Chapter 1: Suffering.
"The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing."
-Edmund Burke.
The sand was still present in the air, an evil presence, getting into his nose and his eyes, still making it clear that God-Forsaken place, namely the Arab Region of Iraq, was not meant to hold human life. The sun's first rays were slithering upon the sand, as the darkness above seemed to endure the light's raid. For a man of his profession, such a natural event as sunrise was not one that brought joy; darkness was always friendlier than lights; the light killed, called the attention, and ironically, blinded his eyes, so used to the dark. The night, on the other hand, protected, with it's cold, dark arms, from the danger. Because stealth was better than brute force. Sometimes.
However, he decided it wasn't so bad; he was no longer a creature of the night, as his former comrades would have said. No, they weren't his comrades anymore. The West believed that Light was synonym of good, in such a pacifist, simplistic view of the world. The problem with Europe and America –he decided- was that they took their democracy (Their cars, their clothes, their freedom of speech) for granted. How could a few college students from Seattle even understand how it was living under a dictatorship? Don't invade Iraq, they said. Nonsense! Freedom was made for everybody. And that was what he delivered. Sometimes.
The United States Special Operations Forces, (Special Forces, for short) was his former employer. A Green Beret, an unofficial warfare specialist, a man who had seen death to the face and spitted at it just too many times, he called himself. All that was done for his country. The US, just like the rest of the West had weakened. He should have noticed when the War started; if the people don't want the war, then just don't do it. Never.
But it was all done, now. Those poor men –civilians- had grown among Left-Wing propaganda and Hippie trash, believing that the Military was evil. Too many fucking "The Hulk" comic books, he spat. Americans had the disgusting habit of forgetting the people who served them. Did they seriously believe they would have the right to object the war if they had been Iraqis? Stupid X-Generation fuckers. He believed. No. The military had been taking all their blows, so that an asshole with a "Vote Green" cap could desecrate their memories. Always.
But the West would learn from their enemies. What he noticed was that Iraqis had an immense respect for their military. Possibly because they were the ones raping and gutting them, and possibly zapping their gonads with Cattle Prods. He had been a fool. He used to believe he had to take the insults from the bloody hippies, because it was thanks to him that those fuckers could insult him in the first place. No, there was another possibility. Maybe.
And that possibility came from the least imaginable place: the East. In the East, despite their Left-Wing leaning, they did have some respect to the military and the government did matter. Then, he noticed it; The American Left-Wing was not that Left Wing at all, was it? And slowly, he noticed he was a believer himself. The Government controlling everything. No liberties, and thus, respect. Communism, all of a sudden, started making sense. Always.
And right there, in the streets of Baghdad, he noticed he was fighting for the enemy of soldiers. The West. For some reason, during the Vietnam War, the Hippies called Soldiers like him "Baby Killers" and "Mass Murderers", while the Vietnamese called their Guerrillas "Warriors." And he was not a Baby Killer. He was a warrior. Always.
Marx said the government should control supplies... Turning the civilian population in a sort of militarized state. No more injustice. No more lack of discipline. What was the US military thinking? Soldiers lived under Communism, and said they were defending The American Way. He would never again defend that bunch of lies. Never.
And that's why he stayed. While Iraq was still a battlefield, he went AWOL. Those dirty streets were the new battlefields. The Socialist Revolution would happen. He knew it. And he would win the war. He had to.
---
As much as he liked to deny it, he was becoming a dinosaur. He stared gracelessly at his office wall; ridden with military awards, among them, a Purple Heart and even the goddamn Medal Of Honor, awarded by Congress. He used to look at that wall, painted brown in his office, and think of himself as a hero. But he wasn't. He was just a man who did his job. And damn well. He even had a diploma, screaming it. The one he was proudest of them all, despite the Purple Heart he got during Operation: Just Cause, (after a 7.62 x 39mm Kalashnikov round had a close encounter with his left thigh) was the one almost all the men of his kind had, and the one that made him smile the most, and remember the good old times.
In short, it read in a bold, black letter, "Lt. 2nd Roy Campbell has successfully graduated from the United States Marines Corps officer school." It made him smile, knowing that despite of everything, he was still a Marine. Of course, he had retired from the said institution a long time ago. However, had had been serving as an advisor for the Army; namely the Special Forces, Delta Force, and a unit that was never supposed to have existed.
That unit was unofficial. The only few written records rested in some dark warehouse in the depths of the Pentagon, and of course, in his office. The new one had been installed in Fort Meade, a shared home with the National Security Agency. Roy believed he was becoming a spy, instead of a better soldier. Because spies had no honor, did they? Campbell then sat down behind his boring wooden desk. The windows were-half closed, and a small ray of light entered, barely illuminating the otherwise grave-looking office.
FOXHOUND, the report on his desk read. FOXHOUND was America's dirtiest of all dirty secrets; and illegally formed Special Forces unit, specifically designed to screw over international treaties, and deal with low-intensity conflicts (Or rather, the Low-Intensity core of a Large-intensity conflict), handling assassinations, sabotage, VIP rescue. Campbell thanked god the average civilian didn't even know FOXHOUND existed and that most Military men thought they were a legend. If the people knew about them, the US Government's credibility would be killed off.
