"What the hell!" Chavez shouted.
The majority of the occupants of the Green Dragon looked up and at the Rainbow operative, equal parts irritated, amused, and indifferent. These days, it was best not to ask too many questions about too many things, if one wished to remain alive and well…relatively speaking.
"Yes, Ding," Wong patiently repeated for the umpteenth time that day.
Once more, the Rainbow and Singaporean soldiers had gathered in the pub, for their customary after-training drink. And, once more, the Muslim soldiers had opted for milk and water. The men were sitting at their tables, mixing with their counterparts. Since the beginning of the cross training session, the men had always been doing that, having recognized each other as men of the same caliber.
"What happened?" Lee asked.
"Well, Chris and I had a shooting match today," Falcone answered.
"And?" Clark demanded, wondering why Wong was so stupid.
"I shot four hundred points," he replied simply.
"What the hell…?" Gao whistled.
"It's pretty easy once you get the hang of it. Also, I had a good night's sleep," the Italian said, somewhat bashfully and definitely humbly.
"Yeah, yeah."
Gao could shoot rifles and SMGs better than many of his counterparts when he was part of the SOF…but couldn't for the life of him shoot a pistol well enough to even think of competing with the Rainbow troopers. Hell, he just scraped through the basic requirements…
"Steve…you really should go ask Dave Woods, the range master. He'll be able to solve your problem," Wong suggested, looking up from his beer mug.
"…Really, meh?" he asked, fairly cynically.
"'meh'?" Price repeated, opposite Gao…and doing fairly badly at that.
"It means nothing," Cheah asked, appearing behind Price. "It's just a word used for emphasis."
"What the—"Cheah shook his head, and sighed.
"What did I say the last time?"
"Cheah…when the hell did you walk in?"
"Just now," the cadet answered, smiling…but there was something about it, something about it that the men couldn't place a finger on.
"Xiao li cang dao (hsi-OW l-Eee ch-AHng d-Ow)," Lee thought out loud.
The puzzled expressions shot at him led him to explain: "It's a Chinese proverb. Literally translated, it means 'smile hiding knives'. The contextual meaning is roughly the same."
"Oh…" the others resounded.
"Well, whatever," the youth said.
"Oh yeah, happy birthday," Wong said.
"It's too late…" Cheah moaned. "Besides, my birthday isn't all that special: I work and study on my birthday too."
"Really?" Chavez remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"Aye," the writer replied, feeling older than he really was. "I've got a lot of homework, several tests a week…Hell, I'm paying attention to you guys more than A Better Tomorrow, Mercenary, or my other stories."
"I'm so honored," Imran said, chuckling a little. "Why do you have so much to do?"
Thanks to kiasu-ism, and the fact that I have a bean counter of a pri…wait, better not say that."
"Why?"
"Well…it's like this.
"What you call the real world is really a story. I am the writer of this story, yes? Some people know my real name…and they live in my country. If I publicly defame anyone on the Internet, I might face lawsuits."
"Oh…wait, Internet?" Pierce suddenly realized.
"Yeah…you're characters in my story, and it's on the Internet."
"Wait a minute…so why haven't I read any fan fiction stories involving this part of our lives on the Internet?" Lee asked.
"I'm referring to the Internet in my world."
"Meaning?"
"What I call the 'real world'. Your 'real world' consists of just words I type into a computer screen, or write into the notebook I always carry. It exists only on the Internet from my perspective, while you lot see everything around you as 'real'.
"My 'real world' is the world I live in. This means the world my readers live in. Hell, for all I know, my life could well be a story, and my life is just one dictated by writers out there. The world I live in could well be fiction. After all, we don't know if there are other worlds out there, and that my world—like yours—could just be a figment of someone's imagination…"
Stars appeared in the writer's eyes. The thirty Rainbow commandos and the support personnel wondered, very briefly, exactly what the hell Cheah was rambling on about. Wong raised an eyebrow. Lee said, "Eh, snap out of it. You're being too philosophical for me to digest…you're almost as philosophical as he is," Lee added, gesturing at his CO.
"Ah, who cares," he agreed, leaving his reverie.
"So…why are you here? To tell the world out there our stories?" Vega asked.
"Well… no. Just because. I mean; you don't exist in my world…do you?"
Reading the expressions on the men's faces, he shook his head, smiling another strange smile.
"Forget it…Anyway Wong, what was your score in the competition?"
"Er…four hundred points."
A second passed.
A lifetime hurtled by.
Then, Rainbow burst into cheers. Raising their beer mugs, they toasted the Singaporean, saluting his accomplishment. Slapping his back, Price grinned. Falcone smiled a little. The other Singaporeans joined in, having been roundly thrashed by the Italian sharpshooter. Cheah stood a little way back, narrowly avoiding a stream of beer tossed from its mug. It landed at his boots, slapping against the floor.
"Four hundred points! That's the first time anybody tied with Big Bird!" Clark congratulated.
"Thank you," Wong replied. "Pistol shooting's just—"
"Cut the crap lah," Kumar interrupted.
"Indeed. He's very skilled in the art of the pistol," Falcone agreed.
"Not just that. He's pretty good in everything else, too," Cheah said.
"Oh?" Mike Chin asked.
"Yeah…considering that he's among the best-trained commandos in Singapore."
"Really?"
Cheah nodded.
"Wong, tell them about what you did…that black operation you did some months ago."
"That?" Wong asked. "Wouldn't that be illegal?"
"You didn't say anything," Vega reassured him.
"Yeah. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, I left the pub to do my homework," Cheah seconded, taking his cue.
"Homework?" Wong asked.
"And revision."
"Right…well, here goes," Wong muttered to himself. Standing up, he positioned himself such that the Rainbow men could see him. He took a deep breath, then started on his narrative.
"Last year, about six months ago, we were called up on our first black operation…"
--
The twenty commandos found their seats in the Briefing Room. The room held eight rows of ten seats, more than enough for everyone in the unit. The whiteboard in front of them had a diagram drawn upon it, initially resembling a squiggle of sorts. A plastic table on the right-hand corner of the room had a laptop sitting atop it, next to a manila envelope. The laptop was connected to a projector installed into the roof with an RGB cable that snaked from the computer to the projector's jacks.
Their commanding officer, whom they all called 'Sir' or 'the Colonel', was waiting. Dressed in Smart No. 4 like his men, he was Singapore's answer to John Clark, without the suit. He bordered on sixty years of age, with the lines and white hair to prove it.
"Gentlemen, I know it's kind of rushed, but we have an emergency," the Colonel began.
'Rushed' was an understatement. the unit had been established a mere month ago, just long enough for everyone to recognize each other on sight, to remember their call signs…but not long enough for much else. They lacked a team dynamic of sorts, one that could only be built up through long months of training.
"The Internal Security Department has received intelligence about a terrorist group based in Indonesia. It's called 'Dara Dan Doa', 'Blood and Prayer' in English. We thought that after the capture of its leader some time back, it disbanded. Unfortunately, it has resurfaced, and is now targeting American allies in the region, as well as American targets.
"It is currently amassing a cache of arms and explosives for use in a campaign in the South East Asia. We have reason to believe that their first strike will be aimed at the shipping that passes through the Straits of Malacca. To be precise, ships from the region."
