Author's Note 1: For the next two chapters, two asterisks '--' in the middle of the page means a shift from the 'present' to a flashback and vice versa. And, for the sake of OPSEC, I've deliberately blurred some aspects of CQB, and not expand on certain acronyms.
Chapter 3: A Few Good Men
In the dimly lit interior of the Green Dragon, the men of Rainbow and their Singaporean counterparts gathered in a corner. Every one of them had a mug of beer either in his hand or on the table, save for the two Muslims, who opted for a glass of milk and a cup of tea instead. The Special Air Service troopers in the pub left them mostly alone, shooting the occasional glance their way.
Steve Gao was sitting next to Domingo Chavez, Chris Wong, and Edward Price. Taking a sip from his mug, he turned to Chavez.
"So…what did you think of the weapons?"
In the course of two months, both the NATO and Singaporean troopers trained with each other, learned from each other, used each other's tactics and gear…and fired each other's weapons.
"Well…the G36C was fun," Chavez recalled. "The carbine, SMG, whatever you call it, is kind of comfortable to shoot, if one ignores the muzzle blast. I'm guessing the ones you use are the updated editions…the ones which HK modified to solve the overheating issue?"
"Yes," Wong affirmed, nodding his head.
The door to the Green Dragon opened. A relatively short Chinese soldier stepped in, brushing some dirt off his somewhat narrower shoulders. His uniform was as perfect as could be, properly pressed and starched in all the right areas, his boots spit-shined until they reflected the lights above. He walked towards the Rainbow men, properly digging his boots into the floor, like he was trained to do.
"…It's accurate, reliable…hell, just what we need in close quarters battle, if we need rifle-caliber weapons. I mean, more and more terrorists these days are equipping themselves with body armor…and our 10mm Auto bullets can't penetrate them."
The soldier made an abrupt turn, heading for the bartender. The man cocked his eyebrow when he beheld the…child…in front of him.
"I just look young for my age. I'm twenty-three, but I've very smooth skin," the soldier said, pre-empting the bartender. "Besides, I don't have to be of legal age to ask for water, right?"
He didn't say that he looked old for his age, not young.
"Water?" the bartender repeated.
"Water. Warm, preferably."
The surprised man turned around, grabbed a mug, and walked over to a nearby sink. He filled the mug with tap water and passed it to the soldier.
"Thank you. How much?"
"…Free of charge, as far as I'm concerned," the bartender answered with a slight smile.
"Thank you."
Heading towards the NATO-Singaporean soldiers, he overheard Wong saying, "Yeah, that's why we use them. Besides…based on our work…we need deniable weapons, and no country in the region uses G36Cs."
"Oh?" Chavez wondered.
"Yeah. M4s are common…but only to a certain extent. Besides, they're too long for some situations, like extreme close quarters battle."
"Hmm…well, I reckoned we would have made use of them some time ago," Price commented. Several Rainbow troopers murmured in agreement.
"When?" Wong asked.
"Six months ago…the failed hostage-taking in Paris."
"You did the takedown?" the Singaporean 2IC, Dan Lee, asked, from an adjoining table
"Yeah," Rainbow Six confirmed. "That was us."
"That's good. I read about it in the news. The takedown was beautiful…though there were losses. Care to tell us about it?" Wong asked.
"Please do," a voice seconded, from behind Chavez.
Chavez spun around.
"What the hell—"
"Major…try listening to the environment next time," Cheah said, innocently.
'Major' Chavez scanned the cadet, taking in the perfection of his uniform…and the mug in his right hand, containing…water?
"Gee, Major, I'm allergic to so many things that I reckon I'm allergic to beer too," Cheah cheerfully said, taking a swig. The rest of Rainbow and the other Singaporean soldiers just stared at him from their places.
"…I see…" Chavez said.
He's a writer, isn't he? Maybe he can explain this…
"Cheah, is it just me, or does everything look more…vivid…more real?" Chavez asked.
"It's me. I wrote you into existence for this story, remember?" Cheah replied, with a slight frown. "Hell, I created everything that you're looking at. I just wanted to experiment a little, and here's the end result."
Lee rolled his eyes.