That was the official word. Unofficially, they were a bunch of multi-national weirdoes teamed up to kill, crush and destroy the USA's opposition. But then again, their loyalty was nothing to be proud of; FOXHOUND had a long history of betrayal, ranging from the Unit's Former Commander (The man without a name, World-Wide known as the Greatest Soldier of the XX Century, or just by his Codename, Big Boss) to a full unit rebellion, AKA the Shadow Moses Fiasco.
That was probably the greatest terrorist threat in history. Of course, Al Qaeda were indeed worthy opponents, but these fuckers had crossed the line; they held the US and Russian Governments at ransom; all thanks to Metal Gear. He had his own things to say about that machine. Anyway, they were either dead or AWOL. FOXHOUND was over.
Or so he thought until that very morning, when a Government officer; (A former Marine, just like Roy) recruited him for a more than risky task: rebuilding FOXHOUND from scratch. Well, not FOXHOUND itself, but rather create an acceptable, and certainly more politically correct successor.
The task was simple: Recreate FOXHOUND finding DNA-matching individuals (In order to follow the Soldier Gene theory, which said that shit such as accuracy, self-control and general combat skill were written in the DNA) and then to retrain those people to maximize the potential of those genes. Oh, how easy. Campbell didn't think that could work. For starters, how on Earth were they going to find people with matching Soldier Genes to those of Fox-Hound? Would they examine every fucking person in this Planet till they found all six of them?
The idea came from one of the President's consultants; to search for blood relatives of the terrorists, tell them fairy tales about what happened at Shadow Moses and then they'd have a new unit, which would be called "ECLIPSE". The idea wasn't bad, but it was certainly disgusting; despite how much Campbell was disgusted by terrorists, it wouldn't be pretty to hunt down their relatives and then force them into a Military unit.
But orders were orders. Campbell was now enjoying the downright disgusting task of reading the FOXHOUND member's files and look for possible relatives in the US Military networks. The chances of that happening were none, but he at least had to try, right?
He had just finished one, and opened the following file. The retired Colonel was certainly having no fun, as he opened the file and started a quick reading.
"Codename: Sniper Wolf, real name: Layla Slervansk" Roy read aloud. Now that was no joke; the firefight between that woman and the man who could make the impossible possible (Solid Snake) had been outdoors, and Campbell had the most morbid idea of watching it through Satellite imagery. A sniper fight, and one of the worst kind.
All the stuff on the file, he already knew. Campbell clicked his tongue as quickly as he read the Nationality remark: Iraqi. Now, he knew that she had been a Kurd, a very different ethnicity than the Southern Arabs. Anyway, the file was just wrong, since in the late 2005, eight months after Shadow Moses, Kurdistan split itself from Iraq and even had a short war with Turkey. Tough sons of bitches.
Anyway, she had been a Halabja massacre survivor, and those people really didn't deserve to die. But then again, she had been brainwashed by the Iraqis, so she was psychologically dead. He had taken the confession from Snake; she got into the revolt to die. Honorable suicide, perhaps?
Any Gulf War veteran with a spine will agree that George Bush Senior's decision to pull back, leaving their Kurdish allies to take the wrath of the Iraqi army was not stupid, but certainly cruel; those people had been Saddam Hussein's target, kind of like Hitler's Jews and Mao's Intellectuals. Anyway, he felt really bad having to live with the fact that they had abandoned them.
Leaving the issue, he went over to his computer, and opened up a Searcher; that little buddy would search for anything within the US' Network, including Soldiers, personnel, even Enemy Army's files. If the FOXHOUND sniper had any relative who lived through the Halabja Massacre and got into any army on this planet, he'd know, although it seemed kind of unlikely. He had already tried with Psycho Mantis and Decoy Octopus, with nothing achieved.
He put the surname and hit the enter key swiftly, sending the right combination of 1's and 0's, and getting the Searcher going. He wasn't expecting any results; and that old computer was being noisy. Campbell smiled as he thought how hard the computer was trying to find someone, to no avail. To Campbell's surprise, he was wrong.
The Searcher stopped. Only one name found. At the top of the list, alone, a fully matching individual was written, and his file was open to Retired Colonel Roy Campbell's desires. But he'd get the job done.
---
London, United Kingdom, 1430 hours. (Local time)
According to the last UN counting, there were around 20 million Kurds living on this planet, most of them, split among four countries; Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey. Despite how different these countries seemed to be, it seemed that all governments mistreated Kurds. Even Turkey, usually referred to as the evidence that a Muslim society could spawn a democracy, had its own Oppressive program against its Kurdish population.
Why was that? Racial hatred, perhaps. Islamic peoples are divided into three main ethnical groups: Arabs, Turks, and Indo-Europeans. Iraq and Syria were Arab countries. Turkey was obviously the land of the Turks. Kurds and Persians both belong to the third family: The Indo-Europeans. However, Persians (Modern-Day Iranians) were ethnically mixed with Arabs, whereas the Kurds were originally Aryans, explaining blue eyes and blond hair to the shocked Out-Landers.
Or could it be fear? The Zagros Mountains, the modern-day Kurdistan, even though has been conquered by many foreigners, never has anyone ever fully enslaved Kurds. Why? Firstly, their homes are high up the mountains, unreachable by a large strike force. Secondly, Kurds were said to be excellent fighters.
