07:17, WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 10, 1999, LIMA (07:17/10-02-99 ZULU)
RAF BRIZE NORTON, OXFORDSHIRE, UNITED KINGDOM

Allegedly, the sun would rise in the next half-hour, but being that it was winter in England, no-one on the ground could have proven it conclusively. Between the biting cold and the sullen grey overcast and the steady, unrelenting drizzle whose every droplet seemed to contain a microscopic core of misery that soaked through the skin directly into the soul, even the ducks were staying home by the fire... which actually had its upside. Very few people hang around to rubberneck at RAF transport bases in the first place; at such an hour in such unpleasant weather (with the promise of deteriorating even further any minute – there was snow in the forecast), the number doing so in this instance was precisely zero, which was to the good. After all, deniable operations are so much easier to deny if there are no witnesses.

Captain Sheila 'Scope' Sterling, formerly of British Army Intelligence, shrugged a little deeper into her greatcoat and tugged her collar higher, trying to keep out a little more of the rain out as she stood just inside the two-metre-wide gap between the hangar's main doors, watching the 'Follow Me!' cart lead a very pretty execu-jet towards her while her own contingent made their own final pre-embarkation checks behind her. I just hope that these people are all they're reputed to be; we're likely to look very foolish to our Arulcan hosts otherwise.

A stocky woman in her early forties with short blonde hair and a square face dominated by a sharp nose, Scope knew she was no supermodel; but then, most supermodels hadn't received tertiary qualifications from a well-known institution some fifteen miles to the east of where she now stood, nor had many supermodels spent three years performing undercover surveillance operations in Northern Ireland with what had once been 14 Detachment, an intelligence unit that had been a key player in anti-IRA operations for decades and was virtually part of the SAS. And she was quite sure that not a single supermodel had ever encountered 'Code Fives' during their work, survived the experience through quick thinking and physical prowess, and undergone SAS-equivalent training to learn how to combat both those Code Fives and their human servitors. Scope had participated in more than seventeen 'black' strikes against Templar satellite companies and Stormhawk bases in Europe in the last year alone, and she had all the scars to prove that she'd been there and done that.

"Sheila, do come in out of the rain; they'll be here in a few moments regardless of whether or not you're waiting to meet them."

Scope glanced back over her shoulder at the man who'd addressed her in a public school accent every bit as dignified as her own. "And let these Dominion types think that I lack the stomach for a little bad weather, Sidney? I fear I'll need to make a better impression than that."

Sidney Nettleson gave her a steady look; he'd known and worked with her for almost eleven years now, and he had his own ideas about what was due to her, as opposed to a 'normal' officer. "You might do a better job of garnering their respect with a show of good sense than one of resilience, Sheila. It's my understanding that these fellows are all enlisted personnel, which will give them something of a different perspective... and certain opinions about ruperts," he added, twitting her a little. Sidney had left the Royal Marines as a sergeant.

"Opinions that coincide with your own, I don't doubt," she returned blandly, her attention still on the Global Express rolling down the taxiway.

"I can't imagine why they wouldn't; after all, ruperts are ruperts the world over."

-

Once the Global Express had come to a halt inside the hangar, all four passengers disengaged their seat-belts and gathered their carry-on bags disembarked as promptly as possible. As he was unbuckling his belt, Xander glanced out the window at the other end of the hangar, where a conspicuously unmarked C-17 Globemaster was being loaded – not only with personnel and equipment crates, as one might have expected, but also with a number of four-wheel-drive vehicles. Noting certain key details, he nudged Misha with one elbow as he went past and pointed out the four-wheelers with a tilt of his chin. "Check it out."

Misha crouched to follow his friend's gaze – and blinked. "SOVs! Very nice..."

"Land Rover Special Operations Vehicles – heirs to the tradition of the SAS Jeeps and countless earlier models of Land Rover. Looks like we might be doing some deep raiding while we're down there."

"Best way to keep the FRA off-balance so they don't just swamp us with numbers," Taz noted with absent professionalism, taking a look herself; Xander noted, with a twinge of compassion that he was careful to hide lest she tear into him for it, that she was still paper-white even though they'd been on the ground for almost ten minutes. "We might want think about trying to knock back their air-power, too."