"A terrorist attack in the Straits of Malacca, successful or no, will have a severe impact on the economy in South East Asia, especially Singapore. Gentlemen, remember that shipping is one of the cornerstones of our economy; by attacking at maritime trade, these terrorists may cause millions of dollars worth of damage, shatter investor confidence, and damage our credibility as a secure port. That is, of course, not including the casualties caused by such a terrorist operation. Right now, we have no idea as to how they will strike, or when.
"Normally, we would inform the Indonesians and let them handle it. However, the terrorists are based out of an island in the province of Aceh; any attempt by the Indonesian military to eliminate the terrorist camp there could poison the peace process between the Indonesians and the GAM (Free Aceh Movement).
"Because of this, MINDEF and the Prime Minister have decided to activate you to wipe out the terrorists. This is a black operation: there can be no traces to Singapore. The Indonesians have not sanctioned this op, so be careful. In fact, the powers that be in MINDEF are very agitated. They want the Indonesians to handle it, not us, never mind the political repercussions. Those bureaucrats are looking for an excuse to shut us down, so you have to get it right.
"Your mission is to destroy the terrorist arms cache. If you can destroy the camp, and neutralize the terrorists on site, that is a bonus. Any questions up to this point?"
"Sir?" Wong asked, raising his hand. "Why us, sir? Why can't the SOF handle it?"
The Colonel cracked a rare wry smile.
"This unit's a black op unit, so MINDEF wants us to go, not the SOF, never mind that we're still trying to get the paperwork and logistics settled."
"Sir, do we have any intel about the terrorist camp?" another commando asked.
"Yes. We've infiltrated an unmanned aerial vehicle over the island, and took multiple snapshots of the site. I've drawn up the layout of the island on the whiteboard; the photos are on the desk inside the envelope. Use them as you see fit."
--
"At this point of time, I've to clarify a few things," Wong started.
"The twenty men in my unit are organized into four teams of five men: Red, Blue, Green, and Gold Teams. Each man within the team has his own role and specialty. They are: IC, 2IC, point man, marksman, and support weapon.
"However, this is just a start. Every man within the unit is a marksman; the team marksman is really the team sniper. The team also has a designated signaler, explosives expert, medic, languages, driver, etc. That's not forgetting that every man is an assaulter in CQB when necessary."
"Sounds complicated," Price offered.
"Trust me: it's not. At least, one will get used to it."
"Why five men per team?" Pierce asked.
"The USMC once said in a study that the five-man fire team is optimal for close quarters combat. Also, the LAPD SWAT team and the SEALs follow that doctrine, at least for CQB."
"But, you're not doing CQB here!" Taylor protested.
"Of course, lah!" Gao replied.
"'Lah'?" Price repeated.
"Another nonsense word, used for emphasis in Singlish. If nothing else, it defines Singlish…whatever it is," Cheah answered.
"Back to this," Wong said. "I preferred eight men per team, but we're lacking in suitable candidates for our unit. I mean…most of the SOF guys will be missed if they were to mysteriously disappear, and not every commando can keep secrets. Also, some of them are not qualified for our kind of job…and that's just for starters."
"I see…by the way, why are there so few Malays in your commandos, and none in the SOF?" Chavez asked.
"…I have no idea," Cheah answered, his tone indicating that it would be best to not know why. "Strangely enough, in the unit, there are very few Indians, a couple of Eurasians (Asians with European ancestry), some Malays, and an overall Chinese majority."
"Is that a big deal?" Chavez asked.
"No…not to you. To us, yes. Racial harmony is very important in Singapore, after all. Seems to me that the proportion of races in the unit is almost the same as the actual ratio in Singapore."
"I see..." Chavez said, not really understanding. "Chris, please?"
"Right. To carry on…"
--
The men started to plan. In most Singaporean SpecOps units (like the rest of Singapore), planning was done top-down: the leader comes up with the plan, and the others just memorize it, unless there's a major cock-up somewhere…and maybe not even then.
In this unit, everyone was encouraged to plan. That was a little unnatural at first, even after the other officers took over. Red Lead, the commando named Tay, was placed in charge, owing to his experience in the SOF…not that he actually had a plan in mind.
A few minutes passed in silence as the men examined the map. The island was shaped like an irregularly drawn oval. At the southwest, there was a jetty of sorts, for the terrorists to receive supplies from elsewhere. Six boats were moored there. In addition, there was a shack several meters beyond the jetty, marked with the number '1'. Eight barrels of something-or-other, possibly fuel, were arranged neatly on the ground next to the jetty. There were two visible guards in the picture, with weapons slung over their shoulders. The resolution was too poor for the commandos to make them out.
There was a trail at the far end of the jetty. It cut a path through the jungle in the middle of the island, leading to the terrorist camp. There were three buildings here: two large wooden ones built parallel to each other, labeled '2' and '3' respectively, and a small one behind them that resembled a generator, numbered '4'. Intelligence believed that Building 2 was the barracks, while no. 3 was the HQ. There were also four sentries posted in the area, all armed.
A trail at the east end of the camp led to a small clearing. There was a single wooden structure there, with a single guard. It was marked '5' on the board. Intel thought that that was where the terrorists were storing the arms cache.
Tay went through the map again and again, forming the ghost of a plan in his mind. He spent ten minutes refining the idea in his head before turning to his men.
"Guys, I think I've a plan. Here're the op orders," he said.
"Enemy forces: the terrorists...Dara Dan Doa, if you will. Also include members of the Indonesian military and/or law enforcement agencies who happen upon us, and possibly civilians. Everybody but the Tangos are non-designated targets: casualties should be kept to a minimum…at least, for everybody but the terrorists.
"Friendly forces: us. There's no support in the region, so we're on our own. I don't need to elaborate.
"Now…my basic idea is to infiltrate the area using four mini submarines. We can borrow them from the SOF, the target island is within their range, and everybody here has been through basic familiarization with the sub. We insert here," Captain Pete Tay said, pointing at a spot to the southwest of the jetty.
"Blue Team, you disembark first, and take out the exterior guards silently. Use suppressed weapons or knives—"
"We don't have sound suppressors for any our weapons except for the USPs!" Lee pointed out.
Somehow, despite the fact that the commandos had requested for sound suppressors and MP5SD3s three weeks ago, and had priority for equipment acquisition, only the Advanced Armament Corp. suppressors they wanted for their USP9SDs had arrived.
"Damn…ah, well, use suppressed USPs, then. Knives are preferable…or your bare hands."
Gao raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Hand-to-hand combat is for worst-case scenarios. All the men were trained in tae-kwon do, but the twenty men had heard many horror stories of how martial arts exponents were defeated by street criminals. Wong had some radical ideas…but MINDEF wouldn't listen to him.
"When the area is secure, Red, Green, and Gold Teams will move out. Blue Team will be the security element for this operation, while the others will be the assault element. Green and Gold Teams will make their way to the terrorist HQ, while Red Team will head for Building 5. Green Team, clear out Building 2. Gold Team, you've the most SOF personnel, so clear Building 3. Red Team, clear Building 5.