But that last option didn't make much sense. Anyway, that all changed after 2003, with the ending of the Iraq War. Saddam Hussein's government was eliminated by their US allies, so Kurdistan, a semi-autonomous region that had gained some sort of freedom after NATO set up a No-Fly zone, expanded itself and finally, departed itself from their former masters, the now weakened Iraqi Arabs. So, the two Kurdish factions, the pro-Federal KDP (Kurdish Democratic Party) and the Right-Wing PUK (Patriotic Union of Kurdistan) merged and created the new state.
Anyway, Kurdistan didn't take long in becoming a Sovereign state; they even had a quite noisy quarrel with Turkey, who threatened to crush the Zagros Mountains with their Armored Divisions. However, Washington stepped forward, and Ankara desisted from the threat.
Thanks to that new power, new Embassies were created. The US provisional Embassy was built in Nashville, Tennessee, because most Kurdish Refugees who fled to America lived there. Simultaneously, the one in Britain was made in London.
The Ambassador's name was Mohammed Al-Rashid, a member of the PUK. He was pro-American a supporter of the War in Iraq. He was well tanned, and had a winner smile. He walked confidently, covered by London's cloudy, old sky, a gray ceiling that never crumbled. His hair, always short, was now fading, turning white quickly. He didn't mind.
He felt safe, his two bodyguards, Ibrahim and Elijah, followed him from a distance. He never left home without them. They were both from the Peshmerga Special Forces (The Peshmerga being the Kurdish Guerilla, who, after US Special Forces support. Become a full-fledged army), used to handling weapons. They probably missed their AK's from when they fought for liberty, Mohammed thought, but now that Kurds had finally obtained their long-wished freedom, what would be of those soldiers?
But they were indeed armed. Ibrahim, a muscular Peshmerga rifleman, walked peacefully, knowing that he had a German-made Heckler & Koch MP5K under his jacket. He was Kurdish from Persian origin, so he quite resembled a regular Arab. He was wearing, as well as his partner, a formal suit and usual bodyguard sunglasses.
His partner, Elijah, was an Aryan Kurd. His blond hair was carefully combed (they were bodyguards, but they were part of the diplomatic service anyway). He was carrying, in his holster, an Austrian-Made Glock C-18; a fully automatic 9 x 19mm NATO Handgun, made out of ultra-lightweight polymers, making it the ultimate VIP defense weapon.
Both Bodyguards followed Mohammed closely as they approached the Kurdish Embassy's front door; there was always the possibility of a crazed Turkish madman, more than willing to detonate himself in order to keep the Rebels from power. But that was unlikely.
Mohammed walked into the Embassy as a King entered his palace; he looked around, seeing the typical Cultural-Lacking Embassy entryway. They had to be neutral. Soon, they would model it in a way that was representative of Kurds. The two bodyguards kept their cool as they walked in.
One of the local Embassy workers waved at the Ambassador.
"Beg..." He called, quickly. "Balyoz!" the aid called again. "There's a US military man in the phone, he needs to have a word with you."
Mohammed stirred in shock, as he turned to Ibrahim for help. The bodyguard couldn't do more than shake his head. The Diplomatic head quickly ran to the Telephone and took the call.
"Hello?" The Ambassador said, hiding his heavy breathing. He wasn't in that perfect physical shape, to be fair. "Mhmm..." Mohammed said, as he heard the man on the other line, and turned to the two expectant escorts.
The Diplomat took the phone away from his head and quickly talked to his bodyguard. "Elijah," he sneered, his heart drumming. "Take this call."
"Beg...?" The Bodyguard's voice was croaky. Maybe he couldn't face the truth.
"It's for you." The Ambassador interjected. The bodyguard took the speaker and started the conversation.
"Hello? Who is this?" Elijah had excellent English,
"Whom am I speaking with?" An American accented voice demanded. He was definitely aged and seemed military.
"Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk, Kurdistan's Department of Negotiation and Cooperation speaking."
"I'm pleased to meet you." The American said, formally. "I am Retired Colonel Roy Campbell, United States, from the Department of Defense." The Retired Colonel stopped, and then began again. "Ask to speak in private."
The Bodyguard wasn't particularly thrilled with having a private conversation with a man from the USDOD, but he decided to play along. He looked fixedly at the Ambassador. "Sir, may I speak in Private?"
"Ere..." he said. "Go to my office." He said, nodding with his head. He knew that something odd was up, but didn't interfere.
The bodyguard hung up and quickly ran upstairs. His partner and the Ambassador watched him ascend frenetically, wondering. What the heck did that Bodyguard have to do with the DOD? The Embassy wasn't the largest ever, but it was certainly nice. There weren't plenty of visits, but the guys that came once then started coming usually. Kurds were still people in trouble.
Elijah Slervansk was the newest addition to the security detail. His blue eyes were always energetic, always alert. He was tall and a very good shooter. Himself, he was a former Captain in the Peshmerga's Special Forces, unbeatable with the Glock 18c. He was never thrilled about speaking about himself. The usual low-profile bodyguard type. He was also an Iraq war veteran, and a member of the PUK, along with the Ambassador.
He then quickly ran among diplomatic aides and into the Ambassador's office. It was almost empty, filled with semi-open drawers and pictures. He then reached for the black phone, re-taking the call.
"Hello?" He asked, not hiding his accelerated heartbeat rate.
"Mr. Slervansk, I've called to see if I could arrange a meeting with you." The American coldly said, being diplomatic and militaristic simultaneously.