"I think they've got that covered," rumbled Hulk, indicating the roll-cage weapons mounts on four of the six SOVs. "Those look familiar..."

"Great shades of Elvis!" Xander blurted. "They're sending a system that new into Arulco?"

"'Field-testing', remember?" Hulk noted, not unkindly. "Best way to see if they work under the worst possible circumstances."

Tropical country with horrendous heat and humidity, no proper servicing depots or support facilities, indigenous operators of dubious literacy and mathematical ability, much less technological acculturation – yeah, that's pretty close to 'worst possible conditions', Xander noted wryly. "Yeah, well, standing here and gossiping isn't gonna get the job done, is it? C'mon, let's go."

Taz was naturally the first one out of the plane; in her haste to get out onto the tarmac, she stumbled on the air-stair and almost collided with the woman waiting at the bottom – only Misha's swift reflexes in catching her arm prevented a nasty spill for all involved. "Thanks, sweetheart," she told him over her shoulder, then looked to her reception committee. "Not the best entrance I could have made, but I guess it'll have to do. Captain Sterling?"

"Yes, but call me Scope," the stern-looking blonde nodded. "I take it you're Warrant Officer Zyrianova?" (In both the NZPDS and Sterling's UKPDS, all front-line enlisted personnel were considered warrant officers, so that any outsiders they dealt with wouldn't get too snippy about getting expert advice from junior enlisted.)

"It's 'MacGyver', and yeah, what's left of her," Taz said ruefully, giving the Global Express a hateful look before becoming all business once more. "When do we leave for Arulco?"

"Once the last of the gear is loaded – it looks like that'll be in about an hour's time."

"Good – at least I can get some coffee to travel on before I get back in one of those damn' things," Taz muttered sourly. "The rest of my personnel: my translator you already know -"

"All too well, I'm afraid," Scope said dryly, nodding to Misha. "Going to shoot up any public venues whilst you're in Arulco?"

The scar-faced man gave her a 'you're-too-funny' look. "I wasn't planning on it, but we'll see what happens," he drawled. Man, am I ever gonna live that caper down? It's not like I planned to get into a firefight in the middle of the British Museum...

"- This is our medic Snoopy, from the Sunnydale Hellmouth by way of the Royal Marines -" Taz continued.

"Ah, yes, young mister Harris. Exactly how are you managing to be in two places at once?" Scope wondered.

"Trade secret, Cap'n. Even if I could tell you, I'm not sure you'd believe it," the once-and-future-Slayerette said ruefully.

"You'd be surprised by the degree to which this line of work has broadened my horizons," she returned blandly.

"I don't doubt it, Captain, but it's not my story to tell."

"Fair enough."

"- And lastly, Hulk, our communications and heavy weapons specialist. You may have noticed he's a healthy-sized sort of fellow – that's because he's half Maori and half Samoan."

"And the rest is what, mountain troll?" Scope asked faintly, watching Corporal Anton Hauraki squeeze out through the GE's hatch. Her reaction was not an uncommon one; Hulk was better than two metres tall and built like the steroid-bolstered crossing of a professional wrestler and a rogue Grizzly bear.

"Captain," the man-mountain said in a voice that could be felt through the soles of one's feet, offering her his most disarming smile and one dinner-plate-sized hand to shake. Scope accepted it, a little nervously, but Hulk had long since learned to control his strength. "I heard your people were taking this seriously, but I didn't realise that Major Rice would commit his second-in-command to an open-ended operation like this."

"So close to Operation SUCKER PUNCH, you mean?" Scope shook her head. "We're only committing one team of our own people – the rest we picked up in the community."

"The mercenary community, or goblin-hunters?" Taz asked pointedly.

"A little of both – of course not forgetting how much overlap there is between the two."

Taz snorted, but let that wry truth slide. "Any more idea on what we're supposed to be dealing with once we get down there?"

Scope winced and shook her head, motioning towards the loading area; Taz and her crew followed her as she started to move that way. "All we know is that the CVLA has lost seven more miners and three guards since the first report, and they've had to concede five more levels to whatever's coming up from the depths of the mine."

