Author's note: After writing "Christmas With Frontline", I realized that I had forgotten two of the Frontline members: Brick and Shooter. Let it not be said that I don't try to fill in plotholes...

Christmas With Frontline
"The Lost Members"
By J.T. Magnus, "Turbo"

"Have a good night wherever you were, Lieutenant?"

Second Lieutenant Steven Johnson, codenamed "Brick" in a smart-mouthed referance to his build, came to an abrupt stop in the top floor of the Pit, the Motor Pool.

"Major."

"You know, I may be new at this, Brick, only a month and all," Turbo shrugged, "But I'm pretty sure I didn't sign any off-base passes for last night."

"You didn't."

Turbo was a half-head shorter than the lower-ranked Frontliner, but attitude made up the difference as he stood toe-to-toe with Brick in the middle of the Motor Pool.

"In that case, give me one good reason why I shouldn't hand you over to Beachhead for the next month."

"I don't do Christmas."

"Doesn't cut it. I wanted an explanation, Brick, not an excuse. I try to be a nice guy, but if you're gonna take advantage of it, I'll have you back in the regular Army so fast we'll have to send you your bags on a seperate transport."

"It's personal, Sir," Brick answered back, making sure to add the 'sir' his commanding officer hated so much before stepping around him and continuing on to the elevator.

After all, how could he explain that the last Christmas he had celebrated had been the night his sister and his best friend had died and he couldn't find anything 'merry' or 'happy' about the day after that?

In Washington D.C., Lieutenant Shuta Go, a sniper on exchange from the Japanese military, stood in the office of the Pentagon's Special Operations Commander.

"Thank you for meeting with me today, Lieutenant. I'm sure there's other things you'd rather be doing," the three-starred General behind the desk greeted.

"If I may ask, Sir, why did you ask for me?"

The General nodded, "This has already been cleared with your commanding officers, so it's your choice, but we're forming - well, have already formed, actually - a small-scale quick-response special forces unit, with an emphasis on anti-terrorism operations..."

There was a pause, then the general finished, "And we'd like for you to be a part of it. It's not illegal, or uncommon, in fact, a similar unit in the eighties and ninties had members that were on loan from the British and Russian militaries."

The general didn't mention that technically it was the same unit, that wasn't exactly something Lieutenant Go needed to know yet.

"Take your time to think about it if you need, Lieutenant."

Shuta closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His father, a scientist, had died when he was younger and he had been raised by his uncle, Metarutaka Go, a retired Colonel. He had swore to be the best at whatever he did, and an elite group of soldiers wanted him as one of them.

"If my superiors have given permission, General, then I would be honored."

General Clayton 'Hawk' Abernathy nodded.

January 9th, 2002
Two weeks later...

Lieutenant Shuta Go, having decided to call himself 'Shooter' in a corruption of his real name, climbed out of the humvee and thanked the blonde Master Sergeant who had driven him to the three quanoset huts that appearantly served as the base for 'Special Anti-Terrorist Task Unit Delta - Sub-Unit Foxtrot'. Shooter looked around at the surroundings, nothing but desert for miles around. Not even a motor pool, where did they keep their transportation? His distracted thoughts were interrupted when, out of nowhere, a soldier wearing a ski-mask and covered in paint started to run past him, then stopped and saluted.

"Lieutenant, sir."

Shooter looked at him for a moment.

"Master Sergeant Sneeden, sir. ' Beachhead'."

"Sergeant, I am looking for Major... Magnus?"

"Respectfully, sir, someone else will have to take you to 'im."

The lieutenant was a little surprised, "And why is that, Sergeant?"

"Well, sir, if I can't keep away from him and his team for the next... fifty-seven minutes, mine loses."

Any futher explanation was cut off by an incoming projectile that landed between the two and cover them with green paint.

"Damn."

A younger soldier in olive-drab t-shirt and jungle-pattern fatigue pants raised up from his perch atop one of the quanoset huts.

"You going to run or give up now?"

Beachhead reached a hand behind his back, then raised both hands in the air, "Ah give..."

The younger soldier slid down the side of the hut's curved roof and dropped to the ground, "Glad you could see it our way, Beach'."

"This is Lieutenant... Uh..."

"Go."

The new addition to the small group tilted his head slightly, "Go where?"

Shooter closed his eyes, unfortunately, that wasn't the first time he had that joke since he arrived in America, after a while, he had formulated a simple response, "Away."

"Oo, sorry. Lieutenants can't order Majors."

"Lieutenant, this is Major Magnus, we call him 'Turbo'."

The younger soldier, the major, nodded slightly, "'Shooter,' right? General Abernathy told us to expect you. Beachhead will show you to your quarters, right?"

"Yeah, Major," Beachhead answered, checking his watch, "One other thing..."

"Yeah?"

"Boom."

Seconds after he said that, there was a small explosion and red paint covered all three of them, adding to the green on the two lower-ranked soldiers.

Beachhead smiled under his ski-mask, "Set it up before I surrendered, Georgia... The 'old folks' still win."

"Damn," was Turbo's only comment.

Wiping paint away from his eyes, Shooter wondered what he had gotten himself into.