"What, Lee? Isn't it nice that you now have some sort of emotions?" Cheah queried with a grin, the kind associated with darkness, death, and evil.
"What you talking?" Gao remarked.
"The hell?" Vega asked.
"He means, 'what are you talking about?'" Cheah answered. "Basically, I'm improving my writing style. Period. End."
"Oh…"
"…Cheah, you want to listen?" Chavez asked.
"I know the story, remember? This story's for Wong and company."
"Oh. …Why don't you sit down?"
Cheah looked around.
Around him, the men of Rainbow had arranged the wooden tables in a rough semicircle, and were sitting at them in crudely fashioned (but still sturdy) wooden chairs. The SpecOps men, relaxed and eager, turned to look at the writer, who was searching for a chair. There were none. Looking around, Cheah saw that the other tables were fully occupied, and that every chair was taken.
"…Want I should get a chair?" a Rainbow shooter offered.
"No, thanks. Hold on," Cheah replied, reaching into his pockets. He extracted a notepad and a pen, flipped the pad open, and started to write in a cursive, eloquent script that flowed across the length of the page.
"What are you doing?" Ettore Falcone asked, facing the writer.
Cheah looked up, then said, "Look around."
Falcone looked around.
Around him, the men of Rainbow had arranged the wooden tables in a rough semicircle, and were sitting at them in crudely fashioned (but still sturdy) wooden chairs. The SpecOps men, relaxed and eager, turned to look at the writer, who pocketed the tools of his trade. And promptly sat down on a chair that had appeared directly behind him, as though—
"I'm a writer. I can shape this world," Cheah answered, reading Falcone's mind.
"You never cease to amaze me," Wong admitted.
"Yeah, well…Chavez? You going to start?" Cheah asked, changing the subject.
"All right," he sighed, standing up. He walked towards the middle of the gap formed by the semicircle, and addressed his audience.
"Six months ago, a group of terrorists…"
--
Chavez entered the Watch Room, followed by Price.
"You called, Mr. C?" Chavez asked, facing his father-in-law cum CO.
"Yes Ding," Alistair Stanley answered for his boss. "We've got a situation in Paris that we might have to attend to."
The Watch Room wasn't impressive. A bank of television sets were mounted on one end of the room, tuned to various all-news channels to keep an eye on any situations. Several telephones were set on a small wooden desk for international and local calls. A security camera was mounted at a corner, overseeing the operation. There was one other man in the room: Bill Tawney. And that was all.
"What's happening?" Chavez asked.
Clark gestured at a TV screen.
"CNN is reporting a hostage crisis in Paris. About an hour ago, a group of terrorists from the World Islamic Front, a relatively obscure terrorist group with links to al-Qaeda, attacked the American ambassador, George Haynes, while on his way to meet with the French Foreign Ministry.
"They stopped his car with hand grenades, then had a firefight with his bodyguards. All of the bodyguards were killed, along with two terrorists…and some bystanders."
"Shit," Chavez muttered.
"The GIGN arrived at the scene shortly after the terrorists grabbed Haynes. After a running gunfight, the terrorists have fled to an apartment block in downtown Paris. The local police have the situation contained, and things are calming down.
"The Tangos are demanding ten million dollars, a bus to the airport, and an aircraft to flee the country within six hours, or they'll start executing hostages. In addition to the ambassador, they claim to hold at least eight other innocents, among them a lawyer and a judge.
"So…what's Washington doing?" Chavez asked.
"President Kealty doesn't want the French to send in the GIGN," Tawney said. "Something about politics. His counterpart insists that there's not enough time to assemble an American SpecOps team, fly them to Paris, and get them to resolve the situation in time. I've suggested sending in Rainbow to Director Dan Murray of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he's briefed Kealty about it. I think Kealty is informing the French now. They should come to a decision right about now…"
A telephone rang. Tawney covered the distance to it in three quick strides and picked it up.
"Tawney here. …I see. Yes, okay. Good. Thank you," he muttered, and hung up.
"That was from 10 Downing Street. Washington, Paris, and London have agreed to send in Rainbow to deal with the situation. Chavez, Price, alert your men."
"Got it," Chavez replied, heading for the door.
--
"Er, mind if I ask a stupid question?" Gao asked.
