Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Sledgehammer, Activision, and LucasArts.

Alright, this is something different for me, because other than sharing a few characters and the premise of a late war Commando raid to stop a secret German program, this story will not have anything in common with CoD: Vanguard... because that game is terrible. So if you're up for a grounded, but still alternate history WW2 story, then I hope this one will scratch that itch. Some of that alternate history stuff will come from another game that lent some characters and influence, however it's an obscure title that most of you haven't heard of, hence why I haven't labeled this a crossover.

Still, a big thanks to TheCarlosInferno and V-rcengetorix for their help in making this story come to fruition, and bearing with my harebrained ideas. Any feedback is welcome here as I mix it up a bit in terms of setting and story structure.


The Devil's Company

Chapter 1: S.O.E.

Headquarters of the Special Operations Executive

64 Baker Street, London, England

0759 Hours, December 13, 1944

On a particularly dreary winters morning, even for London, Major General Colin Gubbins ascended the steps of a wholly nondescript building near the center of the United Kingdom's largest city. The building's most unusual feature was the uniformed soldier standing guard outside, but that wasn't uncommon, not with so many government buildings dotting the capital city. Returning the corporals salute, Gubbins strode through the door opened for him and into the building. Inside, it appeared not much different than any other government office, staffed by a half dozen secretaries, all women, in plain blouses and conservative skirts supervised by a military officer. That officer was a particularly bright Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander that Gubbins had personally tapped to work under him.

"Top of the morning, sir," greeted the officer, coming to attention and giving the Major General a salute that was returned without fanfare.

While forty-eight years old, Gubbins still had a keen gaze that sought anything amiss as the short Major General strode through the lobby and made his way up to his office. Opening the door, Gubbins was met by his aide, a sharp lad from Oxford and the son of one of the council members Gubbins worked with who's enrollment in officer school had been declined due to the thick glasses he wore. "Good morning, General," he offered as Gubbins hung his cover on the rack next to the door. The aide then helped him remove his heavy overcoat and place that on the rack as well, "Your morning tea and papers are on your desk."

"Very good," the Major General complimented as he settled down behind the large, plain oak desk and picked up the tea. Taking a sip and letting the warm liquid ward off the chill that permeated the air. "Any changes to my morning schedule?"

"Yes sir, Group Captain Rork called and requested a meeting soonest. He's on his way for an 8:15 meeting." Gubbins looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised, prompting the aide to elaborate. "I suspect he's going to ask for permission to recruit some more pilots."

The commanding officer of Royal Air Force No. 675 Squadron was one of the many unique characters Gubbins oversaw in his role, and one that required him to learn much. As an army officer, his experiences included reporting on the effectiveness of Hitler's Panzers in Poland, heading a mission to Czech and Polish forces in exile, and leading troops in Norway. But after developing the Auxiliary Units in preparation for Operation Sea Lion, Germany's planned invasion, he'd been assigned to the Special Operations Executive. Many secrets revealed themselves in his time at the SOE, undertakings carried out by His Majesty's Government. One such mission was carried out by Rorks squadron, a daring raid that had crippled the ships of Sea Lion before they had left their docks in France.

Since then, the unit had proven themselves again, but their successes were matched by the demands of their leader, both to recruit new pilots and obtain new planes. When he wanted these things, Rork had a typical fighter pilot's attitude about it, preferring to ignore the usual chain of command and go straight to the top to make his requests.

And Gubbins, being the head of the Special Operations Executive, would have to be the one to hear him out.

He settled back, displeased. The Special Operations Executive, SOE for the paperwork, had been formed in 1940 for the express purpose of conducting espionage and reconnaissance in enemy territories. Their collective aim was nothing less than undermining the German war effort through all available means. Gubbins wholeheartedly agreed with Prime Minister Churchill's goal: they were to "Set Europe ablaze," and for four years they'd done just that. From aiding resistance groups across the continent to masterminding Operation Gunnerside, they'd paved the way for Allied landings in France earlier that year. There were some 13,000 personnel operating under the SOE's directive, and all were the sole responsibility of Major General Colin Gubbins.

"Marvelous," muttered the Major General with just the faintest hint of ire in his voice. "Anything else of note?"

"I believe one of the letters on your desk is about a report received by G section sir. From what I understand, WHITE ROSE sent them something yesterday. Her findings are always of interest," commented the aide.