"When everything is done, we regroup in the jetty, then exfiltrate. Any comments?"
"Sir," a Eurasian named Eddie Roman said, "I think we should knock out the generator before actually assaulting the HQ. If anything, it'll confuse the enemy."
"Good point. Anything else?"
"What should we do if the terrorists detect us during the stealth aspect of the op?" Gao worried.
"Then…we assault the place. Stick to the plan, and improvise where necessary," Tay replied, unconvincingly.
"What do we do if we're detected en route to the island?" Captain Wong asked.
"Well…we've no choice but to abort," he decided.
"Well, damn."
--
"That'll be a bummer," Mike Chin observed.
"Aye," Cheah seconded. "There is no room for failure; there is no acceptable outcome but victory."
"Indeed," Wong agreed. " We also modified the plan some more before moving on. The preparation phase is too long and boring for me to remember, so I'll skip that part—"
"Can't you at least remember what weapons and equipment you carried?" Covington muttered.
"Well…Blue Team carried Colt M4A1s for their primary weapons," Wong recalled. "The other teams took HK MP5A5s with them. For pistols, we all carried USP9SDs fitted with sound suppressors. They're traceable to America and Germany. Our ammunition has no lot numbers or markings...don't ask me where we got them from. In addition, we all carried six grenades each: three stun grenades and three frag grenades, of European manufacture. Also, we carried flashlights, US Army issue, fitted with red lenses. Our knives were stilettos, traceable to Britain. The rest of our kit is also on-attributable to Singapore."
"Wait…" Price said.
"Yes?"
"Singapore's the only country that issues stilettos to its commandos in South East Asia, no?"
"Yes…but look: the stilettos are British, not Singaporean. Besides, who would care about knives, anyway?" Cheah reasoned.
"All right…"
"We wanted to equip ourselves with our 'throwaway weapons', guns that we can discard after using them in an op. However, we didn't have any at that time, thanks to the powers that be. In addition, we loaded our weapons with full metal jacket rounds; we haven't received any JHPs yet. At least, deniable ones."
"Wait…you loaded your MP5s with 9mm FMJs?" Chin asked.
"Yeah. The 9mm in FMJ isn't worth shit most of the time…"
"Oh?" Taylor remarked. He had been issued with a Beretta M9 pistol throughout his career in Force Recon, but never had the chance to use it, not even in Iraq. He always kept it loaded with 9mm FMJs, and had always wondered what damage the 9x19mm round would inflict on a live target. What he had read wasn't encouraging.
"I'll tell you why later," Wong said, "I'll skip the preparatory part and move right on to the infil. We arrived in Indonesia at 2217 hours…"
--
Blue Team sat in the cramped ingress/egress compartment of their minisub, dressed in their night-black operations uniforms and full gear. They were also wearing a thin neoprene diving suit under their uniforms for added protection against the cold water. They were illuminated by a bank of red electric lights mounted on the ceiling of the compartment. Their carbines, slung over their shoulders, had condoms taped over their muzzles to prevent the ingress of water, thus reducing the number of ways Mr. Murphy could screw things up for them. Their pistols sat in their special holsters, also with condoms fastened over their suppressors' muzzles.
The five commandos sat in silence atop metal seats welded into the frame, waiting for their SOF navigators to pilot them to their destination. They spent their time checking their weapons, checking the seals on their firearms, their pockets, everything that become loose.
The commandos had opted not to take their MARS sights along. They had no idea if they were waterproof or not, and now would not be a good time to test it out. Besides, theirs were on loan from the SOF; they were still waiting for their 'deniable' MARS reflex sights.
The Singaporean unit maintained a 'friendly' relationship with the SOF. The black operators borrowed eight SOF commandos to pilot the minisubs, since the former could not afford to leave anybody behind in the subs to man them. After all, doing that would reduce the teams' firepower by a quarter, and that was unacceptable. The SOF guys wouldn't speak a word of the op: as far as they were concerned, they were on a training mission.
The men waited, sweating under their suits. The compartment was lit by a pair of electric red lights, connected to the sub's battery. An intercom connected them to the pilots. To the far end of their compartment was a door that led to the actual ingress/egress chamber.
After a long, long, long, long, long, long, time, the navigator finally spoke up.
"You're here. I'm opening the exterior hatch. Good luck."
As if on cue, water streamed into the compartment above the operators' heads. The put their oxygen tanks on, clumsily wearing their masks with their gloved hands. Done, they stayed still, waiting for the ice-cold water to fill the compartment. They fidgeted a bit, trying to keep warm.
Eventually, the compartment was full of ice-cold water. Blue Team looked up, looking for the access hatch. They found it, a darker hole in a world of darkness. They kicked themselves off their seats, swimming towards the hole.
Wong, being the team leader, was first. He swam towards to the access hatch, careful not to bump his head against any of the bulkheads. He noted that the sub had settled on the bottom of the sea (the deepest submerged portion of the beach, he reminded himself).
Exiting the sub, he looked around. There was nothing but darkness all around; he saw nothing beyond what was arms-length from him. Very carefully, he kept close to the submarine (he noted that it was yellow; the Beatles' song Yellow Submarine suddenly popped into his head and stayed there), waiting for his men. In due course, they emerged from the submarine and lined up behind him, giving him a tap on the shoulder to signal that they were ready.
When he felt four taps on his left shoulder, Wong rapped the metal hull of the submarine four times with his finger, signaling to the navigators/whatever the hell they were that it was time to close the access hatch. Nothing happened.
Damn. Should have brought a hammer or something.
Unslinging his submerged carbine, he tapped its stock four times against the hull, praying that he didn't break anything.
No response.
Turning around, he slung his carbine over his hands, then used his left hand to sign 'I need a volunteer'.
Lee raised his hand.
I need you to tell the navigators to close the access hatch, Wong signed. He received a thumbs-up.
Lee swam off, turning around and heading for the front of the submarine. Reaching the bow, he stopped at where he thought the navigators would be. Then, he extracted his stiletto, and tapped its pommel against the sub's hull four times.
He received a pair of taps from the other side in response. Satisfied, he returned to his CO.
Seeing the access hatch closing, the five commandos stealthily swam to the surface. They were using closed-circuit rebreathers, so they would not leave a telltale stream of bubbles. In addition, they moved gently, using smooth strokes instead of powerful ones, preventing waves from forming in the water and blowing their cover.
Gao was the first to break the surface of the water. His black mask blended in with the water, preventing casual observers from seeing him. He scanned the area.
It was a dark, moonless night, but Gao could more or less orient himself. Everything was where the photos said they would be. The jetty was roughly twenty meters to his three o'clock. To his one o'clock were the barrels of stuff in the photos.
But something was missing…
Where are the guards?
That was when he saw a flash of red light in the distance, to his eleven o'clock. It was a cigarette, lit by a sentry who didn't have the brains to understand that smoking kills. Literally.
Submerging, Gao turned to the team, and spelt out the situation with his hands.
Wong frowned. Herein lies a tactical problem. The only cover the men had were the barrels and the shack. Everywhere else was open ground. A stealth approach across open ground was possible, but highly risky…and one never knows who will approach the jetty from the camp.