"I just hope it isn't a Balrog, 'cause I lost Gandalf's number," Xander inserted helpfully.

Taz gave him a piercing glare. "I do the Tolkien references around here, sunshine, not you." And come the start of filming in October, God help Peter Jackson if he screws up, or I'm gonna make him wish he was the one fighting the Balrog...

"You got it - Éowyn," the Californian smirked.

This earned him another dirty look, but in a way Taz was thankful for the jibes; between the mind-numbing jet-lag and having to fly in the first place, she could use a couple of laughs (or groans) before getting on another goddamned aeroplane. "So how are we fixed for ammo?" she asked Scope. "Since we don't know what the threat is –"

"We're packing a little of everything," the Englishwoman assured her. "We've got graphite rounds for Code Fives and aye-gees in case of lycanthropes – ten thousand rounds of each in nine millimetre Parabellum and five thousand each of five-five-six – as well as ten thousand rounds of those twelve-gauge general-purpose rounds you call 'spookbusters'. We're also taking the CVLA a substantial shipment of modern small arms and missile systems, in case the government gets some bright idea into its head about bombing Drassen."

"Sounds like a plan," Taz nodded. And if we run into something we don't have ammo for? Well, we'll have to follow Taz's First Law of Combat: "When in doubt – improvise." She glanced at her husband and tipped her head a little; he nodded and stepped away half a pace or so, taking Hulk and Xander with him so that she could speak to Scope quasi-privately. "One other thing, Captain. I hear you're a good troop, but with all due respect I don't yet know how you think and I need to say this up front: our contingent, us and the Aussies? We work with you, not for you, so don't assume you have the right to order my people around. In combat, you're senior and we'll treat you as our CO, but when it comes to dealing with other units, you don't speak for us - we do. Understood?"

Scope bristled a little, ready to read the younger woman the riot act... then caught herself, realising that this was not insubordination but candour. "You're rather a small party to be speaking for yourselves at the levels as you're likely to need to in Arulco."

"We're also more experienced at goblin-busting than you are, Captain, so anyone ignoring us would do it at their own peril." Taz's eyes were as unyielding as emeralds.

Scope met the younger woman's gaze for a long moment, holding her ground, then nodded a little – not yielding the point, but accepting it. My word – I'd heard tales of this 'MacGyver's' strength of personality, but I'd never have expected them to be so close to the mark! "In the interests of your surviving continued air travel, we've arranged rooms at the visitor's quarters. You won't have a chance to sleep before we leave, unfortunately, but you can shower and get something to eat at the NAAFI."

Taz startled her with a crooked grin. "One of the benefits of flying VIP-class – we showered on the plane. But if you've got coffee, Captain - and the stronger, the better – this may be the start of a beautiful partnership."

-

08:00, FEBRUARY 10, 1999, LIMA (13:00/10-02-99 ZULU)
MILITARY SITUATION ROOM, ROYAL PALACE
MEDUNA, KINGDOM OF DRASSEN

Gloria Prescott Chivaldori, Arulco's self-declared Queen for Life, walked into the situation room with the ever-present pair of Stormhawk-trained Royal Guardsmen a step behind her, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor and the scent of 'Obsession' trailing behind her. Her strapless, backless green Dior gown was a sharp contrast to the array of uniforms around her as she entered. "Well, Elliott, what news today?"

Elliott Vittorio, technically her Chief of Staff and Minister of Defence, looked up from the map-table with an expression not unlike that of a rabbit seeing a snake. "N-n-no news, my Queen. Our troops have not encountered rebel forces since Friday."

"Why not? What are they doing?"

"Th-the rebels appear to be holding their positions around the town of Drassen, Majesty."

"They're just sitting there? Why?"

"Our analysts believe they're building up their supply stockpiles before they undertake further operations."

Glory turned and gave the speaker a piercing glare. Most of the men present were dressed in FRA dress uniforms, complete with sashes and full medals and brightly gleaming rank-braids. By comparison, the utilitarian simplicity of General Maximillian Forster's unadorned tan uniform and the four six-pointed ochre cloth stars on his epaulettes was a blot of oil on the tablecloth at the Coronation Ball, and almost as welcome; every man in the room resented the Stormers' presence in their country, much less this council.