"Quite so," agreed the head of the SOE as he picked the envelope in question out from the stack and took up his letter opener. While the SOE had hundreds of agents operating in dozens of territories, few had garnered the reputation of WHITE ROSE, whom's findings were usually related to the most terrifying of the Nazi's 'Wunderwaffes' and 'V-Weapons.' SOEs first knowledge of programs like the Junkers 390 'Amerikabomber,' various jet fighters like the Messerschmitt Me 262, and the V-2 ballistic missile all came from WHITE ROSE.

Removing and unfolding the multi-page report, Gubbins quickly read through its contents, face impassive except for the way the neatly trimmed mustache on his upper lip curved downwards by the time he had reached the end. "Have Wing Captain Rork sent up immediately upon his arrival and summon Captain Butcher. Clear my morning schedule and inform both men that they should do the same."

"In for a lively day, aren't we? I'll see to it personally," replied the aide as he left the office, leaving Gubbins with the report in his hand.

A new Nazi weapons programed that could turn the tide of war, even at this stage, that would require drastic action? It was another day for the Special Operations Executive.

"Lively would be an understatement," muttered the Major General as he sipped his tea.


Marine Corps Air Station Quantico

Quantico, Virginia, USA

1502 Hours, December 19, 1944

"Last lesson for the day, gentlemen," called out Captain Curtis Wright, silencing the group of forty or so students attending the Friday afternoon class on basic fighter maneuvers. The young Marines, all confident they would soon wear the same golden pin depicting the striped shield and anchor between outstretched wings that marked Wright as a Marine Aviator, fell silent. The Captain's reputation was well known, and even through his soft spoken midwestern demeanor, his words carried the weight of hard won experience. "When you see a stream of tracers flashing over your canopy from some Jap fighter up and behind you, what do you do?"

For a few moments, the question hung in the air. Wright knew why, these men aimed to be fighter pilots, and no man who aspired to be a fighter pilot ever imagined that some other fighter pilot would be better than them, and thus get on their tail. "Nobody want to take a swing at this one?" asked Wright, getting nothing but blank stares and shaking heads back from his class. "Alright then, well, I'll tell you. You turn into the bullets, fly right through them. It's the only chance you got."

"Uh, but sir," ventured one of the students. "Wouldn't it be better to turn away from the bullets, you know, so you don't get shot?"

A round of chuckles followed from the class, and even Wright smiled faintly. He'd been in their position only three years ago and knew how it was. But now at the age of 24, the combat veteran had a very different perspective on things. "You do that Mitchell, and I promise you that you'll make some Jap bastards day," said the Captain, silencing the class. Picking up a pair of aircraft models that he used as training aids, Wright held them up, the model of the Japanese Zero fighter above and behind the American Corsair, like his hypothetical question. "Say you do that, and you turn like this. All that guy has to do is slip right in on your tail, like so. After that, he's got you lined up nice and pretty, and one burst of his twenty mils and he's going home to brag to his girl that he bagged some dumbass Marine. And that will make his girl very happy, we all like it when our women our happy, don't we?"

"Rah," chanted back the group.

"So don't do that," emphasized Wright as he held the models back in their original positions. "Don't just turn away and give that SOB your tail, go into him. Dare him to come down and fight you, man to man. Once you do that, you can turn the tables on him and beat him. You do that, you can come home and tell your girl that you nailed yourself a Japanese fighter, which will make her very happy, she'll be impressed even." Setting the models down, Wright's mouth quirked into a small grin, "Except for Mitchell, who couldn't impress any lady."

Whatever Mitchell's response had been, it was drowned out by the raucous laughter that erupted from the rest of the class. Wright didn't bother to hide his grin and didn't feel an ounce of remorse over the embarrassment he had inflicted. Hopefully it would ensure the lesson stuck, and it was better to be embarrassed in a classroom than killed in the Pacific he figured. After the laughter died down, Wright looked to the class, "Are there any questions?" he asked. When none were posed, the instructor concluded, "Next time will be about how you turn the tables. Until then, have a Merry Christmas. Dismissed."

As the students filed out, Wright noticed that someone new had slipped into the room, a young woman in a Marine uniform, drawing the eyes of the last few young men leaving. "General

Jacobs wants to see you in his office as soon as possible, Captain Wright."

"Thank you miss, I'll be right there," replied the Marine Aviator. The woman left, and Wright quickly squared away the classroom and grabbed his jacket before making his way to the office of the commander of Marine Corps Base Quantico.