Ah, what the hell. Using his hands, he signaled for Gao to follow him, while the other three were to stay in the cold water. The men complied. Gao and Wong moved stealthily, crawling up the beach while still submerged, going prone to minimize their chances of detection. The two commandos surfaced, barely breaking the surface of the water. Wong carefully drew his pistol from its holster. It was a special one, inasmuch as it wasn't a holster. It composed of two nylon straps sewn into Wong's combat vest's right hip, with a Velcro strap to cover the pistol. While it made for a rapid quick-draw, it was also noisy.
He heard a brief crackle to his sides as the Velcro straps gave way. Holding his pistol high up and out of the water, he removed the condom from the USP9SD and stuffed it in a pocket, scanning the area for any hostiles.
That was when he saw a glow of red light. His training told him that it was from a cigarette…and that its owner was looking at him.
Everything became instinctive. Bringing his left hand to the pistol, Wong snapped the weapon to bear, right thumb flicking the safety down. The cigarette's glow made a fine reference point, but he chose not to shoot at it. Instead, at the last second, he raised the pistol high and to the right before squeezing the trigger twice.
The shots sounded like a pneumatic stapler being fired. Sound suppressors weren't meant to reduce the volume of a gunshot (though they did); their main purpose was to make a shot sound like something else. The subsonic 9x19mm full metal jacket rounds entered the terrorist's head and blasted through the thickest part of his skull, ripping through his brain before exploding out the other side, leaving a bloody wake.
The Tango fell forward, the cigarette flying from his lips.
Wong and Gao rapidly scanned the area. Through their natural night vision, they saw nothing, but their eyes could not penetrate the deeper areas of shadow. Quietly moving forward, they scanned their surroundings rapidly.
Nothing, of course. Wong lowered his USP9SD, then reached up. He was wearing a pair of night vision/thermal imaging goggles mounted on a head harness. It was a prototype, developed by ST Engineering for Special Forces use, on loan to the unit for a six-month trial period. The ones the unit had had no markings or serial numbers on them, and they were as such untraceable.
The dark night became brilliant shades of green, after Wong wiped the water from the goggles' lenses. Covering Gao while he found his own NVG, Wong scanned the area once more.
This time, he saw the other guard. He was walking around the shack, an AK of sorts slung over his right shoulder. He was tunneling: focusing too much on what was in front of him rather than around him.
At least, that was what Wong could make out. The resolution of the goggles wasn't as good as he preferred. Gao finished setting up, then swept the area with his pistol, searching for targets.
Tapping on Gao's shoulder, Wong signaled to him to take out the patrolling guard. Nodding, Gao holstered his pistol, then reached for his stiletto. It was kept in a sheath mounted behind the combat vest, and designed to blend in with the clothing so well that only well-trained observers could spot it.
Gao held the knife in his right hand in the conventional fashion, tip pointing at the sky. Crouching down, he crept towards the shack, moving lightly on his feet, using his left hand for balance. He kept only to firm, soft grass-covered soil, the better to absorb what noise he made while traveling.
Reaching the shack, he flattened himself against its wooden wall as noiselessly as possible, scanned, and waited.
And scanned, and waited.
And scanned, and waited.
In time, a dark man-sized figure appeared around the corner to his left. It walked straight on, unknowingly heading towards the dead Tango. Gan took his cue. He headed towards the Tango, running on tiptoes to minimize sound, and using his knees to absorb what noise energy was created.
A few seconds later, he arrived right behind the Tango, and realized that he was shorter than the terrorist, but that was all right. Reaching out with his left hand, Gao covered the Tango's mouth, stifling all sound from it and tilting it up, exposing his neck, simultaneously kicking out at the back of the Tango's right kneecap to bring him down. Gao brought his knife to the Tango's throat, and sliced through it the way he was trained to do. The knife easily cut through the jugular vein, then opened the terrorist's windpipe, slashed through his vocal chords, and then tore the carotid artery open before exiting.
A fountain of blood erupted from the hole in the terrorist's neck. It spurted everywhere, staining the ground red. A slight gurgle emerged from the gaping wound as Gao let the terrorist go, seeing him bleed to death…if he wasn't already dead.
Gao gave a thumbs-up to Wong, out in the open and almost scared shitless. Wong hooked up with Gao, reminding himself to talk to Gao when they were back home.
The two commandos made their way to the shack, keeping low and scanning all around. Reaching the east wall of the shack, they headed for its south side, still searching the night. The two men beheld a wooden door that led into the shack, hearing a whispered conversation in Bahasa Indonesia. The commandos stacked up next to the door, Gao on the left and Wong on the right.
Wong drew his stiletto with his left hand, and transferred his USP9SD to his right hand. Then, he cocked his left arm, and placed his USP9SD on his left wrist. Now, both blade and pistol were facing the same direction in the classic Harries/Chapman technique, also called Dual Force.
Gao raised his eyebrow. Wong replied with a look that said I know what I'm doing. Gao responded with an expression that went No, you don't.
Shrugging, Wong stood in front of the door, then raised and deactivated his NV/TI goggles (they were useless in such close quarters). The men had decided earlier that Wong, not the point man, should enter the shack first and clear it with either his knife or USP (or both), since he was (technically) the best in this sort of situation. Taking a deep breath, Wong moved his left hand towards the doorknob.
The door promptly opened, revealing a terrorist.
A second passed, as both commando and Tango stared at each other, processing their thoughts. A lifetime later, Wong remembered why the hell he was here…and wondered why the hell wasn't he moving.
The Singaporean stepped forward, using the 'falling step' favored by boxers. Snaking his left hand out, Wong gripped the terrorist's shoulder and forced his upper torso down with his body weight. Before the terrorist could protest, the commando jammed his USP9SD into the terrorist's gut and fired a double-tap. The Tango's body convulsed as the bullets entered his body and blew out of his back. Pulling the terrorist back, Wong placed the muzzle of the USP under the Tango's chin and pulled the trigger, ending the bout.
Kicking the Tango down with a tae-kwon do push kick, Wong stormed into the shack. Scanning, Wong saw another terrorist, an AK-47 slung over his right shoulder, to his eleven o'clock.
The terrorist turned. Wong snapped the USP up over his chest, gripping it in both hands as best as he could, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
SHIT!
The Tango blinked.
Wong stepped up to him, slashing out at the Tango's neck with his blade. The terrorist suddenly realized that Wong was here to kill him, and reacted by snapping his right arm out, slamming his forearm into the inside of Wong's elbow joint, blocking the attack.
Gao had rushed into the room, saw the men grappling each other, raised his USP9SD…then realized he didn't have a clear shot. All he could see was Wong's back, nothing more. A gas lamp lit the interior of the shack, allowing Gao to observe the mêlée.
But Wong took no notice of that. Flowing with the block, he swiftly lashed out with a low kick, preventing the terrorist from counterattacking. He pressed his weight forward, feeling his boot connect with the Tango's right kneecap.
The joint blew out under him, and the terrorist cried out in pain. The terrorist, unable to support his weight on his now-useless knee, fell backwards awkwardly, landing on his back, while Wong holstered his pistol. The commando pressed the attack, going to the ground with his enemy. With one hand, he flipped the knife around, so the tip was now pointed at the ground.