"Quit the crap. If you are going to recruit me for the CIA, then take note of this. Screw you."
"Eli..." the man on the other side said, calmingly. "I just called to tell you something." Campbell paused, and then chose the right words. "Your sister, Layla. She has passed away. I am sorry."
Elijah then glanced at the door. He wasn't being watched. This was all too scary.
"Sorry, sir, be she was dead beforehand." He said, coldly. His accent wasn't noticeable; years of dealing with their British Counterparts, perhaps?
"Oh, no, Eli. You are wrong."
"Excuse me, sir, but never has anyone taken by the Iraqi army has survived. Not ever."
"I can't tell you details; not this way, but she was killed during an act of terrorism." Campbell informed, like a Catholic Priest tries to get the message through laic minds.
"In Iraq?"
"No. It all happened within United States of America's territory. In the state of Alaska."
Elijah wasn't buying into this, but his voice was still doubtful. He was sprinting through an emotional minefield. "Why didn't it appear in the News?"
"Again, I can't tell. But..." Campbell again dumbly paused. "I'm sorry that you have to hear this, but she was one of the terrorists."
"What?" Elijah didn't sound pissed. He wasn't even sad. He was just shocked.
Campbell decided to expand a bit. He'd break a couple of DOD regulations, but then again, who cared? "She was part of OUR military. She came in as a refugee... But then she took part in a rebellion. Only later we found out that she sympathized with an Islamic Terrorist Group you should know about: Ansar Al-Islam. "
The name flashed through Slervansk's brain. Ansar Al-Islam. A Mainly Kurdish Pro-Al Qaeda terrorist group, operating in Northern Iraq and Western Iran. He had himself taken on some of its members during the Iraq war. Could she have been recruited by Ansar, then taken to the US, joined the military so that they could attack the US Imperialistic Monster from the inside? The mere possibility twisted Elijah's digestive system. "Beimkan!" he snapped. "Impossible!"
"Elijah, I know this is hard to accept, but it IS the truth."
"Campbell..." Elijah's lips froze. "Why? Why did she join them? What did you do?"
"Elijah, she said it herself." Roy's tone showed his own confidence. "She lost her will to live. She claimed, after being wounded, that she was only there because she wanted to die."
"Like a Martyr?"
"No. As in someone who had lost everything."
"When do you want to meet me?" Elijah asked a weird, psychotic calmness in his voice.
"A month from now, in London. Trafalgar Square."
"I can do whatever I want from that day to now, correct?"
"Yes..." Campbell doubted.
"So, tell me, who do you think recruited Layla?"
"I'm sorry, I just said too much."
"Tell me." Elijah repeated. The calmness was still there. He was a man who had everything perfectly clear; he understood what he had to do.
"Urgh..." Campbell then paused. And he decided to keep talking. "The investigation carried out on her unit revealed that she had been having contact with a certain individual in Iraq. The name's Syed Hisdan. Ever heard the name before?"
"Not really. But if he's a member of Ansar, I'll find him."
"What are you talking about?"
"Colonel Campbell, I accept your offer, whatever it is. All is demand a safe flight to Iraq and a month to do what I need to."
Campbell thought for a second. That man was clearly planning revenge. But he then thought. Syed was an enemy of the US. So all he did was smile, and added. "Absolutely. There's a 747 in Heathrow, taking off tonight. It will go to the Former Saddam Hussein international airport. From there, off, you'll be on your own."
Elijah knew his life was soon to be over. He wasn't angry. He wasn't mourning. His soul, if there was such thing left, had been broken; he had lost a hope he never had. He didn't quite get it; Americans were the only ones who had helped the Kurds; it was thanks to them and Britain that the UN actually recognized Kurdistan as a state. The only ones.
He then sat down on the Ambassador's chair. The desk was perfectly clean, empty. Nothing would change in the Political side due to his tragedy. But was it even one? Elijah wasn't crying. Well, not yet. He then sank his head between his hands.
She was dead. And there was nothing he could do about that.
And the worst thing was that he had failed; it was her failure. He was the older sibling, the one meant to be an example. The firstborn's breathing became heavier. What did he do wrong? He knew. He wouldn't lie to himself. He was a coward; they let them be split, he had been afraid. And now she was dead.
She had been taken by the Iraqis, brainwashed, told to hate her people and their allies, then kill them, to then sympathize with the most wretched bunch of scum in the Middle East. Ansar Al-Islam. And Syed Hisdan.
His eyes reddened. Syed Hisdan. Elijah now desired he could put the blame on him, but he couldn't. He was his Sister's indirect killer. The question was; was he or was he Syed? Syed was certainly scum, and was closer to her point of death, but Elijah was the man who tackled the problem by its roots. And it was his fault: if he had had the balls to get into the Iraqi's way, to not let her take her...
Things could have been different.
But there were no solutions. That mistake, that moment of cowardice... He would never fix it. And he hated himself for it. Elijah then made it all clear to his mind. It was either living on, and or killing himself for his failure. No. He had to live on. He wouldn't give up. He still had a lot to live for. He wouldn't fall in the same pit.
Syed, on the other hand... He hated himself in that moment, but it did make sense. He couldn't blame the Counterterrorist soldier who killed her physically, but he may as well go after the one that had taken her choice to live. He would go after Syed.