The 'G-1' jacket may not have been strictly uniform code, but Wright all but refused to not wear it. Brigadier General Jacobs had permitted it, understanding why the aviator was so keen on it. Where Wright himself was soft spoken, his jacket carried the marks of all his accomplishments. Over his heart was a patch depicting his wings, name, and rank. Below that was a circular patch from the squadron he had combat with, VMF-112, the Wolf Pack, with the squadron's wolf emblem on it. On the right side of his chest was the patch from his second assignment, and this one caught much more attention. It was a white shield with a bend sinister on it, a black bar of bastardry that went from top right to bottom left. On the shield were a Black Sheep, the numbers '214,' and, at the top, the distinct front profile of the gull winged F4U Corsair.

Captain Curtis Wright was one of the original 27 men that called themselves 'Boyington's Bastards' and formed VMF-214, the Black Sheep Squadron. Destroying over 200 Japanese aircraft and receiving a Presidential Unit Citation, the Black Sheep would cement themselves as one of the most successful Marine Corps fighter squadrons of the war.

To those who didn't know the meaning of the patch, the back of the jacket was the most striking. The artwork painted on depicted a red skinned, horned devil driving his pitchfork through a Japanese fighter and had the word 'Daredevil' written in script across the top. At the bottom were exactly sixteen 'Flags of the Rising Sun' representing the sixteen aerial victories Wright had scored in the Pacific. That was the reason he had a patch on his arm with three playing cards, the ace of clubs, hearts, and spades, because he was a 'triple ace.'

Knocking on the general's door, Wright heard the man call out, "Come in," and stepped inside. Brigadier General Jacobs was behind his desk, and two men the Marine had never seen before were seated across from him. One was wearing a civilian suit but the other? The other was wearing a jacket not unlike his own. Leather, with a sheepskin collar, and adorned with patches that Wright didn't know the meaning of, except for one depicting a pair of playing cards, both Aces.

Wright came to attention and saluted the old Marine, "Reporting as ordered sir."

"At ease son," returned the older man gruffly, returning the salute, "Close the door behind you and have a seat." Wright complied, taking the last available chair as Jacobs stuffed a cigar into his mouth and took a drag. "Tell me, Curt, how're the boys looking? Coming along nicely?"

"I think so, sir. Just like the last bunch really, young and eager," replied Wright. Brigadier General Jacobs was a veteran of the First World War and had returned to the Corps in December '41. Since his experience leading infantry was no longer needed, he had been given command of one of the most important installations in the USMC. Pushing sixty, the man had no knowledge of airplanes or air combat, and he seemed to think of pilots like Wright as magicians. At least that came with the upside that he was set in his ways and didn't spend his time bothering with things he didn't understand, letting Wright do what he thought best. "I'm sure once they're done here, they'll make good pilots."

"Good, good," returned Jacobs absent-mindedly. The brigadier general was puffing on his cigar more than listening until he finally set it down in the ash tray and leaned forwards. "Now listen son, these two gentlemen came from across the pond to speak with you and I'd hear them out if I were you," advised the one-star. With that, he leaned back again and replaced his cigar, "Go ahead gentlemen."

"Thank you general," returned the suited man before turning to face Wright and extending his hand, "Alfred Clarkson," he introduced, and Wright shook. "Pleased to make your acquaintance Captain Wright, you are quite the accomplished pilot after all." The man's smile had something behind it that Curtis couldn't quite place, but he was instantly put on guard, tensing ever so slightly. If Clarkson noticed, he didn't comment, instead pulling some papers out of his briefcase, some papers that Wright could see had his picture on it. "Captain Curtis Wright, born 19 July, 1920. Got your civilian pilot's license before you enlisted in the naval reserve in 1941, completed your flight training in February 1942 and accepted a commission with the Marine Corps on the first of April that year."

The man looked up as if he expected the Marine to comment, but Curtis just shrugged. He was still tense, but was now curious as well.

"Sent to the south Pacific that December, and you were awarded the Navy Cross and Purple Heart for an action in January 1943." There was another pause, and again, Wright held his nerve. "Spent six months in Hawaii recovering from the wounds you sustained before being cleared to fly. Reassigned to the 214th in July and returned to the South Pacific. You have been awarded a Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross for Valor with gold star, Air Medal with two gold stars and two silver stars, and the Presidential Unit Citation." Clarkson closed the folder and set it on the general's desk, "All of that, and they have you here…."

"I go where the Corps needs me most," answered Wright diplomatically, though the words came through clenched teeth. "If the Corps needs me to train new pilots, then I train new pilots."