Wong plunged the knife into the middle of the Tango's abdomen, feeling it wend its way through soft tissue. Wong swiftly positioned his left hand over the terrorist's mouth, shutting him up, and applied his full body weight against him.
Wong felt the Tango's hot breath on his gloved hand, saw the sweat gathering across his face, sensed the fear in him. But that was of no consequence.
No time for surgical strikes or for precision. Wong pushed his blade further into the terrorist's body, then dragged it and rotated it every which way, enlarging the wound and maximizing the damage. Warm blood spilled out all over the commando's vest, but he took no notice. The terrorist screamed, but it was stifled; nobody outside the hut could have heard him. Wong kept moving the blade around, tearing the terrorist up inside. He could smell the contents of the terrorist's guts, some decayed food matter of sorts. The terrorist kept thrashing, but it was no use: Wong had him securely pinned.
Eventually, the terrorist's movements slowed and weakened. When he was too weak to resist, Wong released his knife, grabbed the top of the Tango's head with his left hand, gripped the bottom of his skull as best as he could with his right hand, then snapped both hands in opposing directions.
Wong rotated the Tango's head through three hundred and sixty degrees, feeling the bones in his neck pop, crack, and break. Done, he wiped the blood and…other stuff…off his blade on the terrorist's shirt, sheathed the stiletto, and turned to Gao.
"I'm fine," he whispered, somewhat breathlessly. It was all right to talk now; anyone nearby would have heard the commotion.
That was when he noticed the radio in the shack, mounted on a shelf cut into the walls. The terrorists could be communicating with each other by radio; they had to move before the dead men were missed.
A long slit had been cut into the wall at the shack's twelve o'clock position, allowing its occupants to see out into the water, as well as the jetty. He counted the boats moored there, seeing four…
Weren't there six?
There was no time to think about that.
"Secure the perimeter!" Wong ordered.
The two commandos burst out of the shack, weapons raised.
Unslinging his M4A1, removing its condom and setting it to full automatic, Wong scanned the area, seeing nothing of interest. Neither did Gao. Turning to each other, they nodded, and headed for the jetty. With Gao on overwatch, Lee grabbed the flashlight from its pouch, pointed it towards the water, and pressed his thumb down on the flash switch thrice, sending three flashes of red light towards the water.
Like wraiths from the deep, eighteen figures emerged from the sea, water spilling off their bodies as they headed for the beach, removing the condoms from their firearms.
--
"What the hell was that?" Chavez asked.
"Hand-to-hand combat, at its most brutal," Li replied soberly. "If it isn't over within the first few seconds, it will be prolonged, and will get messy."
"Did your martial arts training help?" Price enquired.
"Only in the kicks…and not by very much," Wong answered. "Fact is, in combat, the technique one uses doesn't matter; it's one's mindset. The fighter has to want to win. He must be determined to survive at all costs, and not give up. Ever.
"Furthermore, modern martial arts are little more than sports or artistic techniques. They don't each people how to really fight people with their bare hands…I mean, in real life, do you think you'll be fighting one-on-one against an unarmed enemy who plays by the rules? Martial arts make that assumption…and many martial artists have paid the price.
"Fact is, on the street, the most likely scenario would involve a gang of armed criminals surrounding you on all sides and ambushing you. Fear and shock step in, followed by adrenaline, and then the classic fight-or-flight reactions…if you're lucky. In war, it'll pretty much be like what I've described: chaotic, messy, and brutal," Wong added.
"I agree," a Team-1 Rainbow shooter agreed. "Three years ago, I was surrounded by a group of punks who tried to rob me."
"What happened?" Vega asked.
The operative smiled evilly. "I'm here, and they're not. Thank God for—"
"Eh, better not say it out loud," Cheah warned.
"Aren't you working on a hand-to-hand combat technique yourself, Cheah?" Covington asked, turning.
"Aye," Cheah affirmed with a nod. "Can't tell you much; I'm still refining it. All I can say is that it has worked for me on multiple occasions, and that these commandos use it," he said, gesturing at the Singaporeans.
"Cheah, I thought—" Wong protested.
"Sure, they're your ideas…but who created you?" Cheah countered.
"…Oh."
"Well, do carry on."
"Wait," Clark interrupted. "Steven Gao, you said that you slashed the terrorist's throat, right?"
Gao nodded. "Yah."
"Didn't he scream? Slashing a man's throat is very painful, and he'll scream as he dies."
"Well…I don't exactly know why he didn't scream," Gao admitted.
"Probably because he did it right," a Team-1 operative offered.
"What do you mean?" Clark wondered.
"Well, sir, the technique he used sounds a lot like what I was taught to do in the Special Forces. We slice through both the jugular vein and the carotid artery to maximize blood loss, hopefully throwing him into shock and preventing him from screaming. Besides, Gao cut the vocal chords too…probably because to reduce the risk of him shouting or something, right?"
"Yah…"
Truth be told, he himself didn't know. His instructor had said something like that a long time ago, but there he provided no proof of that.
"What happened to your USP anyway?" Clark wondered, turning to Wong.
"Well, back at HQ, I stripped it down. Turned out that the suppressor and chamber was clogged with blood, tissue, and other matter. The pistol was jammed because of that. I think the stuff was blown back into the gun when I fired into the terrorist at that range," Wong mused.
"Lucky you had the knife, right?" Falcone asked.
"I could have taken him on with my bare hands if necessary," the Singaporean replied, a little too soberly for comfort.
"Anyway, Chris, do continue," Ding said.
"There's not very much for me to say after this point. After the assault team arrived on shore, Blue Team set up perimeter security while the others continued with the job. I think Tay over there's more qualified to tell you what happened next," Wong added.
"Pete?" Chavez asked, turning to face Peter Tay.
"Well, it's not as dramatic as Chris' part," Tay started "Shortly after arrival…"
--
"SITREP," Tay whispered into Wong's ear.
Tay and his 2IC had met up with Wong and Gao. The other commandos were scanning the area, weapons at the ready.
"We killed four Tangos. I don't think anybody has noticed the commotion so far. They're keeping in touch with their colleagues with a radio in the shack, reporting times unknown. There're four boats in the jetty, not six: I don't know where're the other two. Sooner or later, somebody's going to miss the dead men. Better move quickly," Wong replied.
"Okay," Tay acknowledged, then filled in the others over the radio.
"Move out!" he ordered.
Blue Team moved into position. Wong, Kumar and Gao occupied the shack, while Lee and another commando named Muhammad Hafiz found cover behind the barrels. Red Team slinked off into the jungles, while Green and Gold Teams headed for the path.
Tay took the lead, MP5A5 up and scanning. His point man, Imran, was ahead of him, leading the way. Tay activated his NVGs as soon as he entered the dark jungle. Moving stealthily, he avoided twigs, leaves, and other vegetation as much as possible to cut down on noise, and to prevent leaving a trail, all the while following Imran.