"Yes?" Chavez enquired from his place.
"Why can't the French handle it? I mean, the French Foreign Legion, the GIGN or whatever can handle the terrorists."
"Politics, that's all. Kealty wanted Americans to handle it. And the French President wants as little American involvement as possible, though what he said made some sense. They compromised with us."
"Damned politicians," Chavez spat. "Hell, Mr. C's going to retire in a couple of months, and—"
"Ding. Please," Clark said, feeling his sixty-plus years of age.
"All right, all right. Back to the story. We flew into Paris within three hours, and…"
--
Team-2 arrived at the site in a pair of black-painted nondescript vans, courtesy of the gendarmes assigned to chaperone them from the airport. Dressed in coal-black fatigues and balaclavas, their identities were masked well enough to deceive the media into thinking that they were reinforcements for the cops manning the perimeter security.Chavez assessed the situation at an oblique angle to the building.
The local police cordoned off the apartment block in question. The GIGN had established roadblocks all around the area, preventing anyone from entering or leaving their zone of control, or the no-man's land that was the area directly surrounding the apartment block.
The building was pretty nice, he decided, taking the time to appreciate the European architecture style. The architect had designed the neighborhood along the lines of 19th century France, yet had made concessions to modernity in cleverly disguised forms: electric lights were disguised as gas lamps, and the concrete used to build the local structures had been painted and cast to look like stone or brick.
But, there was no time to appreciate its beauty. Chavez focused on tactical realities. The apartment block was ten stories in height, with a front and rear entrance. The windows overlooking the street were currently curtained off, preventing sniper/observers from looking inside. Strangely enough, there were no exterior guards.
While Chavez gave the building a quick once-over, the local GIGN commander approached him. The Frenchman saluted the American, greeting in fluent English, "Major Chavez? I am Colonel Francois St. Jacques, at your service."
Returning the salute, Chavez immediately asked, "What's the situation like?"
"Not good," St. Jacques admitted. "I have placed teams of snipers in the buildings surrounding the target site. They can see nothing. My negotiators are just about ready to give up; the terrorists do not want to talk any more than absolutely necessary. My assault teams are in place…but my superiors have forbidden them from doing anything. They are currently manning the roadblocks."
"Any ID on the opposition?"
"Nothing. We do not have a voiceprint of the terrorist who answers the telephone, and all of them are wearing ski masks…in addition to their other gear."
"What do they have?"
St. Jacques grimaced. "AKS-74Us, or so my weapons expert has told me. Since they have used grenades in the attack on the ambassador, we'll have to assume they have grenades, too. Also, they are wearing helmets and body armor."
"What the hell…"
Powerful as it was, the 10mm Auto bullet Rainbow's MP5/10s fired didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of penetrating modern body armor. Torso shots were out of the question, naturally, and headshots would be chancy at best. Modern helmets could stop a 9mm round at point-blank…and Chavez wasn't too sure if the MP5/10s they had were able to defeat the helmets, especially since the 10mm rounds were subsonic hollowpoints; historically the worst performer of all types of bullets in terms of penetration…and their sound suppressors would further reduce bullet velocity, resulting in less power (and penetration).
Damn, he decided. Should have procured rifle-caliber weapons for Rainbow.
"My sentiments exactly."
"…Is there a blueprint of the site? My team and I have to plan the takedown."
"Follow me."
--
"What happened to Malloy…the helicopter pilot?" Wong asked.
"At that time, he was over the English Channel," Price replied. "He would only arrive in Paris an hour later…and by then, he was almost useless."
"Hey!" Malloy complained.
"Hey, 'mano, we didn't factor you and your chopper into the assault plan," Chavez rejoined.
"What was the plan like?" Lee enquired.
"KISS," Chavez answered, truthfully.
--
"Let's keep it simple, stupid, shall we?" Chavez said aloud.The assaulters of Team-2 had gathered around Chavez, while the snipers joined their GIGN counterparts in futilely scanning the windows with their precision rifles. The blueprints of the building were laid across the hood of a police car, with red markings across its surface, signifying important people and items.