"Of course," replied the suited man with that same smile that twisted the pilot's guts as bad as a rolling scissors. Wright's eyes flicked over to the other man in the flight jacket, trying to get a read on him, but found his features impassive. Only then did Clarkson do something that really took Wright by surprise. "How's your German?" he asked in that foreign language.

Shock colored the Marine Aviator's expression, but more from recognition than confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

The smile returned. "How is your German? Your mother did teach you, yes?"

Now Wright looked to Jacobs, but the man only gave the tiniest nod back. "Mediocre. I haven't been able to practice for some time," answered the Marine in the same language. But his mind was working faster now, wondering what in the hell was going on. These guys hadn't just pulled his record with the Marines, they had gone much more than that. Never had Wright mentioned that his mother, a German who immigrated to America in early 1914, had taught him the language of her native land. "Just who are you?"

"I represent His Majesty's Government," replied Clarkson in English, "A certain branch which, when required, works with military units such as those of which Squadron Leader Benjamin Trevor," he said, gesturing towards the man in the jacket, "Is a part. And when required, I gather information on those who might be suited to joining that unit and others like it. Your name, Captain Wright, has come to our attention."

"Uh huh," drawled the Marine carefully, looking at the two men and trying to guess what other cards they had in their hand. "Do you mind telling me what unit that is?"

"Royal Air Force Six-Seven-Five Squadron," supplied Trevor, "We're quite the eclectic bunch. Some Britons, like myself, Czechs, Poles, a Frenchman, we even have a few Yanks like yourself. Do you know what they all have in common?" Skeptically, Wright shook his head, prompting the Brit to continue. "They're the best at what they do, and the pilots like us fly the best planes."

Wright's eyebrow went up at that, he could feel that he was hooked, and that Trevor was reeling him in. "Our job is 'special' operations. Now Jerry's never made the job easy on us, but we've made a good account of ourselves so far. Are you interested in joining?"

There was only one question for the Black Sheep to ask. "Would I get to fly a Corsair again?"

"You can fly whatever you like, as long as you complete the mission," replied Trevor with a confident smile.

He only considered it for a second, already feeling the tinge of adrenaline in his veins again. "Then yes, I would be interested assuming I have permission to pursue this," said Wright as he looked at Jacobs, who had pulled a sheet of paper from his drawer and quickly signed it. The Brigadier General then passed it to him.

Curtis opened up the letter, but before he could get into it, the Brigadier General spoke. "You're being ordered to report to No. 675 Squadron to act as a Marine Corps Liaison to the RAF, effective immediately." The Captain looked up to see Jacobs was smiling and offering his hand, which Wright happily accepted. As they were shaking, the general said, "Go remind those lousy Hun bastards why their fathers called us 'Devil Dogs.'"

"With pleasure sir," returned Wright as he saluted the Brigadier General for the last time.

"Now go pack your bags and meet us in the hangers, our plane is waiting," informed Trevor. "Our first stop is Connecticut, where we have something of a Christmas present waiting for you. Oh, and Wright?" he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a patch. It was a red and silver shield with a black bird flying across it, and a ribbon on the bottom that had the words 'Celer Silens Mortalis' written on it. Offering it to Wright, Trevor said, "Welcome to the Battle Hawks."


Staging Ground, Red Army 70th Guards Rifle Division

2.5 kilometers west of Uzhhorod, Ukraine

1912 Hours, December 20, 1944

A keen pair of hazel eyes examined every surface of the freshly cleaned and oiled bolt assembly, illuminated by the oil burning lamp's soft glow, looking for any imperfections. Satisfied that there were none, the hazel eyed woman began deftly reassembling the pieces, using the guide rod to screw the firing pin back into place until the cocking knob was flush against the back of the bolt. Even if this was a process the woman had done hundreds of times, she always took great care when she had to do it again, slipping the guide rod around the firing pin and clicking it into place before giving the bolt head the same treatment. With that done, the last step was ensuring the assembled pieces gave off just the right 'click' to indicate that it was cocked.

Satisfied, the woman set the assembly aside and picked up the rifle it belonged to, a Mosin Nagant M91/30, but unlike most of the millions of 'Three Line Rifles,' this one was fitted with a four power PEM scope. The PEM was a simplified copy of a German optic made by Zeiss, which its current user felt some sense of irony over. It was longer than the more common PU, but more powerful than the 3.5 power PU that replaced it. The rest of the rifle had already received a thorough going over, but its user examined it once more, checking that the chamber was clear before looking down the barrel, trying to see the slightest imperfection.