Ducking under a low branch and circling around a tree, he continued following the point man. Imran silently called for a halt using his hands, then checked his Global Positioning Satellite system, shaped to resemble a PDA and stored in a pouch on his back. In addition to being accurate to ten meters, providing the latest maps, and so-called 'combat proof', it also came with a digital compass. In the jungle, it was very easy to get lost with the use of a compass, and they all knew that it was far better to trust a compass than one's instincts.
"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position," the radio declared.
The men acknowledged the team by pressing their radios' push-to-talk switches twice.
After perhaps five minutes of stalking silently through the vegetation and undergrowth, the men arrived at a small-sized clearing. A bit of radio chatter ensued, after Green Team eliminated the investigating party, and Gold Team decided on what to do next. In its middle was a large one-storey wooden hut, supposedly used to store the arms cache the Singaporeans were after. From where he was, Tay could only see a bored guard patrolling the perimeter. It didn't mean that there were no other sentries.
In the sub, it was generally agreed that the Singaporeans should recce (recon) their target zones before striking. That way, they would know what they were up against. Desmond Chen, the team marksman, and Morhan, the team 2IC and demo expert, split from the group.
The two men circled around the clearing, weapons ready to deal with any unexpected contact. They moved stealthily around the clearing, again not leaving any sign of their presence. They were on the side opposite their compatriots when the radio came to life.
"Go-team, Blue Lead. The terrorist's CO is checking in. From what I can tell, he's sending a couple of men to the jetty to investigate."
The rest of the commandos pressed their radios' push-to-talk switches twice in rapid succession, acknowledging him. Morhan scanned the area from his position, noting a guard standing to the left of the doorway leading into the hut. Using the zoom function on his NV/TI goggles, Chen noted that the terrorist was armed with an AK-47, still the choice arm of terrorists around the world.
"Red Lead, Red Four," Morhan whispered, activating his radio. "There's another guard, next to the door."
"Roger. Go-team, Red Team is in place," Red Lead called. The patrolling guard had by then crossed over to Morhan's side. Chen took careful aim at the door guard, placing the front sight just above his right ear, while the Indian commando trained his sights on the other sentry. Both men were formerly from the SOF; they were trained supremely well in the art of the headshot…never mind that it was only applicable in some cases.
"Red Lead, Red Two," Chen muttered into his radio. "I'm aiming at the Tango guarding the door."
"Red Lead, this is Red Four," Morhan whispered, his voice resounding over the radio net. "I'm aiming at the patrolling sentry."
Half a minute passed. Morhan tracked the patrolling Tango, seeing him stop in front of the door guard, and chat with him. That was good; a moving target is always harder to hit.
"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position."
A muted series of clicks ensued, before: "Roger, Gold Lead," Tay whispered. "Go-team, Red Lead. Execute on my mark. Three, two, one, MARK!"
Two shots rang out, echoing loudly throughout the jungle. As Tay and his team burst from the jungle, he saw the two Tangos fall to the ground. Tay stormed towards the hut, raising his MP5A5, flicking the safety selector to full automatic. Aiming at the closer of the fallen Tango, he fired a round into his throat (he missed), and another into his lower jaw. Another Red Team member fired another double-tap into the other downed terrorist.
The five men stacked up next to the doorway (this hut had no doors, the men realized), Chen and Morhan on the left, with the others on the right. When ready, Imran stormed into the room, quickly scanning and turning his back to face the closest wall. Morhan followed, and so did the rest of the team. Imran and Morhan continued moving, giving the others time to enter while seizing the advantage.
Through his NVGs (Imran belatedly realized that he should have taken them off), he saw a terrorist at the far end of the room, and another one next to him. The former was facing the wrong way, while the latter had an AK and was looking at him. Imran snapped his weapon up, and fired a short burst into his chest, following his commando training. That Tango dropped to the ground. Chen fired a single round into the other's head, seeing him collapse.
The chest-shot Tango groaned, coughing up blood.
Contrary to Hollywood, 9mm bullets, especially FMJ ones, are usually lacking in stopping power. In this case, it wouldn't matter had Imran shot the terrorist in the heart, like he was hoping to. Instead, his bullets had missed, entering his lungs instead.
Noting the aberration, the commandos aimed as one, and let loose a volley of rounds that tore the terrorist up.
--
"Was that necessary?" Clark asked. Especially because he was a military man and had taken lives, he always saw killing as a tool of last resort…but was not afraid to use it when necessary.
"No such thing as overkill, and we couldn't leave any witnesses," Tay replied, matter-of-factly.
"'mano, did you have to empty your mags into him?" Ding asked.
"Hey, that's what our training said. If a wounded enemy is still alive and is still a threat, shoot him until he ceases being one," Tay replied calmly, taking a swig of beer. "Hell, I still have nightmares."
"Same here," John Clark replied. He had never gotten used to the fact that he had killed, directly or indirectly, countless numbers of VC in Vietnam, some little shits in Baltimore and New Orleans (except maybe Billy), multiple faceless and nameless terrorists in the MidEast, some Columbian druggies, (okay, maybe not them), a couple dozen Japanese who were only doing their duty…and that was just for starters. Once in a blue moon, he woke in a cold sweat as he dreamed of how the dead men would take their revenge. He had never admitted it to Sandy or Ding…or anyone.
"Don't we all? At least, if we can call ourselves soldiers?" Cheah muttered rhetorically. "Like it or not, the art of war is vital to the existence of the state. While war takes lives, it must never be forgotten that the purpose of the art of war is to ultimately save lives…at least, ideally. That is to say, fighting a just war."
The others stared blankly at the cadet.
"War has its uses, I'll admit," Cheah continued. "When diplomacy fails, when the enemy will only listen to the sound of battle and the taste of blood and steel, the use of force is the only option left."
"Like in this case?" Wong asked of the air.
"Aye. Negotiation wouldn't have helped here."
"By the way, do you know what Green and Gold Teams did?" Tay asked. "The AAR didn't reveal much."
"Yeah, I know," Cheah replied. Standing up, he positioned himself in front of the men, and addressed them.
"After Tay's SITREP…"
--
Green and Gold team dispersed from the site, keeping to shadows and cover whenever possible. Both teams headed for the trail, with Green Team on the left flank and Gold Team on the right.
Stalking through the jungle, the men recalled their jungle warfare training, careful not to leave any sign. The trail twisted and turned here and there, but otherwise led to the same location. The only sound the men heard were the chirping of crickets. Their black uniforms and dark-painted faces blended in with the night's shadows, and the commandos became one with the dark.
They arrived at the terrorists' camp without any drama. The Green Team commander, Dzulhairi, gripped his MP5A5 in his hands, scanning the camp with his NVGs. His target building was guarded by a single guard, leaning against the wooden walls on the left of the open doorway, smoking a cigarette. The other building had another guard, who was either asleep at his post or pretending to be. A couple of bored terrorists walked around the camp, their body language indicating that they were bored to hell.
Stay bored, guys, the commando thought, using his left hand to order his point man to reconnoiter the rear of the building. As soon as the sentries were out of earshot, Dzulhairi clicked the push-to-talk switch.
"Go-team, Green Lead. In position."
He was rewarded with a staccato of double clicks. Scanning the environment, he kept as still as possible, knowing that the human eye perceives movement very well in the night, never mind that the smoker's night vision was effectively shot.