And hell would break lose.
---
US Army base in Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA. 2235 hours. (Local time)
Sergeant Murray Howler was a man of his word. About to be 40, he stared at his fellow soldiers of the 7th Light Infantry Division (Former, since he and his team were now joining the 10th Special Forces Group) in that cold barrack in Fort Carson, in the mountains of Colorado Springs. It seemed as though miniature snow particles were still present in the air, gripping his nose and arms.
Cold is particularly harsh with those not yet accustomed. His suit, camouflaged for the sands of the place he would soon be (50 Sand Brown, 20 Light Brown, 10 White, 5 Black and 15 Miscellaneous, according to the manual), wasn't designed to withstand mountain cold. He kept that suit in his backpack, but wouldn't need it until he was on the ground.
He then reviewed his mission; he was a member of the Army's 10th Special Forces team, with the current function of surveying and watching the border between Kurdistan and the Islamic Republic of Iraq (The two parts in which Iraq had been split). His unit would take intelligence from the Iraqi 32nd Armored Division, currently posed to perform a pre-emptive strike upon Sulaymaniya, the capital of the Kurdish Confederation.
Relations between the two former Iraqi nations had been going south since their separation, when Kurdistan claimed Kirkuk for it's own; even though it's a predominantly Kurdish city, the Shiite leadership suspected the PUK and KDP wanted it due to its enormous oil reserves.
Sgt. Howler didn't much care if the Kurds wanted it for oil or morale reasons. Kurdistan was an ally of the US, and whoever messed with US's allies, messed with the United States of America. Afghanistan and the former Ba'athist Iraq had learnt the lesson. It wasn't like the Shias had never crossed paths with the US military before; but back then they were one of those Guerillas the US had so much trouble dealing with. Now, they were an army.
The kind the USA destroys without effort.
Howler wasn't particularly thrilled at this: war, with anyone, it was never easy, and blood, for some reason, always ended in his country's hands. Was it their fault? He was too old for those deep questions. His green eyes wouldn't shed a tear for those victims anymore.
He was an honorable soldier, and a Special Forces operative. He couldn't allow himself such luxury. Returning to the task at hand, he would meet a team of British SAS operatives in the way there. The eldest and probably best Special Forces group would be there for them, right? But no one at Colorado Springs was worried about the mission. Not with those guys around.
"Hey, Sarge, any last minute order?" Corporal Di'noffrio, a young Italian-American, asked. His wild eyes unintentionally stared, and there was still a sign of youth in his messy 5 O' clock shadow. His Colt M4 SOPMOD (Special Operations Modifiable) was hanging from his shoulder.
"Yeah, Corporal. The infiltration method's been changed. We're going in a couple of CH-47 Chinook's, carrying a team of six and a Humvee each. I think the Brits will join us in the field."
"Do you think those Humvee's will pack TOW's?" He asked, enthusiastic as always.
"One, for sure. The other one will be packing an M2 .50 Cal machinegun. I feel more comfortable in that one." The Sergeant sneered. Speed before power.
"Anyway, will be laser-painting any targets?"
"We are not at war, Corporal. We are just seeing if our allies are in trouble." He said, while staring at the night. "But if we are caught, then the Government will deny our presence. We won't be POWs. As far as I'm concerned, War Missions are easier."
"I'd have to agree on that, sir." He said, nodding his head. "Sarge, were you in the conflict with the Shias? Back in '04?"
"Yup. I helped a squad of Kurdish Peshmergas, trying to get our hands on Tikrit. Boy, they were some shots. Anyway, the world is a different place now. Especially in there."
"Why, sir? Aren't they still our allies?"
"It's not the same thing. Back then we were saving an oppressed people. Now, they are a sovereign state. The EU already wants our ass in a silver plate after we stood up for Kurdistan when Ankara started bitchin'. People like Oppressed Ethnicities, Corporal. But they don't like it when we give up on Europe. So far, only Sweden, Norway, Russia and Greece support Kurdistan. "
"Do you think we should stick to NATO? Help Turkey? Screw Kurdistan?"
"I don't know, Corporal." He said, giving up on his ideological self. "You've gone way ahead of me. I'll do what I'm told. And that's it."
"Oh..."
"Here they come..."
The large, two-rotor helicopter showed up in the clear sky, a spot light beneath revealing its existence and blinding the squad of commandos. That same chopper would be sent in a large C-130 Globemaster transport plain to the USAF base of Incirlik, from where it would take off and take them to the field.
In that same base, NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) operated. An organization within USAF, their duty is to watch the skies of USA and Canada, watching for potential airborne threats, utilizing the newest technologies available.
They were probably running things good, he thought. Operation: Anaconda Sight was underway.
---
Elijah had left the Embassy noisily. Ambassador Mohammed Al-Rashid spotted him leaving the place in such a dark way –traditionally, Elijah walked silently but keeping his head up high. Whatever that American had told him; it must have been a bomb. He gladly gave the former officer the day off. He wouldn't be leaving anyway.
But what was the matter with him? Elijah didn't have any family that he knew of. Because only a man whose family's been attacked would look like that; he knew; he was a father of three, two boys and a baby girl. His life was so successful here in London; and something very screwed up happened to his bodyguard. He'd figure it out soon.
---
Heathrow International Airport, United Kingdom. Five hours later.