Her task was hampered by the renewed sounds of the evening's festivities, with many members of the 70th spending their time away from the front making merry. Those with musical talents were playing their instruments while soldiers danced with the nurses from the medical battalion, and many others enjoyed alcohol that had been 'liberated' from the German occupied territory.

Lieutenant Polina Petrova had no interest in such things, and so she refocused on her task, coaxing the bolt back into place with a few wiggles before it settled into position with a metallic thunk. Shouldering the weapon, Petrova cycled the action a few times to feel if anything was off. Despite her intense focus on this, she was still keenly aware of her surroundings, her profession had demanded she develop that skill. "I told you already Lyudmila, and I haven't changed my mind," called the Sniper, hearing that someone, presumably the nurse she shared the tent with, had opened the flap behind her. Listening, she realized it was not just one pair of feet she heard and added, "I do not care who you brought back with you, I will not be leaving the tent tonight."

"That is quite alright Lieutenant, we can speak here if you'd prefer," replied a voice Petrova did not recognize. Spinning around, the Sniper saw three men at the entrance. One was one of the units Commissars, political officers, looking quite confused but trying not to show it. The other two were more interesting, the one who had spoken wore civilian clothes, including a particularly fine and heavy coat, and he was clearly not at all acclimated to the harsh cold. Lastly was a striking man Petrova judged to be in his late thirties wearing a uniform she did not recognize. The most unusual thing about it was the maroon cloth hat he wore, featuring a golden pin depicting a winged parachute off to one side. His face bore the look of a veteran, and an unusual array of facial hair, a combination of mustache and sideburns that the 24-year-old woman doubted that even her father could have pulled off. The pistol holster he had suggested to Polina that he might have been a bodyguard for the civilian.

Weighing her options, the Sniper decided to let this play out, and nodded towards the civilian in the heavy coat. The man beamed happily before turning to the commissar, "My thanks comrade. You have been a great help. That will be all." At that, the civilian clapped his hand down on the political officer's shoulder and subtly dismissed him before stepping inside. The Commissar was caught unsure of what to do, that was until the uniformed man strode past the political officer, shoulder checking him as he went and sending the smaller Soviet man staggering back before he decided that he wanted no further part of this and departed.

The two men sat down on Lyudmila's cot opposite Polina and seemed to take their own measure of her as she did the same to them. Neither of them was Russian, nor from any other part of the Soviet Union, at least judging by their features and attire, and that made the Sniper very curious. "Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Alistair Collins. I represent His Majesty's Government, and my associate is a major in my country's army." Petrova's eyes went to this major, not expecting him to have such a high rank. She was certain this was no military attachébut a combat soldier. He was not merely a bodyguard at all, but that only caused her to wonder what he was. "My government has tasked me to gather information that could be useful to an upcoming operation, and we believe that you might have some to offer."

"What could I possibly know that would be of interest to you?" blurted out Petrova. She knew that the capitalists in the west were their allies, but she had not seen anything come of that partnership in her time fighting back the Nazi invaders. Why should she be willing to help them now? "I thought you Americans would have everything you need already."

"We're not Americans, Lieutenant. We're British," the civilian corrected, but Petrova 'hmphed' dismissively, not caring for the distinction. Despite that, the men were undeterred, and the one in the heavy coat pulled a picture from his coat pocket, "Do you know this man?"

Deciding to play along, Polina took the picture and cast a quick glance at it. The man in it was a grim faced sort in a Nazi uniform, but it was not one she had ever seen. Granted, most such men she only saw for a few moments through her rifle's scope. "I do not," she answered, handing the picture back.

The civilian turned to the major, "She doesn't recognize Krieger," he said in English, clearly not expecting Petrova to understand him.

Before her mother had died, she had worked in the People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs and had passed some of what she learned of foreign language on to her children. The Sherlock Holmes novels that she received as gifts, which were a favorite of Polina's growing up, had taught her the importance of maintaining keen observational skills. Now, her understanding of the language they were written in was coming in handy as well.

The Major did not seem troubled by her not knowing the fascist and said, "Continue."

Collins nodded and turned back to Petrova. "That man is Oberst Krieger of the Luftwaffe. We have just recently learned that he is working for someone within the SS on a new project. Our military is planning on striking this project before it can be completed. Now, the report we have suggests that Krieger is working for this man," he said, offering a second picture, "But we are not familiar with him. Hopefully you can shed some light on the subject."