He felt the adrenaline and tension building up within him. Dzulhairi ordered himself to calm down, to stay loose even as his heart rate accelerated, his breathing went shallow, and his mouth went dry. Then, there was nothing at all…and he was ready.
There was some activity in the other target hut. A couple of men left the building, and headed for the trail.
"Go-team, Blue Lead. The terrorist's CO is checking in. From what I can tell, he's sending a couple of men to the jetty to investigate," Wong reported.
"Blue Lead, Green Lead. We'll take care of it."
He looked at his men. His point man had returned, and gestured that there was a Tango guarding the generator. Dzulhairi used his hands to tell the men to take out the investigating as quietly as possible. A pair of former SOF commandos, an Indian named Samy and a Chinese man called Andy Heng volunteered.
Slinging their weapons over their backs, the two commandos took up positions. They followed the terrorists' movements with their eyes, seeing them enter the trail. The commandos followed them on a parallel track, moving through the jungle as stealthily as possible while the unaware guards followed the trail. As soon as the terrorists were out of sight of the main camp, the commandos struck.
Sneaking out of the tree line, Heng gestured to Samy that he would take the Tango on the left. Heng stalked his terrorist, keeping him within his peripheral vision and moving as quietly as possible. The Tango kept moving, unaware of the commando covertly approaching him from behind. Heng controlled his breathing at the last meter, than struck. Gripping the top of the terrorist's head with his left hand and the bottom of his skull with his right, Heng rapidly twisted them, breaking the terrorist's neck.
Samy was not as fortunate. All men have a sixth sense of sorts; they can tell when a person has his/her eyes on him. Samy allowed his gaze to linger on the Tango for too long. The terrorist sensed something behind him, and turned around. Both terrorist and commando looked at each other, their eyes locking for a second and a lifetime.
Samy acted faster. Springing up from the deep crouch he was in, he extended his right hand, opening it into a palm, and drove it at an upward angle into the Tango's nose. The terrorist's nose buckled, and then entered his brain.
Both guards collapsed soundlessly. The commandos picked them up and carried them into the jungle, erasing all traces of their presence.
Meanwhile, Gold Team's point man, John De Silva, and the 2IC, Jake See, was circling around the camp. Creeping through the jungle, they scanned the camp with their heavy helmet-mounted NVGs. De Silva set his to thermal imaging, and saw the world turn into shades of blue, green, yellow, orange, and red, signifying the amount of heat emitted by an object.
Using the goggles, De Silva scanned Building 4. Judging by its noise and heat emissions, he decided that it was really a generator. See's NV image confirmed that. See also saw an open door behind the Building 3, possibly an escape route.
"Go-team, Green One," Samy reported. "The investigating party is dead. Back in place."
De Silva spotted a terrorist next to the generator and told See that using his hands, even though See could see him from there.
"Gold Lead, Gold Four," See whispered into his mike. "There's a Tango behind the target building. There's also an opening on the twelve o'clock of the site. Advise, over."
"Gold Four, Gold Lead. Take out the Tango when Red Lead gives the go-ahead. Gold Two, cover the opening and intercept any fleeing hostiles."
"Roger."
See raised his MP5A5, aiming it at the Tango's chest. Apart from the only Muslim on the team, he wasn't from the SOF, and wasn't well trained in taking headshots in close environs. He could do it, but he decided that he couldn't, not at this range.
"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position."
"Roger, Gold Lead," Red Lead whispered. "Go-team, Red Lead. Execute on my mark. Three, two, one, MARK!"
See squeezed the trigger, concentrating so hard on his sight picture that he barely felt the nearly-nonexistent recoil. The terrorist dropped to the ground, with a 9mm bullet in the chest, screaming as he did so. See fired a long burst into the terrorist, silencing him. Releasing the weapon, he let it swing free on its sling as he headed for the generator, preparing to tinker with it.
De Silva was rushing for the door. He raced up to its right side, then crouched and covered the door. He heard loud explosions from within, and some shouting. He waited. Suddenly, a dark figure ran out. Squeezing down on the trigger, De Silva hosed the Tango down with six 9mm rounds.
The terrorist fell to his right, bleeding from multiple wounds to the lower and upper torso. But, he was still alive. The only thing the bullets did was to excavate six straight tunnels in his body, roughly ten millimeters in diameter. Seeing the commando in front of him, the Tango tried to bring his weapon to bear.
Cursing, De Silva brought his MP5A5 up, and fired a single shot into the terrorist's head.
Meanwhile, the three other members of Gold Team stacked up next to the HQ building's open doorway. A few seconds later, he lights from within went out. The men tossed in a pair of stun grenades. After a pair of deafening explosions, the men moved in.
The leader was another Eurasian, Eddy Roderick. Roderick led the way, moving into the HQ. Scanning, he saw a pair of standing targets. It was too close to use his NVGs; he was relying on his natural night vision.
Raising his MP5A5, he shot the closer one once in the head, following SOP. He dropped to the floor. Another of his men killed the other one. Scanning, he saw that there were two openings on the right wall.
"Room clear! I'm going to the opening on the right!" he shouted. "Take the left opening!"
It was all right to shout now…he hoped. Roderick realized that he was now in front of the opening, a grave mistake in CQB…but what the hell. Roderick rushed forward, MP5A5 raised. Entering the room he had taken, he automatically turned, scanning the room.
He had entered a kitchen. At least, that was as far as he could tell from the field cooking sets on the ground. There were no enemies here.
"Clear!" he shouted.
The other two Gold Team members, Lee May and Abdul, meanwhile, stacked up next to their opening, just in time to see a Tango rush out. Abdul riddled him in the chest with a flurry of bullets, spraying blood and guts all over the opposite wall. Lee prepared a stun grenade, then tossed it into the room beyond.
The men made entry after the detonation. They were just in time to see a terrorist flee the building through the other opening. Lee took aim, fired, and…missed. A long burst from outside, followed by a single round, signified the terrorist's fate.
"Clear!" Abdul shouted.
Green Team had an easier time. The team stacked up outside the target building, then armed a pair of frag grenades, letting them cook off for three seconds (they had a four-second fuse) before throwing them through the doorway. They sailed into the room beyond, and exploded when they hit the ground, sending lethal fragments sailing through the air.
The five men burst into the room, one after another. Staying low, the leading commandos reverted to their FIBUA training, spraying their MP5A5's mags low and across the room, from left to right and back, shooting up everything and everyone they saw with 9mm rounds.
They mostly saw sleeping bags scattered across the ground, so they riddled them with bullets, whether they were empty or not. A terrorist, rudely awakened, shot to his feet, and was shot down by a stream of rounds soon after. Clouds of sawdust filled the air, mixing with screams, gunfire, blood, gore, bone chips, and bodily fluids. The commandos advanced, methodically loosing rounds into everything they thought needed attention. Now and then, a commando would reload, covered by the others, but the momentum of the attack continued unabated, violence of action in its purest form.
After half a minute, it was all over. Silence returned to the barracks as a heavy stillness descended upon the killing ground.
"Building clear," Dzulhairi announced.
Then, they heard gunfire from the jetty.