He didn't pack much; it wasn't as if he was going to a long vacation. All he needed were clothes, personal hygiene elements and a few of his personal stuff: a digital watch, and a cell phone. That was all he would need.
He had swiftly gone through Customs. Even though customs agents were usually quite obsessive with Muslim immigrants, the ones getting away didn't make them lose any sleep. After all, he wasn't carrying any metallic objects. He wouldn't take a gun.
He was now boarding British Airways flight 671 to the Al Sadr international airport. (The airfield was called in honor to a very important Shiite cleric, who was now the main Theocrat in the Islamic Republic of Iraq). That particular airfield used to be called "Saddam Hussein International Airport", but ever since the embargo placed in 1991, Iraq was getting very little visits.
It all changed when the 1st Marine Corps Expeditionary Force (The last Official US unit in leaving Iraq) departed and the Islamic Republic of Iraq (IRI) was created, Soon after that, it became the single most visited place by Muslims since Mecca. It had the largest Mosques, and it was certainly a boiling point for anti-Western terrorists.
Terrorist camps were created. Groups ranging from Islamic Fundamentalists like Hizbollah and Ansar Al-Islam to Marxist Fanatics like the PLIA (the People's Liberation International Army) and Kurdistan's own PKK (Kurdistan's Workers Party) established their bases in the Iraqi desert.
However, the USA had no chance attacking it; after the Democrat Party (and James Johnson) took office, the UN and the USA sort of patched up, and there was an important budget reduction in the DOD. America couldn't afford to get into another war, especially with a country that was now the UN's favorite; The New Yorker institution was trying to protect the Islamic Republic of Iraq from the US's imperialistic power; according to their own words. They had to be fair.
However, James Johnson had enough. He might have been a Democrat, but the UN had gone too far. The United States of America slowly started leaving their position in the United Nation's Security Counsel. They just plain old started "leaving" the world. Isolationism started rising among Right-Wing parties.
It was said that the US's Empire started falling that day. They only kept heavy diplomatic relations with Russia, the UK, and up to a point Germany and Italy in Europe, and Kurdistan, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Japan and Taiwan in Asia. Well-chosen allies, the Republicans might add.
Elijah walked up the stair towards the British Airways 671 flight, a large 747 painted white, a sober vehicle but somewhat pleasing to the eyes. Not since he had left the Peshmergas, he had flown in a civilian aircraft. And he kind of liked it. The people around him were mostly Muslims, but there were some Englishmen walking around; blue eyes were noticeable among dark colors. He got in.
The inside matched; also white, and with no decoration whatsoever, small claustrophobic windows and long passageways greeted and were relaxing; cute airplanes didn't fall, did they? An airhostess, probably British, then spoke at him; her greenish eyes were fully alert; the residual memory of 911 was still among the US's allies.
"May I have your ticket, please?" Elijah handed out the ticket, which he had got that very afternoon. His look was bored; and he was playing it as business.
"Sure, Ma'am." He replied, being diplomatic as always. She probably must have confused him with a German passenger, for she spoke way too quickly for the usual Arab passenger.
"Thank you, Sir." She said, very polite as always. "Seat 17-b".
He then walked along, towards his given sit. There was a constant whisper: not the usual laughter and loud talk that followed most commercial flights. No western family would be foolish enough to take their children to the world's sinkhole, the former bodyguard grinned. Most of them were businessmen; the few of them who had not realized the Shiite leadership didn't like capitalists either.
He then sat down. The seat was comfortable, blue, and had nothing in particular. He then looked at the seat 17-a. An overweight, rough-complexioned man was getting ready to sleep. It was the smart thing to do if you were afraid of heights, but it was also true that it was hard to sleep being 12,000 meters away from the ground.
He then decided he would do so as well. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep in Iraq; the hunt would keep him too busy.
---
The Retired Colonel Roy Campbell was admittedly already senior of age, but far away from being psychologically old. He still did exercise, and tried to keep himself fit. He ran five miles a day (they used to be ten), running around Fort Meade, (Being so high-ranked, no one would stop him) Jogging kept him alive.
That day was no exception. Knowing he might have sentenced Syed Hisdan to a horrible death didn't exactly traumatize him; bastards like that weren't worth his worry. Being a former FOX-HOUND commander, he understood that human life wasn't all that important. He had himself led assassination attempts where most people didn't even know America had interests in.
The sky was gray, thin clouds covered the entire state of Maryland. The atmospheric pressure had to be high, but Roy somehow didn't feel like it was going to rain. He based himself in that prediction; his jogging suit wasn't exactly waterproof.
So all he did was his morning run, not disturbed at all. But after the second mile, that became un-truthful. ECLIPSE; that unit they were creating, was still in his head; what if they revolted? What would happen? He secretly hoped the project would be scrapped.
His breathing and his footsteps were loud. However, he felt it; there was somebody else behind him; as he turned, gasping for breath, he stared into the other man. A man in his 30's, with brownish hair and youngster look, kept going at the same speed as the retired colonel.
"Good day for some exercise, eh, Campbell?" He said. His voice wasn't affected by the physical effort, but he wasn't a singer either. He had a very high pitch. A New Yorker, perhaps?
"Do I know you?" Campbell asked, militarily.
"Oh! Sorry. William Sharp, but everyone calls me Bill. NSA." He said, catching up, aligning himself with Roy.