Nonetheless, Forster met the Queen's glare with an equanimity that was very, very rare in Arulco these days, much less in the councils of a woman who had made a personal habit of literally shooting the bearers of ill tidings. He'd survived commanding a motor-rifle regiment in the NVA, the East German Army, under the worst excesses of the Communists and their Stasi secret police; dealing with superiors who didn't want to acknowledge reality was nothing new to him. "Their backers have seen to it that their combat forces have a solid core of veterans, many of them volunteer ex-servicemen or outright mercenaries, but they need a substantial indigenous force to give their operations the appearance of legitimacy and preserve the façade of an internal civil war. And training, equipping and feeding a force that large requires staggering amounts of matériel, even if many of them are ex-conscripts like many of the indigenous 'Volunteers' must be."

"Then cut off their supplies and make this little problem go away," Glory suggested sweetly.

"It's not that simple, Highness. Their transports fly too low for the SAM site east of Drassen to engage them effectively. Nor can our aircraft get to them; we can't violate Ecuadorean airspace without giving them a perfect pretext for open intervention, and for the five minutes they spend in the air inside our borders, they're protected by the same modern SAM systems that prevent us from simply bombing Drassen itself. The only aircraft that could attack one of those supply-flights without being shot down itself would be an F.1C armed with Aspide missiles –"

"Out of the question!" the Queen bit out. "If we take those Mirages off our border, the Peruvians will be on us like piranha on a bleeding cow! God, their Frogfoot attack fighters are less than twenty minutes from here!"

Forster took a deep breath to check his own temper. "It would take only two fighters, Highness, and the aircraft in question would be to Drassen and back within forty minutes – far too short a time for the Peruvians to react to exploit any perceived gap."

"I said it's out of the question, General," Glory said icily. "Any more bright ideas?"

"We can't destroy it from the air, which only leaves re-taking it on the ground," suggested Colonel Javier Pedroza. "My Fourth Dragoons can do it in less than a week."

"The Colonel's enthusiasm is heartening but misplaced, Majesty," Forster said quickly. "While they have modern armoured vehicles, the Fourth has yet to undergo their scheduled refurbishment cycle; much of their equipment is crippled by maintenance problems and the bulk of their troops are conscripts, poorly trained and indifferently motivated." Not to mention their commanding officer's a clueless, self-important ass!

"How much training does a battalion of mechanised infantry really need to run off a bunch of raggedy-ass farmers armed with shotguns and pitchforks?" Pedroza sneered.

"Ask the Russians," Forster returned tightly. "They never managed it when they faced the Afghan mudjehadeen. Majesty, if we must make a ground attack on Drassen, let's make one that is strong enough to succeed despite any possible opposition."

"What do you propose, General?"

"We helicopter one company from the 4th Airborne Rangers into the jungle east of Drassen to carry out close reconnaissance of the town and its defences. Then we take the Third Grenadier Guards Regiment from the Brigade of Guards here in the capital and move it up to Cambria to link up with the Fifth Fusiliers Regiment and Second Brigade's cavalry troop – all of those units have been fully refurbished, they're a match for any mechanised unit found in the First World, much less anything the rebels can field. They move north to fake an attack on Omerta, then swing east and go for the airfield at the north end of Drassen. At the same time, we chopper two more companies from the 4th Rangers up to link up with their comrades, and they advance on the mine at the south end of the town, playing anvil to the armoured units' hammer. I'll grant you it's not a small or subtle operation, but it will be decisive."

"It's total overkill, my Queen, and far too extravagant and expensive an operation to mount to deal with a couple of hundred guerrillas with nothing heavier than rifles," Pedroza countered.

"'No heavy weapons', Colonel?" Forster asked incredulously. "Our sources report that as much as two-thirds of the 7th Rifle Regiment defected in place when the rebels took Omerta, taking all their heavy equipment with them, and the same story was repeated when the 10th Rifles were overrun in Drassen. Both formations had FRA-issued MILAN missiles and Carl Gustav rocket launchers, as well as SA-14s."