"Freisinger," snarled Petrova, immediately recognizing the subject of the second photograph. It was no surprise to her that there were more men like that rat within the Third Reich, and all those who allied themselves with the SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer would not be spared her wrath. "What is there to be said? The man is another fascist pig who has defiled the Motherland, but even more so than most. The terror and carnage he has sown knows few equals among that wretched army." Feeling her anger start to swell, Petrova retrieved her pack of cigarettes and withdrew one before offering them to the two men, both declined. "But if you wish to know more, then I have a request." Putting the cigarette between her lips, she flicked open her lighter and lit it. Taking a puff to calm her nerves, Petrova then locked eyes with each of the men in turn, "You say you are planning an attack on Freisinger? Then I wish to be a part of it. If I am, then I will tell you all I know about the man."

"I'm not sure that's a wise thing to ask, Lieutenant…" began the civilian, but one cold stare from Petrova silenced him. Swallowing, the civilian turned and began speaking to the major. "She knows Freisinger, says he's a right bloody tosser. But she won't tell us any more unless she is a part of the mission." The major didn't comment immediately, and instead looked back at Petrova before his eyes settled on the Mosin. "Major, I don't think it wise to…."

But the mustached man cut off the civilian. "Ask her if she knows how to use that rifle."

"You should ask the 124 Germans I have killed with it," answered Polina in her admittedly accented English. But, judging by the reactions she got, her meaning evidently got across. Puffing on her cigarette, she watched the two men wipe the shocked expressions off their faces with some satisfaction.

"This will not be an easy mission Lieutenant," said the major, "I will not have you slowing us down."

"I believe keeping up with you will be no trouble, old man," returned Petrova as she let out a puff of smoke.

The major did not seem offended by her remark. "Major Franklin Price, commanding officer of His Majesty's No. 63 Commando," he introduced, and Polina had to ensure her mouth stayed closed to keep the cigarette from falling out, she had not been expecting the man in her tent to be a Commando. "You'll be under my command Lieutenant, starting now until the conclusion of Operation: Vanguard. You will accompany me when we leave this area tonight and depart by plane for England. Bring whatever you might need, and I would suggest you bring plenty of ammunition."

"Very well," agreed Polina, satisfied. Taking another drag of the cigarette, the Red Army Sniper held up her end of the offer, "This project Freisinger is working on, I believe it is called 'Nova.'"


Vought-Sikorsky Aircraft Factory Airfield

Stratford, Connecticut, USA

0645 Hours, December 20, 1944

Unlike his time in the south pacific, which was dominated by the heat and humidity, the winter air was cold and crisp as Captain Curtis Wright was led along by one of the factory managers. The manager was a rotund man in his early fifties, but was certainly eager and proud of his work, and in Wright's mind, he had every reason to be.

"It's already had its test flight; everything came back good. In fact, if I may be so bold, I think this is some of our best work. When I was told to get a plane ready for you, I made sure to give you this one specifically," he prattled on, leading Wright towards one of the many hangers that housed the factory's completed product. "I just wished we had some more time, we could have had it painted up for you, it just has the basic markings now I'm afraid."

"It'll do," assured Wright, not able to conceal the extra spring in his step. After departing Quantico the previous day with Trevor aboard one of the Battle Hawks DC-3s, the Marine Aviator had been flown up to Connecticut. Surprisingly, the pilot of the Dakota was an American, a woman by the name of Pauline Armstrong, a no-nonsense type of woman who manhandled the twin engine transport like a pro. Once they hand landed for the night, Wright was told he would have to fly the rest of the way to England on his own, but their stop was to get him an aircraft to do just that.

"I hope so," replied the manage, still a bit nervous as he turned into one of the hangers, "Well, here she is. Tell me what you think Captain."

At the front of the hanger, one airplane had been placed in the direct center, and to Wright's eye, it was gorgeous. The single engine fighter was pained a dark navy blue, and had the US star emblem painted on either side of the fuselage and on alternating sides of the wings. A sleek, streamlined body came to a blunt end at the nose, and the wings were of a peculiar design. The inverted gull wings had a distinct bend in them, about three feet from the wing root, just outside a pair of air intakes on the interior leading edges. Outboard of the bend were the guns, each wing housed three .50 Browning AN/M2 machine guns with 400 rounds of ammunition per gun. It was undoubtedly an F4U Corsair, but Wright could tell it wasn't the exact same plane he had flown with the Black Sheep. "I think you changed some things," he said as he stepped closer and began examining the fighter more closely.