"NSA?" He asked, half-interested. "How do you know me?"
"I'm in this project with you, Roy."
"You mean..."
"ECLIPSE." He said, factually.
"So, you boys are into FOXHOUND's reconstruction, eh?" He asked, smiling, just like when somebody was caught.
"Yes. And so are you, I hear."
"What's all this about?" Campbell reduced his rhythm. "I know you people don't exactly just stalk veterans like me just for catching up."
"You see, Roy, we are having lots of trouble looking for these relatives." Sharp said, almost stopping. "A couple of days ago, our new CRAY-3 computer caught a radio transmission from a Jail in Moscow. It said that a certain woman named Nadia Slonoskvo, age 23, had been released from Prison."
"So?"
"Well, turns out she's the niece of a guy named Yuri Slonoskvo. Ring any bells?"
"FOXHOUND member Psycho Mantis."
"Exactly. We did a little of research; there was no charges on her, no trial, nothing. She was just there. The point is that after I talked to some sources of mine, and the jail she was in... It used to be owned by the Committee of State Security."
"KGB? What the hell?"
"Roy, you should know that Mantis himself was a psychic spy for the USSR. What if the boys at the Committee guessed she would have those skills as well?" He asked, showing once again his obsession of his job. Campbell shrugged, and didn't answer. "It was a rhetorical question."
"But the Soviet Union's been long dead. What was she doing still in jail?"
"The Russians are still kind of embarrassed by the repression of the former regime. Do you seriously believe they'll just let all their political prisoners go as quickly as that, especially one of the critical importance as Slonoskvo?"
"True." Roy admitted. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because the NSA has found one relative. Now we want DOD to return us the favor."
"And you are asking this because?"
"C'mon, Roy. We are watching how your investigation is going. And we know that you personally phone called a member from the security staff at the Kurdistan's embassy in London."
"Listen, Bill. We are in on this together. The Department of Defense and the National Security Agency are doing this together. We let you do stuff your way. Now, let us do it our way."
"It's not good enough. You let Slervansk take off to Iraq so he can assassinate a member of a terrorist organization. That's not exactly fair play."
"You are going to lecture me on fair play?" Roy snapped, showing his still white teeth.
"Why not? We pinpointed Slonoskvo silently, cleanly, and without anyone noticing. You, on the other hand, are using your draftee to help your agenda." William rubbed salt on him.
"He chose to go to Iraq by his own free will."
"And you just let him go? Do you have any idea what happens if he dies?"
Campbell groaned in response. Sharp didn't respond; could it be that Campbell used Slervansk as a Kamikaze, to then drop him, letting him die, so that ECLIPSE could never be fully formed? If so, the Roy Campbell from Shadow Moses was dead.
---
Somewhere near Tikrit, northern Iraq, three years before.
"How long will it take?" The American asked, after that long, bitter wait. The desert nights were surprisingly cold; the infinite darkness of the sky sheltered them, as the lay semi-hidden in the sand, which had taken an unusual blue color. His voice sounded bored, but serious.
"They'll be through..." The rebel commander sneered, watching the scene through Russian-made binoculars. His accent was noticeable, as were his blue eyes in the dark. "Be patient."
"As you wish." The Green Beret said, controlling his mind and the situation.
"Captain, here they come."
They both turned their heads left; and took a glance at the road. That poorly paved way took the weight of three Trumpeter Soviet ZIL 6x6 military trucks. Iraqis were probably transporting ammunitions from the retreating northern front; fighting the well-armed American paratroopers, combined with the well-motivated Kurdish Peshmergas was no easy task.
The American's name was Captain Michael Gray; from the US Special Forces, he was a man in his very early 30's, who had gone through the toughest of trainings, and had been dropped from an airplane, falling at the speed of sound to avoid Radar detection, and then landed behind enemy lines. And it didn't bother him. Just as his partner, his eyes were blue (Only Michael's were grayish blue) and his hair was militarily cut.
He then aimed at the front ZIL truck with his weapon: a Colt M16A2, equipped with a 40mm M203 grenade launcher, and using Armor Piercing 5.56 x 45mm NATO ammunitions. Even though they were standard issue in the US Military, it seemed awfully high-tech in comparison to his squad-mates equipment.
The other one was a Kurd, a marksman from the Peshmerga's Special Forces. His red beret, which covered his spiky blue hair, proved it. Both of them were wearing desert camouflage uniforms, which blended perfectly with the environment. So were the Peshmerga's behind them, following the marksman's orders.
That soldier in particular was armed with a Russian-made SVD Dragunov Sniper Rifle, the sniper version of the AK-47, using a longer barrel, a smaller magazine, plastic grips and a 7x scope. So was his spotter; a –oddly- female Peshmerga, the Dragunov barrel of whom had some sort of detail drawn to it; hardly visible at night.
The entire 6-man group suddenly busted out of cover, raising the dust particles covering them, surprising the driver. Gray was the first one taking the shot; he raised his Colt assault rifle, set in a three-round-burst configuration, and fired once; the metallic sound of FMJ (Full Metal Jacketed) rounds leaving the chamber was similar to that of a metallic drum, the three rounds went right through the window, and were lodged into the companion's brain.
The sound of the window breaking, in a long breaking sound, was the go word for all the Iraqi soldiers within the ZIL truck to realize what was going on; as soon as their brains analyzed the noise and the fact that the truck had suddenly stopped. They realized they were in big trouble.
