sure that she was, in fact, still in one piece as Ginsburg's voice sounded in her ear. Making seven hostiles, he said. Ready to engage, say the word.
"Are you okay?" Jaime said.
"I'm okay!" Gracia gasped between breaths.
Jaime, we need to get you out of there now, Ruth said. There's an emergency exit down the hallway, take the next left. Ginsburg, weapons safe, wait for Pope.
Acknowledging weapons safe, Ginsburg said. I should move downstairs and help Summers.
Stay where you are, Ruth replied. You've got no route to Summers and Pope can't clear the room by himself.
"What about Gracia and me?" Jaime asked as she helped Gracia to her feet.
Get moving, Ruth said. You have the gun with you, right?
"I'm not killing people," Jaime spat out as she worked her heels off and Gracia did the same. "Come on, Gracia, we're going down the hall and to the left. And I think you should have something." Jaime reached into her purse and produced the TASER, which she held out for Gracia to take. "It's a stun gun. Just point and shoot, if you have to."
Gracia nodded and took the weapon. "And you?" she asked.
"I'll manage," Jaime said.
Jaime helped Gracia to her feet, and the two women took off down the hall at a flat run for Ruth's escape route. Rounding the corner, all Jaime saw before she ran square into a large man with a gun were three other men, also carrying guns. She brought her arms up to defend herself against the first man as he reflexively grabbed her wrists and the others scattered in surprise. Jaime had no time to think, only to react. Her mind flashed to her college self-defense classes as she quickly turned around and raised her arms in the air. That dragged the man's hands with her and crossed up his arms; his arms locked, Jaime quickly bent over and to the side and yanked her arms down, hoping to break the man's grip. Instead, she just hauled him over her side, and with the man's hands still locked to her wrist, he faceplanted onto the floor, knocking him out of commission and ensuring that his dentist would be able to put his kids through college. Turn around turn around turn around! went the thoughts in Jaime's head, knowing full well that she had left her backside open to the other attackers with that move. She whipped around with her right arm already raised in front of her face, just fast enough to deflect the second attacker trying to pistol-whip her across the back of her head. When her blocking motion made his wrist slide off her arm, she brought her arm around - another self-defense drill - and managed to grab his wrist, pulling his surprised face into the same orbit as a haymaker from her left fist. Jaime was sure she'd cracked more of her knuckles than his face with that one, but it did manage to snap his head around; Jaime pulled him out of balance and he crumbled to the floor, stunned for the next few critical moments. However, he still held enough of a grip on Jaime's arm to keep her from raising her hand to block; when the third man in the melee raised his hand to smash Jaime's skull in with his pistol, she simply hauled her left leg back and kicked him square in the groin. He hit the ground, gasping for breath as Jaime worked her hand free, but then she saw something she couldn't block: the last man, aiming his gun at her. "Fuck you, bi-" he growled before his jaw clamped shut; his muscles froze in a second of perfect agony before he dropped to the ground like a sack of meat. Gracia shook the TASER at the man and gave him another jolt for good measure. "Fuck you!" was her eloquent riposte, before she turned towards the man Jaime's haymaker laid out and kicked him square in the face with her heel, putting him down for the count. "And fuck you, too!" she added.
Having dispatched the last threat, Gracia turned to Jaime and looked her over. "Are you all right, Jaime?"
"Hey, that's my line," Jaime said with a smirk as she worked the stinging out of her left hand. "Are you all right?"
Gracia pulled at the wires still attaching the last attacker to the TASER, popping the spent cartridge out of the weapon. "Yes, I'm fine." She returned Jaime's smile. "You did not do so badly, for someone who is not a bodyguard."
Jaime laughed at that. "Well, let's hope my luck holds, then," she replied. "Come on, exit's this way."
Commentary: The Guns of Bionic Woman Rebuilt, Part Two!
Heckler & Koch G36C
Heckler & Koch developed the G36 in the 90s as a replacement for the venerable G3 battle rifle still in service with the German military at the time. Unlike the G3 and its many derivates with their complex roller-delayed blowback system, the G36 uses a rotating bolt system taken from Eugene Stoner's (otherwise mostly unloved) AR-18, trading some mechanical precision for easier maintenance and lower production costs. The G36 was also notable for its many polymer parts and the carry handle with integral dual optics (red dot sight on top, magnified optic below for the Bundeswehr model), both of which were quite unusual when it was introduced. The G36 today equips the German and Spanish military as well as many police forces around the world. Its mechanism was used as the basis for two experimental assault rifles, the KE (kinetic energy) part of the OICW rifle/grenade launcher combination weapon and the XM8 rifle, both of which ultimately failed to be adopted by the US military, while its civilian variant SL-8 has found some success as a semi-automatic target rifle. The G36 itself was shortened into the G36K (for "Kurz") carbine and then again shrunk into the G36C (for "Compact") subcarbine, the latter of which replaced the distinctive carrying handle with a low-profile optics rail. The G36C equips Berkut's tactical teams, who value its overwhelming short-range firepower, maneuverability and, last but not least, the silhouette that makes it easier to pass themselves off as SWAT rather than criminals or a military unit, both of which would draw too much attention to their deployments in urban areas.