Chuckling, the manager said, "Sharp eye. This is the brand new F4U-4, we haven't even started delivering these to the Navy yet, this is one of the first off the line. I can walk you through the changes if you want?"

"Be my guest," returned Wright as he turned his attention back to the older man.

"Okay then, well first off, we put in a new version the engine," he began. That engine was what defined the Corsair, an 18 cylinder, 2800 cubic inch air cooled radial monster that Pratt & Whitney called the 'Double Wasp.' "It's got more power…."

"More power?" questioned Wright. The -1A he had flown already had 2,000 horses, not quite double what the engine in the Japanese Zero had.

"More power," confirmed the manager, "2,100 horses, higher compression ratio, new carburetor, and an improved two stage supercharger. Mated that with this new prop here, four bladed type, instead of the three the -1s had. Our test pilots have clocked 450 miles an hour in this exact plane."

"Four-fifty…" parroted Wright, stunned. The earlier model he had flown could 'only' do 425.

"Yes sir, but the biggest improvement is in rate of climb. The -4 here will do 4,500 feet a minute, up from 2,900. There aren't many planes that can keep up with you if you want to go up," promised the manager. "Cockpit layout is the same, but the canopy is new. Only downside is we had to get rid of the fuel tanks in the ends of each wing, so you don't have quite the same range. If you need it, you'll have to rely on drop tanks to get it."

A pair of said drop tanks were fitted, one on the inboard most pylon under each wing, for a total of 300 extra gallons of fuel. Considering the upcoming trans-Atlantic flight, Wright didn't mind the extra gas.

"I can live with that," decided Wright quickly, eagerly waiting until the time came for him to get back at the controls of a Corsair, especially this new one. The F4U-1A Corsair he flew with the -214 was his first love, and he could remember his first time in it as vividly as his first time with that nurse he'd met in Hawaii.

He shook that thought away, hopefully this arrangement wouldn't end on a sour note like both of those had.

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you girl?" he whispered, running his hand along the smooth aluminum skin before shaking his head and turning back to the manager. "Well thank you very much sir, I'll be sure to put her to use."

"Good luck Captain," said the manager as he extended his hand, which Wright shook, "And good hunting."

With that, the manager departed, leaving Wright to go through his old routine of pre-flight checks when a slightly more familiar face appeared. "I do hope you find this satisfactory Curtis, I don't want to have to explain to Pauline why we have to make another stop somewhere," said Trevor with characteristic British wit. The Battlehawk pilot walked up and handed the squadron's newest member a set of charts with their flight plan plotted out.

"I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," replied Wright as he climbed up the right wing and hit the button that opened the cockpit canopy. "She should be worried about keeping up, I might get a little excited up there," admitted the Marine with a grin.

Trevor just shook his head as Wright settled into the cockpit, almost like he was returning home. Firstly, he donned his helmet and oxygen mask, ensuring that both the radio and air feeds were plugged in. Next, his eyes pored over the control panel and he quickly refamiliarized himself with all the controls and gauges. While Wright was busy inside the cockpit, Trevor decided to lend a hand and rotated the propeller a few times, turning the engine over as Wright put the cowl flaps, propeller control, and supercharger in their takeoff positions.

After the propeller had been spun a few times, Wright pushed the starter cartridge in, opened the throttle a bit, and flipped on several controls that engaged the fuel pumps, instruments, batteries, and primers. With all that done, he checked to make sure Trevor was clear before turning the ignition switch to 'BOTH' and the starter to 'ON' before hitting the primer, needing to twist it twice before he heard the big Double Wasp come to life. The whole aircraft shook as the R-2800's deep roar filled the hanger and Wright could feel the airplane eagerly chomping at the bit to get moving.

In the corner of his eye, the Daredevil spotted Trevor giving him a thumbs up and returned the gesture before closing the canopy. When the Briton was clear, Wright eagerly obliged the Corsair and released the brake. Slowly, the mighty gull-winged fighter began to taxi forwards and out of the hanger. Wright saw Trevor make his way back to Pauline in her idling DC-3 as he steered the F4U-4 out and brought it around to lead the female pilot onto the runway. "You ready back there Pauline? Because I don't think I can wait much longer."

"Don't leave me behind you damn leatherneck," warned the Battlehawk pilot.

"I'm not, I'll circle back around once I get this thing in the air. Just want to get a feel for a Corsair again," assured the Marine Aviator, but he was already opening the throttles, feeling that big Double Wasp spool up and pull the 12,000 pound fighter down the runway. Since Vought had originally designed the F4U for carrier use, the airplane had a short take off run for such a sizable fighter, and soon there was enough air going over the wings for the tailwheel to start to lift off the ground. Easing the stick back, Wright felt the Corsair come up off the ground, almost leaping up into the cool December air.