John Clark had elected to follow Domingo Chavez into Paris. He had set up a joint command post with the GIGN in a building some distance away from the apartment block, wishing that he could join his son-in-law. He hated being old…and all this command shit.
Meanwhile, Tim Noonan had set up an observation point directly opposite the apartment block, and was now scanning the building with a state-of-the-art thermal imager Rainbow had 'procured' a few weeks ago. The GIGN tech personnel had managed to install fiber-optic cameras and listening devices into the walls of the apartment block, and had built up a profile of the terrorists' modus operandi.
The front door had been booby-trapped. Using a pair of frag grenades, a couple of empty tin cans, some string, and a bit of sticky tape, the Tangos had ensured that anybody who opened the door would receive a nasty surprise, along with anybody behind him.
There were eight terrorists in all, spread out across the bottom four floors. Two of them were guarding a dozen hostages on the first floor. The others were patrolling the common corridors of the upper three floors, operating in pairs. The building had been vacated of civilians, fortunately; the terrorists had let the inhabitants go after grabbing several at random.
The GIGN had cut off cellular telephone signals in the area, but the Tangos remained indifferent. However, shortly after enforcing radio silence using a military jammer, the terrorists had threatened to kill hostages immediately. The French quailed, and the jammer was deactivated. That meant that the Tangos were in contact with each other by radio, and reported to their leader in regular intervals. That theory was confirmed by a GIGN radio intercept team, who listened into their radio conversations…but only after breaking the signals' encryption. And even that didn't offer very much in the way of intelligence.
"I think we should cross from the other roof," Price suggested.
"What do you mean?" Loiselle asked.
"Well, when I was still in the 22 SAS, we practiced crossing roofs using ladders. We can borrow some ladders from the local fire brigade, then head for the roofs of the buildings adjacent to the target location, and use the ladders to cross. It's pretty simple, really, so long as you don't lose your balance."
The idea of a hundred-foot drop to the ground didn't appeal to any of the Rainbow shooters, but what the hell: the insertion would be covert, and that was all that mattered.
"Okay, we can do that. What about the terrorists?" Chavez asked.
"Hmm…simultaneous assault?" George Taylor offered. Three weeks ago, he had been rotated into Rainbow from the United States Marine Corps' Force Recon, and was now participating in his first for-real counterterrorist operation.
"What do you mean?" Falcone wondered.
"The blueprints show that the common stairwell leads to the roof. We go down the stairs, then position ourselves on the first, second, third, and forth floors respectively. When we're in position, we storm the corridors simultaneously, and kill the Tangos in one fell swoop," the former Marine clarified.
"Good thinking," Team-2 Lead agreed. "Oso, you have your MP5/10, right?"
"Oh, yeah," Vega agreed.
He had swapped his M60E3 for a Mark 24 Mod 0 a long time ago…but now, he always carried an MP5/10, a B & T suppressor, and extra magazines in case he had to be called upon. He was lucky he was shooting in close quarters during the Worldpark job; the MP5/10 he borrowed wasn't zeroed for his eyesight, so it would not shoot to his point of aim at far distances…and he didn't dare take a hostage-rescue shot with a weapon he hadn't personally zeroed before.
"Okay. You and I will take the forth floor. Paddy, you and Eddie storm the third floor. Mike, you and Lois will assault the second floor. Big Bird, you and George will head for the first floor."
"Why George and I?" Falcone asked.
"Well…you and he are the best shooters in the team."
"I see…" Taylor muttered, sounding unconvinced.
"The terrorists have body armor and helmets, no? Will our 10mm rounds defeat that?" Loiselle worried.
"Well…" Chavez trailed. Sure, he knew what the 10mm Automatic could do to a human head…but not what it could do to a head protected by armor.
"If they don't you can always shoot them some more," Pierce answered for his boss.
--
"John, why didn't we get carbines or something back then?" Chavez asked of his boss (and father-in-law).
"My fault," Clark admitted. "I didn't know that terrorists these days like to wear Kevlar if they're not donning belts of explosives. Besides…I didn't argue that we needed the extra funds hard enough."
"What do you mean?" Wong asked.
"Rainbow is run by bureaucrats," Clark said. "They are extremely stingy with money. They didn't see the need for us to buy carbines and ammunition, and didn't see the need to invest in training with such gear."