Cheyenne Tactical Invention M-200
Conceived in 2001, the CheyTac Intervention was built from the ground up as a long-range anti-personnel rifle. Previous military rifles for long-range work were usually chambered in either .338 Lapua, which was seen as lacking power for the truly long-distance shots in military sniping, or in .50 BMG, which was at its heart designed for super-heavy machineguns and seen as lacking inherent accuracy. CheyTac therefore designed their system around two proprietary calibers, the .408 CheyTac and later the .375 CheyTac, both designed to have a very high ballistic coefficient - the low drag allows the bullet to retain a high speed, which reduces flight time and thereby the influence of wind and gravity on the bullet's flight path. This was coupled with a rifle designed for maximum mechanical precision and a ballistic computer with weather sensors, a gadget that has since spread to many other users, as well as powerful optics and a laser rangefinder. Taken together, a skilled user can hit a man-sized target at well over two kilometers distance. Sara Corvus acquired a rifle of this type for her attempt to assassinate William Anthros, reasoning that an attack from a distance would allow her to bypass Berkut's security precautions. However, Jaime proved to be a capable spanner in the works, saving Will's life. The rifle currently resides in Berkut's armory, waiting for an equally skilled marksman.
AR-15 family (Colt M16/M4)
Derived from experiments with semi-automatic target rifles chambered for the .222 Fireball cartridge, Eugene Stoner's most famous creation had an inauspicious start in Vietnam, where the first M16s were issued without the spec'd chrome lining or cleaning kits while fed subpar ammunition, which quickly led to fouled chambers, unreliable guns and many frustrated soldiers. The issues were slowly ironed out with the M16A1, but the bad reputation stuck around for a while even as the M16 proved itself to be an accurate, lightweight assault rifle. Many attempts to develop a more compact version (the most successful one, the Commando, earned itself some respect in Grenada) finally led to the adoption of the M4 carbine, which today equips much of the US Army and is starting to penetrate the US Marine Corps, though many Marines still use the M16A2. The M16 is generally described as accurate and pleasant to shoot, but has a reputation for needing to be cleaned often - oddly enough, the overzealous cleaning regimens adopted to deal with this may be doing more harm than good as they increase wear on the gun. Enthusiastic adoption of the civilian AR-15 in the US has lead to an explosive growth in accessories and variants, making the AR-15 family one of the most adaptable weapons in the world. You've seen most of the military characters in Rebuilt handle one of those; Berkut keeps a stock of M4 carbines for when it has to "act in lieu of" (read: impersonate) an official US military unit.
Mark 14 Mod 0
Speaking of Vietnam, the M16's predecessor was the M14 rifle, essentially a rechambered Garand of WW2 vintage with an added full-auto fire mode. Military thinking at the time was that infantry battle rifles needed to have both range and power and be able to lay down automatic fire for close-range combat. Although German and Russian experience in WW2 had shown the importance of adopting intermediate-power calibers for automatic weapons and accepting that this would limit effective range to 400 meters or so, the USA wasn't ready to embrace this notion and instead pushed NATO to standardize on the 7.62x54mm NATO caliber, a full-power rifle cartridge. This created a class of automatic infantry rifles now usually lumped together as "battle rifles" - the M14, the FN FAL and the H&K G3 were the most prominent. It was soon found that the automatic firing mode on all three was too hard to control in most situations, effectively rendering the battle rifles semi-automatic except in case of being overrun at close range. The M14 then had the misfortune to be involved in Vietnam, where its weight was a serious problem while its power and range were less useful in the dense jungle than the M16's ability to lay down accurate automatic fire on the go. The M14 was therefore removed from frontline duty and relegated to ceremonial purposes, though it gained a new lease on life as a designated marksman rifle. The Mark 14 Mod 0 Is one of the newest variants in this line of weapons and places the M14 action in synthetic furniture, lightening the weapon and providing plenty of rails for attachments. The Mark 14's collapsible stock also improves its maneuverability, while the full-auto firing mode can provide serious firepower for door-to-door combat. It is Antoine Ginsburg's favored weapon.
Heckler & Koch UMP45
Like the G36, the UMP was a result Heckler & Koch's 90s strategy of trying to innovate and step beyond merely refining already successful designs; in the case of the UMP, it was to be a submachine gun to replace the venerable MP5. Although the MP5 had sold very well and earned a deserved reputation as a reliable and accurate weapon, it suffered from using a complex mechanism that many considered overkill for a submachine gun, not to mention that the MP5's price reflected the expense of manufacturing it. H&K reasoned that an MP5 replacement would need to be cheaper to reach another group of buyers in law enforcement, as well as offer a choice of calibers, as many police departments particularly in the US were not convinced that the MP5's 9mm Parabellum round was powerful enough. The complex roller-delayed blowback action was therefore scrapped in favor of a simpler mass-delayed blowback action; the UMP was offered in 9mm Parabellum, .40 S&W as well as .45 ACP, matching the most widely-used calibers among US police agencies. In the end, the UMP turned out to be different enough from the MP5 that both still have their place in the market, though it remains to be seen whether the current influx of automatic carbines like surplus military M4s will effectively end the days of US law enforcement using submachine guns. Berkut fields the UMP45 in situations where the higher firepower and penetration of the G36C would be problematic, particularly for use in buildings, airplanes or other tight quarters. A suppressor to preserve hearing, red-dot sights for quick target acquisition and frangible rounds to reduce the risk of overpenetration are standard issue.