Unable to suppress a grin, the Daredevil raised gear and flaps as he gained altitude, bringing the fighter around and looking back to see Pauline coming onto the runway. The grin widened as Wright got the kind of devilish idea that got him his nickname and winged the Corsair over. Diving back down, air rushed over the uniquely shaped wings and through the radiator intakes on the leading edges, first generating a hum and then a whistle, before finally generating a high-pitched shriek that earned the F4U the nickname 'Whistling Death.'

Diving down, Wright felt that familiar mixture of sensations, from the buildup of speed to the roar of the engine, which caused hairs to stand on end and savored every second of it. However, there weren't that many seconds of it to savor, and soon he had to pull the nose up and roll the plane onto a wingtip as he flew past the factory and just past the hanger the Corsair had been sitting in a few minutes before. Pulling back hard on the stick, Wright banked the F4U around, feeling the push of G press him into his seat the whole way.

"Whoa there, slow down Hot Shot, you already got the job," reminded Pauline as she coaxed her twin engine DC-3 transport into the air. "Now form up, it's a long way to England and I don't want to have to explain that our new pilot didn't make it because he ran out of gas showing off and had to ditch in the Atlantic."


No. 161 Squadron Lockheed Hudson

Over the Mediterranean, approximately four miles east of Lecce, Italy

1422 Hours, December 21, 1944.

A sudden bump caused Polina to look around frantically, searching for anything amiss, but all she found was the interior of the British airplane she had been in for several hours now. The Red Army sniper had never traveled by plane before, and this unnerving phenomenon called 'turbulence' continued to make the experience a distinctly unpleasant one. Looking out the window, Petrova could see the coastline of Italy below, where the plane would stop to refuel before resuming the trip to England.

"Just some more turbulence, leftennant, nothing to get worked up about," assured Major Price as he puffed idly on a large cigar. Polina crossed her arms and sunk into her seat, making no effort to hide the irritation from her expression as the plane began its descent. "I suggest you get used to it, this won't be the last time you fly on this operation."

Polina shot the older man a glare, "I do not care so long as I get to shoot Nazis." The Red Army Sniper had quickly become irritated by the British Commando and how he treated her like she was a mere child. Petrova was a proficient Sniper, a keen hunter who had her mettle tested at Stalingrad, and did not need anyone, much less this Major Price, trying to reign her in or concern her with things outside her singular focus.

Seemingly ignoring her ire, Price puffed on his cigar, "To do that you have to get where the bosh are, leftennant." Petrova's jaw clenched as she stared at the Major, only for him to offer his cigar to her, prompting the Sniper to narrow her eyes. The Brit merely shrugged before sticking the cigar back in his mouth. "You want to do that; you stick with me. Before you know it you'll find yourself with more bosh than bullets."

That prompted the Soviet Sniper to raise an eyebrow and look towards the back of the aircraft at the more than one thousand rounds of 7.62x54mmR in a mixture of standard ball, armor piercing, and incendiary types. "And where exactly might that be?" inquired Petrova, "You have not told me what this mission of yours is."

"It's your mission too, leftennant," reminded Price in his usual deadpan delivery, "That is what you asked for, isn't it?"

"Your mission," corrected Petrova, "I am here for one reason…."

"Freisinger," finished the Major, "You want to take a shot at Freisinger."

Petrova's head shook, "I will not just take shot. I will put my bullet right between his wretched eyes," vowed the Sniper, tapping her finger to the exact spot she intended to shoot. "But you have not told me why I will be taking my shot on your mission, old man."

Price grumbled, but eventually just crossed his arms, "An agent discovered that a shipment of V-2 rockets was sent to an SS factory. Freisinger is the one in charge of that facility and whatever 'Project Nova' is, it involves V-2s. SOE has been tasked with infiltrating the facility and sabotaging Nova."

Polina couldn't help the small grin that grew on her face as she recalled a detail that she had told Price herself. "And Freisinger is personally overseeing the project, meaning he will be there."

"Don't miss, leftennant."


Closing Notes: Setup here obviously, but I hope it was intriguing enough that will come back in two weeks time to look at the next chapter. In the mean time, feel free to leave a review if you have any thoughts or critiques, or send me a PM should you wish to discuss something privately.

Until then, Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.