"Hmm…" Lee remarked. "Over here, MINDEF has virtually unlimited funds. What it asks for, it gets…and that translates to us. And, lucky for us, we don't have to handle bureaucrats."
"How come?" Clark enquired, envious of the Singaporeans.
"We're not part of the SAF. We answer directly to the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister through our liaison officer," Wong explained.
"Speaking of which, he's acting kind of suspicious these days," Cheah interrupted.
"What do you mean?" Wong asked, immediately on guard.
"I don't know…he's just acting strange, that's all," the writer replied.
"Meaning…?"
Cheah took a swig from his glass, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Call it a gut instinct. Back to the story, please…"
--
Nightfall. Malloy had finally arrived in Paris. He and his copilot, Nance, orbited the site, observing the perimeter through their night vision goggles. Chavez immediately had them patrolling a no fly zone around the apartment block, preventing the media from revealing too much to the world. Much to the consternation of the press, the pilots ordered all news choppers away from the area every time they were detected on radar. Malloy's fluent French, learned from his mother, made the media blame the GIGN.
As expected, the terrorists were not in any mood to negotiate. The negotiators had tried one last time, and threw in the towel. Team-2 passed the time by practicing the art of assembling the ladders and crossing gaps on them, while St. Jacques made do by fending off the press, answering to his superiors, and worrying. St. Jacques and Chavez collectively agreed to assault the apartment block half an hour ago.
Which led Chavez to this point, one hundred feet in the air, lying on a fireman's ladder.
The teams had elected to cross from the roof of the building to the site's right. The ladders the men had lugged up the stairs to the roof were made of four three-meter sections of aluminum, resulting in an overall length of eleven meters. According to the plans, that made for a half-meter overlap on either end, when the ladders were in place.
To save time, two ladders were placed across the gap of both buildings, parallel to each other, and two team members were to cross at one time. Chavez, being the leader, went first. With a safety tope tied around his waist and belayed to Loiselle, Chavez crawled forward, each knee on one rung at a time, all the while gripping the side rails.
Sweating under the weight of his gear and tension, he pulled himself forward, inch by inch, ever so carefully, praying that the ladder wouldn't give way under his weight. He told himself to look forward, not down, preventing the onset of acrophobia.
Fortunately enough, he made it across without any trouble. MP5/10 covering the door leading to the stairwell, Chavez waited for the others. Team-2 crossed without much fuss, and as soon as the men assembled, they headed for the stairs.
Just before the team had left, Chavez had decided to remove the sound suppressors from their MP5/10s. Stealth was not necessary once the takedown was underway, and the reduced velocity rounds may not have the power to penetrate the helmets.
Ding took the lead. Weapon aimed down, finger off the trigger, he slowly descended the flight of steps, each foot landing toes first, before touching down on the heels, being very careful. He could not afford to bump into anything; the sound produced might give him away. He kept a watchful eye as he cleared each corner and landing, moving slowly and steadily. Fortunately for the team, the stairwell was brightly lit, negating the use of night vision goggles, and there were no Tangos on guard duty.
Domingo Chavez stopped next to the wooden door on the fourth floor, leading to the common corridor. He took a place on the right of the door. Julio Vega deployed on the left side. Both men covered the door with their MP5/10s, gesturing for the others to carry on.
Edward Price then led the way. Like the rest of the team, he took extra pains to ensure that the approach was stealthy. His middle-aged body complained just a little, feeling the effects of the stresses he was placing on it. He ignored the minor aches and sores, concentrating on the task at hand. They vanished soon after. Presently, he arrived at his spot, and stacked up next to his door, along with Paddy Covington.
Mike Pierce, like Price, headed down another two flights of stairs before arriving on the second floor. He set the safety of his MP5/10 to full auto, then stood next to his door. Lois Loiselle stood opposite him, weapon ready. Falcone and Taylor moved on.
The last two men arrived at the ground floor, weapons covering the door. As far as Noonan could make out, the terrorists hadn't bothered booby-trapping the stairwell's access doors…but he could be wrong. As Taylor guarded the door, Falcone took his place opposite the American, and whispered "Lead: Falcone, Taylor is in place," into the radio.