The military vehicles behind stopped as well, avoiding a crash. But they knew it was an ambush, the military manual screamed to get everyone out, but no one wanted to get exposed, and only one ZIL carried troops; the other two carried mostly artillery shells and assault rifle ammunitions; the ones the "Pesh" wanted to get their hands on.
Gray was surprised at the Kurds' reaction; instead of spraying and praying like usual Muslim guerillas, they suddenly started moving forward, half-ducked, while firing individual shots; the four soldiers with AK's chose firing in semiautomatic manner; the shots were louder than that of the M16, but Gray didn't mind. Even if they were firing in motion, they still pulled of firing through the sheet covering the ZIL cargo bay.
The Green Beret decided to join them; he then started advancing while taking cover, firing again in 3-Round-Burst mode. He wasn't used to fire at something without knowing if they were going to hit something or not, but hey, the "Pesh" had one inspiring fighting spirit.
The Iraqis started reacting. As long bursts of inaccurate fire were heard, one of the officers jumped out of the back of the first truck, and while clutching a wound on his arm, fired two shots from his firearm; a nine millimeters, judging for the noise. That was until the Kurdish commander had the decency of firing a shot with his Snaiperskaya Vintovka Dragunova (SVD) and actually dropping him with a single, powerful yet silent, shot through the left lung.
Sucking down a 7.62 x 54mm Rimmed round at a long distance was never a happy experience; leave alone at less than nine meters. The Arab officer took down the shot and fell disgustingly, with a single, untidy hole in his chest, and bending his torso as he fell on the road.
"Go! Go! Go!" Michael shouted. The Kurds seemed to understand it, as they rushed, after the Marksman's shot, As soon as they reached three meters off the road; they crouched quite militarily, and kept the Iraqis hidden within the truck. Gray hated to admit it, but the "Pesh" were skilful motherfuckers.
The Marksman, serious as always, shouted clearly; "Rashid, get over here!" He was, for some reason, speaking in English. Maybe he wanted Gray to be part of his strategy, but it was clear every move made by the Kurds had been previously planned. Mike felt like an observer. The woman from the back came over to the man with the Dragunov. She then crouched next to him.
"Komandar?" She asked, in a humble tone, and in her native language.
"Listen, Rashid," he said, speaking softly and slowly, in quite good English. "I want you to take out the truck at the end –We'll take care of the rest. Remember that we need to give our American friends a good impression. Rastadin?"
"Rastadin..." She said, seemingly understanding her orders. She then leant over her belly, and assumed a prone position; and that gave Michael a clear look at her face; certainly darker than her Aryan commander, her serious eyes were dark and honest. She then set the SVD's bipod in the sand; the Green Beret noticed the detail; a greenish, serpent-looking dragon was drawn into the barrel of her Sniper Rifle; truly cute.
She then started aiming carefully. Her breathing was loud but slow, she was clearly controlling her shot, concentrating all her awareness in that small spot, and that spot was the last ZIL's lower engine. Those large trucks kept all their fuel within a single storage, below the main engine. The rest of the Kurdish militiamen seemed to group up, as she slowly pressed the trigger.
The 7.62 x 54mm Rimmed round left with a flash of fire, which seemed to have flown from the mouth of the Dragon painted in the barrel. It crossed the cold air, cutting softly, and hit the gas tank right through; The truck suddenly blew up, turning into an orange mushroom, bleeding reddish flames and lighting the night; that was the signal, and the chance for the Kurdish commandos and their American mentor to quickly sneak into the second truck;
The leading marksman hung the Dragunov up his back, and drew his personal sidearm, an American/Italian Beretta 92-F, or, like it was called in the military, M-9. It was clear he had bought it from his new friends, but he certainly did like it. Must have been too expensive for the son of a poor Kurdish goat farmer, but then he remembered Peshmergas were not only the elite of the Kurdish military, but society in general. The rest, however, still held their AK's up high. Gray himself had picked a large MK-23 .45 handgun, common for Special Forces use, and adopted by the Special Operations Command, hence it's name, SOCOM.
One of the Kurds trained his AK on the back of the ZIL; covering it and allowing the Marksman and the American to go in first. The Kurd trained the Italian handgun on the entry, making sure it was clear; there was only cloth covering the wire frame of the truck, so that wouldn't save him from gunfire. At the same time, Gray opened it violently.
An Iraqi ammunitions expert turned to see the incoming soldiers; he was surrounded by ordinance of all types, thousands upon thousands of rounds stacked up in piles, along with missiles and some other weapons. Being careful not to harm the explosives, Gray released a couple of rounds into his chest.
The .45 rounds didn't have any complication going through his rib cage; the high recoil had send a shot just above the heart, but it was enough to drop the ammo expert to the floor, dead. The rest of the team boarded violently. It had been quite a show for just hijacking ammunitions and a truck, but it was a job well done.
As he approached him within the truck, Gray asked the Kurdish lead.
"Okay, commander, I see what you do, and you do it damn well." The American said, raising both arms.
"Hey, no need to be so impersonal." He said, really being off character from the self he had known. "We are combat buddies now, Michael." The Marksman had just admitted something without saying it; he was a different man while in combat.
"I'm glad you think that way, Elijah."
---