"'Your sources', Stormer, are paid informants who're telling you exactly what you want to hear so they'll keep getting paid," the Arulcan officer sneered. "Our intelligence tells us that the 7th and 10th died in place to the last man and any prisoners taken were promptly executed. The rebels have no anti-tank weapons, and even if they did, they have no-one who could operate them; they're a collection of illiterate peasants and hireling lackeys who will flee as soon as they even think a tank is headed their way – and the Fourth Dragoons have almost thirty tanks and fifty IFVs and APCs. Those who don't die under our guns or flee into the woods will be crushed under our treads."

Mein Gott, he's actually taken that propaganda-piece intelligence assessment the Arulcan Royal Intelligence Service wrote at face value! Forster realised in barely-concealed horror. This idiot is making military decisions on the basis of his own aristocratic prejudices and the self-preserving fantasies of an intelligence machine Glory's rule has turned into a pack of yes-men who can't tell her anything she doesn't want to hear without getting shot as defeatists!

"We don't need three whole battalions to crush this rebellion, my Queen; the Fourth Dragoons can do it alone," Pedroza repeated, not knowing what was going on behind Forster's impassive face. "Give us the freedom to do so."

"Your Majesty –" Forster began.

Glory cut him off with a raised hand. "Your plan is too complex, General, and I can't spare the Rangers or the Grenadiers; they're needed where they are to protect vital installations -"

To protect you and your home here in Meduna and the lily-white asses and multi-million-dollar villas of your rich cronies in Balime, you mean! Forster thought venomously.

"- And the loyalty of the Fifth Fusiliers is open to question."

Because when we Stormhawks retrained and re-equipped them just last year, we appointed officers and non-coms whose primary concern was with doing their jobs, and since they're not falling over themselves to kiss your ass, you doubt their allegiance.

Forster cocked a wry mental eyebrow at that. As well you should, come to think of it... "Be that as it may, your Majesty, what do you suggest?"

"Colonel Pedroza's Fourth Dragoons will be ample to deal with the problem. They'll do it."

"With respect, you Highness –"

"My decision is made, General," she said coldly, and Forster recognized the finality in her tone. "How soon can the attack go in?"

"I need three days to get my people ready to move and another two to get them up to the jumping-off point – I should be ready to launch the assault by Tuesday morning. I'll telephone you an after-action report from the café at the Drassen airfield Tuesday evening, my Queen," Pedroza assured her.

"Good. General Forster, see to the details. Now, if we're done, I have some traitors to feed to the bloodcats," Queen Glory said casually, and swept out of the room, trailing 'Obsession' and her bodyguards in her wake.

Swallowing his first reaction, Forster turned back to those gathered about the table. "Very well. Mister Vittorio, have I your permission to proceed as necessary?"

"Huh? W-why, yes, General. Yes, you, you may proceed as necessary," Elliott nodded frantically, then withdrew after his Queen as quickly as he could, so as to assure her of his devotion to her.

"Very good, Minister." Because I intend to interpret 'as necessary' as broadly as I can. "Colonel Pedroza, you are to plan and execute an assault on the rebel-held town of Drassen as soon as practicable. I'm going to cut orders to Brigadier Vega to chop both of Second Brigade's artillery batteries and its entire cavalry squadron to your command, to be used to support the operation – and Colonel, you will make maximum use of both your reconnaissance assets and your artillery. I'm also going to order 17 Squadron's AlphaJets readied to serve as close air support on request from your fire-support coordinator, rebel SAMs notwithstanding. If you're going to be the one making this attack, Colonel Pedroza, I'm going to do my damnedest to make it succeed despite your involvement."

Pedroza bristled, and Forster had to hide a smile at how easy it was to manipulate the hidebound little suckup. "When I've crushed these rebels, Stormhawk, the Queen will personally pin your rank-boards onto my shoulders."

I rather doubt that you'll live that long, Colonel, Forster judged silently, not exactly heartbroken at the prospect. And the Queen? Well, she really should have studied the wisdom of "The Evil Overlord's Check-List", especially its 17th precept: "When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice." And learning that lesson is going to cost her dearly – to the tune of your entire Regiment for a start, I think...