"Roger. All, check in," Chavez ordered.
"Rifle Two-One, ready," Homer Johnston reported from outside, despite the fact that he had no targets.
"Rifle Two-Two, ready," Dieter Weber acknowledged.
"Noonan, ready."
Noonan's task was to provide real-time intelligence on the terrorists' positions before and during the assault. In case a terrorist deviated from his patrol, Noonan was to report it over the radio net.
"Rainbow Six, ready."
Clark didn't have much of a job, really. Because of his French language skills, however, he became the middleman between the GIGN and Rainbow. If Rainbow suddenly needed backup, Clark and St. Jacques would organize and lead a GIGN rapid reaction force to save the day…hopefully. Also, he was to alert the French equivalent of paramedics on standby at the roadblocks, in case somebody got hurt.
"Roger," Chavez said.
Oh shit! he thought, suddenly remembering something.
"Check the doorknobs. See if they're locked," he ordered.
If they were locked…they'd have to be breached one way or another. There was too little time to prepare breaching charges for every door; should a door be locked, the Rainbow shooters would have to kick the doors down…something that was highly dangerous for the shooter in the doorway.
Vega enclosed the doorknob in his massive left hand. Slowly, carefully, he turned it, not wanting to draw attention to the door.
Slowly, gently, the knob rotated. Vega kept in hand in place.
Mercifully, the other doors were also unlocked, as reported by the other Rainbow shooters. Chavez heaved a mental sigh of relief, reminding himself to never, ever, forget to prepare door breaching methods as long as he was alive.
Vega reached into the pouches on his Close Quarters Combat vest with his other hand, extracting a flash-bang. He extracted the cotter pin from it with the index and third fingers of his left hand, keeping the stun grenade gripped firmly in his hands. So long as he didn't let go, the safety spoon would stay in place, and the grenade would not explode.
"Team, Lead. On my mark. Three…two…one…MARK!" Chavez ordered.
Immediately, Vega flung the door open with his left hand, and tossed in his flash-bang. It bounced twice on the floor, then exploded in a riot of sound and white light. As Vega returned his hands to his MP5/10, Chavez burst through the door, weapon up and scanning.
There were two terrorists, in the middle of a corridor, blinded and disoriented, easy targets. Chavez brought the SMG's diopter sights on the closer of the two, seeing the aiming post superimposed on a helmet and an even circle of light shining through the rear sight. He squeezed the trigger, hearing the SMG bark.
The shots reverberated throughout the building, and the recoil almost brought Chavez off target. But no matter; Chavez's aim was so fine that he had placed all three 10mm rounds between his target's eyes. The helmet didn't help much, except contain the spray of blood, bone, and brains.
Vega stormed through the open door, seeing the other target. Bringing the HK MP5/10 to bear, he let loose a three-round burst. His aim was not as good: the first bullet crashed into the helmet, buckling it and giving the terrorist an immediate concussion; the second round penetrated through the helmet and entered the terrorist's head; the last shot compounded the damage, blowing his brains all over the inside of his helmet.
"Fourth floor clear!" Chavez reported.
On the third floor, Covington threw in his flash-bang as soon as he heard Chavez's command. It sailed into the corridor, and detonated in a fury of light and noise. Price made entry, seeing a sole terrorist, right in his face, on his knees. The Tango's hands were on his weapon, so Price delivered a three-round burst of hollowpoints to his head. He saw blood erupt from the holes blown into the helmet, and that was good enough for Price.
Wait…where's the other…!
That was when he saw an open door, several meters away, leading into an apartment. It was half-open, directly blocking his view of what was beyond it. Covington guessed at what had happened, crouched, and sprayed a line of 10mm Automatic hollowpoints across the length of the door. Wood splintered as the rounds tore into the door, and Price swore that he heard a scream.
As soon as Covington released the trigger, Price ran forward, followed by Covington, the operatives careful not to cross into each other's line of fire.
"Noonan, Price!" he called over the radio. "Where's the other Tango on my floor?"
A few seconds later, Noonan said, "He's in the apartment with the open door. He's crawling into the living room."