--
"Not exactly picture-perfect, but it'll do," Ding commented. "I would have taken out the generator guard with a knife or bare hands, though."
"Good improvisation by Roderick too, though he was lucky that there weren't any terrorists waiting for him," Clark added.
"They know," Cheah assured them. "They thought about that in the AAR."
"Why the different tactics?" Chin asked. "I mean, the commandos were using two sets of tactics throughout the operation."
"The ex-SOF guys followed SOF doctrine, as far as I know, and the ex-commandos reverted to their training," Wong replied. "Remember that we barely had time to get to know each other, much less get a feel for each others' tactics and thinking. We smoothened things out some time after that. Remember that men, in times of crises, will fight as they train."
"Yeah," Covington seconded, remembering that he almost shot his first terrorist in the chest.
"Over time, we worked out a doctrine that covered everything," Wong added. "We tested it again in another op, this time in…somewhere or other. It went better than this time."
"That's good," Chavez said, out of courtesy. "What happened in the end?"
"It's not over yet," Wong added grimly. "You see, while all that was going on…"
--
Wong felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to his left.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"See that?" Gao said, pointing at a couple of dark shapes in the distance.
"Looks like two boats," Kumar added on his right, "heading this way."
"Oh shit."
Wong looked out into the open sea from his place on the firing slit. The men had left the gas lamp on, in an attempt at normalcy. They did, however, keep out of sight as much as possible.
Activating his NVGs, Wong used their built-in zoom function to take a closer look.
The two boats in question were occupied by six men each, laden with crates, possibly supplies. The men were unarmed, as far as he could tell. That was when he noticed a glint of metal from a crate covered with a piece of canvas, reflecting the moonlight. Taking a closer look, he saw that it was a barrel of a rifle of sorts, unwittingly exposed to the light.
That meant that the boats' occupants were armed, and that was that.
Could be a supply run, he mused. Could be the missing two boats…but we can't assume anything.
"Blue Lead, Blue Four. There're a pair of boats heading this way. Looks like they're the missing two boats. What do we do? Ambush them?"
"Blue Team, Blue Lead. We'll wait and see. If the boats moor at the jetty, we ambush the occupants, and neutralize everyone aboard. Blue One and Four, shoot the one on the right. Rest of you, take the one on the left."
"They look unarmed," Hafiz worried.
"They're carrying rifles in those crates, as far as I can tell," Gao countered.
"Okay, then," Hafiz acquiesced.
"Blue Team, Blue Lead. Prepare yourselves."
The men took the time to check their gear. They ensured that the safety catches of their carbines were pointing at 'AUTO', that their mags were securely locked into the mag well, and a trillion other factors, all the while watching the boats approach. Sweat rolled down their faces as the tension grew. Wong reminded himself that he had to relax, and let adrenaline temporarily overpower his senses. After the flood of adrenaline subsided, everything was all right. Looking over the parapet, Kumar, Gao, and Wong aimed their M4A1s at the approaching boat.
Wong prayed that the boats wouldn't arrive. He saw killing only as his duty; he never loved it…but he would do so again, if he must. Deep down, he knew that everyone in the unit agreed with him: they all believed in their motto, that all life was precious.
Hafiz and Lee were preparing behind their so-called cover as well.
"Whatever you do, make sure they don't shoot at us," Hafiz whispered.
"Why? These oil barrels won't blow up when shot at, you know. This isn't Hollywood or a computer game," Lee added.
"It's not that. It's just that they're kinda thin. I don't want to use them for cover; bullets can penetrate their metal walls very easily."
"Oh."
"Here they come!" Hafiz whispered urgently, training his weapon on his target boat.
The two boats glided smoothly into the shallow water, their motor engines giving their positions away. The boats headed for the jetty, their occupants looking around, searching for their dead comrades.
"Stand by, stand by," Blue Lead whispered, moving his rifle's front sight over a terrorist's chest. "Three…two…one…execute!"
Pulling the trigger, he saw his target jerk and spasm as a 5.56x45mm bullet tore into him. Moving his carbine, Wong sprayed the boat over and over again, not hearing the weapons' report, not feeling the recoil, not doing anything but seeing the weapons' effect on the boats and their occupants.
The terrorists danced involuntarily, shredded by the hail of bullets. Some lived long enough to scream, others didn't. The roaring gunfire continued as round after round screamed into a target, be it wood, metal, flesh, or otherwise. The commandos reloaded their weapons as soon as they were empty, then fired some more, killing the terrorists again and again.
After a minute or so, Wong screamed "CEASE FIRE!" into the radio net, not knowing that the rest of the team (and himself) was deafened by the gunfire. Repeating the order twice, the men finally released their fingers from the triggers.
And then, it was over.
The heavy stench of cordite settled into the shack, but the three commandos had no time to breathe it in. Blue Team headed for the boats, and began the grisly task of searching them.
--
"Let me tell you right now that it's nothing like what Hollywood thinks it is," Wong said. "The 5.56mm NATO tumbles as it enters flesh, maximizing damage. It produces a small entry hole and a large exit wound as a result.
"Some of the bodies had huge wounds all over their torso. One or two was missing his head. Others had their limbs shot off. No matter what we did to them, the terrorists were all dead, one way or the other. The boats were so bullet-ridden that they were taking in water by the time we were done checking for nonexistent pulses. The crates held supplies of all sorts, ranging from ammunition to food. I can still remember the blood and gore. …Damn," he concluded.
"Are you all right?" Clark asked.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, taking another pull from his pint. "It's just that I never wish to revisit that scene."
"War's ugly, man," Chavez seconded, remembering Columbia.
"Aye," Cheah agreed. "Ironically, that's what mankind does best. Back to you, Tay."
"After the ambush, we declared the island clear," Tay said. "We used the terrorists' cache of explosives and detonators to destroy their buildings. The barrels at the jetty were full of oil, probably for the boats. We used the oil to burn the bodies, weapons, boats, and whatever evidence we had left behind.
"Once that was done, we exfiltrated from the site, and arrived in the SOC at 0415 hours. We conducted an AAR right away, then brought our kit to our bunks."
"You can do that?" Chin wondered.
"Yah," Gao affirmed. "We were on Code Red at that time, so we were authorized to do that. After changing out of our ops clothing, we slept for a long time."
"I see. Did your superiors give any token of recognition?" Chavez asked.
"No," Wong replied, almost immediately. "Our unit doesn't exist. We don't exist, as far as MINDEF is concerned. No decorations for us."
"Okay…but I'm sure that you don't need any, right?" Chavez added.
"Yes, we don't," Wong said, shaking his head.
"Why's that?" Loiselle asked.
"It's enough for us to know that we did our duty."
Author's Note: I know, it's kind of long, but there wasn't any other alternative from my perspective. The tactics used by the SOF and commandos are based on what I've observed (exceedingly little, before you ask), as well as that of other SpecOps groups, taken from open sources. Some of the equipment doesn't exist (the GPS and goggles, for example) right now; they're modifications of existing technology. The hand-to-hand combat technique is mine, and I think I'll get it copyrighted before I release its name (along with anything related to the Singaporeans). That is to say, if I can find the time to do so: my exams are coming…