Covington sidestepped, moving through ninety degrees as soon as he was in line with the door. Looking down, he saw two long trails of blood streak across the ground, leading to a terrorist lying prone on the floor of the living room in front of him. The Tango was bleeding from multiple leg wounds, but they were neither fatal nor crippling. He was still holding his AKS-74U, and rules were rules, so Covington shouldered his weapon and fired a triple tap into the terrorist's head. As an afterthought, he fired another three rounds into the Tango's skull. Better safe than sorry, he decided.
"Third floor clear!" he announced.
When Chavez's voice filtered through Loiselle's earpieces, his left hand was already on the doorknob, right hand gripping his stun grenade. Like Vega, he opened the door, threw in the flash-bang, and snatched up his MP5/10.
As soon as the stun grenade exploded, Pierce stormed into the corridor, again seeing two Tangos. He aimed at the closest terrorist's face, and pulled the trigger. Three explosions resounded…and then an AK opened fire.
As the Tango's brain died, it fired nerves all over his body, including that of his right index finger. His AKS-74U went off, pointed in Pierce's direction. The carbine's 5.45mm Soviet rounds ripped the air past his head—
—"Shit!" Pierce cursed, diving to the ground. The next few bullets attacked the air centimeters from his head. The American heard the bullets' passage, an unmistakable SNAP.
Loiselle entered as soon as Pierce had cleared the door. As though by telepathy, Loiselle had sighted the other Tango Pierce had ignored, and both men pulled their triggers at the same time. Both Tangos went down, dead before they hit the ground, bullets slicing into the air from the errant carbine. Loiselle sought the relative safety of the ground while the AKS-74U discharged itself.
The carbine went dry a few seconds later. Pierce whispered a prayer of thanks while Loiselle shouted, "Second floor clear!" into the radio.
Falcone decided to go in second, after Taylor. The Italian went through the routines, opening the door and throwing his stun grenade in.
Taylor counted.
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…what the hell?
The flash-bangs Rainbow used had a two and a half second timer, accurate to half a second. This particular grenade, however, didn't explode.
"Shit! Cover me!" Taylor hissed, MP 5/10 up and ready as he entered the ground floor.
There were two Tangos, one mixed among a group of hostages, weapon down, and another a couple of feet to his right, weapon rising. Taylor engaged the second target, shooting him thrice in the head just before the terrorist could get a shot off.
Then, the stun grenade exploded. The flash burned the image of the terrorist's face exploding into Taylor's retinas. The noise disturbed his equilibrium, taking him off balance. All he could hear was a loud, sharp ringing while his ears struggled to recover from the abuse. He felt himself suddenly falling forwards, effectively blinded and deafened. He was going down, the job wasn't complete, at least one Tango was still alive, the hostages were still in danger, and he couldn't stop it.
"Fuck!" he shouted, removing his finger from the trigger, impotent and unable to continue.
Falcone entered just after the flash-bang. Fortunately for him, his position shielded him from the worst of the stun grenade's detonation, but he was completely deafened by the blast…and a little slower than normal.
Time seemed to slow down. Scanning, he saw Taylor fall to his knees, swearing and cursing. He saw a terrorist on the ground, bleeding profusely from the head and obviously no longer a threat. He saw the hostages screaming, unable to hear them. He saw one standing up. He saw the remaining Tango grab her by the throat from behind—
—Something went click. Bringing up his MP5/10, Falcone closed his left eye, seeing through the MP5/10's drum-like rear sight. He focused on the tip of the front sight's aiming post, a plastic protrusion in the middle of a plastic circle. He moved the MP5/10, superimposing the sight over the terrorist's unprotected face, even as the Tango tried to take cover behind the hostage. He perceived an even circle of light surrounding the front sight, indicating a perfect sight picture.
Falcone pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
Through his enforced deafness, the Italian Rainbow shooter heard the noise very clearly and loudly indeed. Remembering his training, he released his SMG, letting it swing free on its harness as his right hand found his Beretta, nestled in its hip holster. He drew the Beretta Cougar 8045, focusing on the front sight. Suddenly, it became crystal clear, while everything else became blurred. Falcone aligned the tip of the sight with the middle of his target zone: between and just below the eyes.
Ettore Falcone squeezed the trigger twice, executing a perfect double tap.Time returned to normal. He saw the terrorist's head snap back under the force of two .45 147-grain Hydrashok bullets, a halo of red surrounding it. He pulled the hostage down with him, his AKS-74U clattering to the ground.
"First floor clear!" Falcone reported, heading for the human shield.
"Building clear!" Chavez announced.
"Building clear!" Price seconded.
"Building clear!" Pierce agreed.
"Building clear!" Taylor gasped, recovering from the insult of the flash-bang.
--
"From there, we safetied the terrorists' weapons, secured and frisked the hostages, and then returned operational control to the GIGN," Chavez concluded.
"What the hell was that? The stun grenade not detonating, the weapon jamming…" Gao asked of everybody and nobody.
"Mister Murphy," Taylor replied, grinning as he took a swig.
"Who?"
"The asshole who enforces Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong will."
"Oh."
"Apparently, the fuse was cut too long, and the bullet had a faulty primer," Price added, sipping his second pint of the evening.
"Bloody hell," Wong noted.
"Quite so," Cheah noted, finally breaking his silence. "And, like it or not, Mr. Murphy has a strange way of popping up whenever you think he's dead."
"He is dead. He's just a ghost," a Rainbow operative offered, deadpan.
"So that's why we haven't seen him before," Imran muttered rhetorically.
The teams chuckled softly. Cheah just smiled into his mug, and drained it in a long pull.
"Incidentally, the weapons the Tangos used were reported destroyed in a fire in a Russian armory in 1987," Clark said. "The powers that be didn't pursue the matter."
He didn't have to say that the weapons had really been sold on the international black market in exchange for cold, hard cash.
"What about the armor?" Wong asked.
"Well…if you can believe this, they were purchased from DuPont under an alias," Rainbow Six replied, grimacing.
"Damn…how the hell do terrorists and criminals get body armor anyway?" Kumar asked.
"Hell if I know. There are ways and means," Chavez answered, finishing his pint.
"There're always ways and means to defeat them," Loiselle consoled. "We just have to think."
"Yeah, but over here…us guys are…proactive," Wong said, delicately. "Let's just say that we do things a little more aggressively than most politicians like, though we have the PM's support. If we start meeting enemies with body armor, we're screwed."
"Take head or groin shots, then," Cheah offered. "And don't worry, you will."
"What do you mean?" Wong asked, again.
"Well…al-Qaeda terrorists have been reported engaging in firefights with US Army troops while wearing body armor. If they can procure armor, then it stands to reason that other terrorists will get them."
"I see…"
"How many men do you have in your unit?" Covington asked.
"Twenty, like yours."
"I see…isn't that too little for a black ops unit?"
"Yeah," Wong agreed, taking a pull from his warm beer. "Hell, we came close to stretching ourselves too thin a lot of times. We're still looking for a few good men."
"Meaning?" Chavez wondered.
"Men of the same caliber as Rainbow."
"I see…hey, where's Cheah?" Price asked, looking around.
The writer was gone.
"What the hell…?" Lim whispered.
The men scanned the pub for him, seeing absolutely no trace of him at all. As they exchanged quizzical looks, they saw a piece of paper lying atop the table the Singaporeans were sitting at.
Wong picked it up, and read it aloud.
"'Thanks to my preliminary examinations, tests, and homework, I'll have to disappear for a while…and study like hell. See you in a few. Cheah'"
"'Preliminary examinations'?" Chavez repeated.
"Think of it as a series of papers on various subjects. In 2006, if Cheah is to spend the first three months in a junior college instead of idling at home, he has to pass JC requirements in those papers. Never mind that the 'O' levels, which theoretically decides his tertiary education institution of choice, are more important…and are set easier than the preliminary examinations"
"What the hell are the preliminary examinations for, then?" Clark asked.
"Hell if I know."
Author's Note 2: I know, I know, in Rainbow Six, Chavez and co. use 'MP-10s' with integral sound suppressors. Fact is, the MP-10 is really called the 'MP5/10', and they do NOT have integral suppressors: they are accessories. The approach method used by Rainbow had been deliberately simplified, for obvious reasons. Also, due to the aforementioned reason, I will not have the time to write as much as I want to…