(Present Day, Winter 1778)
It took considerable effort to move through the American forest in fall, making minimal noise. The birds, the dead leaves, branches, and shrubs conspired against you to announce your arrival to all who took the time to listen. The nine men moving in a single staggered line were acutely aware of this disadvantage. The pressure to move rapidly while still maintaining stealth drained a man in a way that wasn't easily understood. Each one of them held their rifles in hands that would've been slick with sweat if it wasn't for the gloves they all wore. Elbows tuck, heads on a swivel they made their approach through the dark, the only illumination coming from the slivers of moonlight penetrating the giant trees. Casting everything into a magical hue. They took no note of this, the only thing on the minds of these nine men was the dim glow of the fire ahead and the sounds of laughter and bits of conversation carrying over the wind.
Lieutenant Holbrook raised his right and made a fist, at once the formation halted and dropped to one knee. The soldier bringing up the rear scanned the forest continually for threats. The soldiers in line hugged the closest cover to them and made sure their weapons were ready to fire. All held their breath as the reason for the ordered halt grew closer and closer. Coming up from the enemy camp was a redcoat, uniformed stained with sweat and debris. His gait indicated he was inebriated, the drunken laughter simply confirmed it. He stumbled through the dark cursing as he tripped over thorns and such. The Lieutenant unsheathed his knife and shifted positions. The soldier was now a bare 20 feet away when he stopped at a tree he liked and unbuttoned his pants. A few seconds later, the sound of his sigh and of his urine hitting the ground reached them. Slowly, as slowly as a wolf stalks a wounded deer, the Lieutenant moved closer and closer to his unsuspecting target. Whether or not a gentleman should kill another while his literal pants are down was irrelevant.
To the drunken redcoat's credit, he wasn't completely foolish. The sounds of footsteps, muffled as they were by deerskins, drew his attention. He turned his head around partly to see a dark shape moving towards him. It was the last thing he ever saw. Before he could do so much as open his mouth, Holbrook had clamped his right hand over the soldier's mouth, using his leg to trip him, pulled him backward and down and then, using his left hand, shoved the knife into his spine just underneath his jaw. What Holbrook didn't know was that by severing the connection between the brain and the spinal cord, he had effectively cut off the oxygen supply to his target's brain. The savage twist of the knife simply finished the job. The redcoat spasmed once, twice, gurgled something faint, and then grew still, blood seeping steadily out from his wound. Holbrook kept his hand on the target's mouth until he was sure the redcoat was no longer going to make noise. The eyes of the redcoat stared back at him, confused, not fully comprehending how it was that he was dying. Fear and panic began to rise in him, but his limbs would no longer respond to commands from his brain. His eyes flicked around him, looking for something, anything to save him, but it was to no avail. His death, while still a minute off, was absolute. The minute passed with no fanfare, his brain deprived of oxygen as it was, simply turned off. Holbrook looked down at the boy, and he was a boy he realized. The handsome ruddy face was now lifeless, the brown eyes that no doubt broke hearts of every woman in London, were now dull and empty as a marble.
A pity. A small voice in the Lieutenant's head said quietly, but there was nothing to it; this was war. He pulled the knife out, and the metal made a soft grating noise as it slid out from bone. Wiping the blood on the boy's clothes, he stood up and made his way back to his men.
"You good sir?" Sergeant Hartford asked.
Holbrook gave him a nod.
"Stand to, were moving."
"Aye sir."
With that, the group of men continued their approach. The severity of the mission weighed on them. It had been several months since the "York Bombing" as the papers had taken to calling it. Public outcry at the carnage had been so severe that most of the safe havens the Patriots had used turned actively hostile. People began supplying information to the British Army in droves, with ever-increasing fervor. While most still didn't like British occupation, they disliked what had been done more. So the tables had turned, and now it was the rebels who were persona non grata in the very places they used to call home. Army Intelligence wasted no time capitalizing on this golden opportunity. Major Haddock had ordered multiple strikes based on intel gathered in the wake. The effect had been crippling. Army group west was now on the verge of collapse. 4,000 soldiers were battered and beleaguered and were running on fumes. They relied on supply lines to keep them stocked, supply lines that the British knew existed, but hadn't found. Except they had found them now all right. The farmer, who's house bordered the river that they used to ship supplies across, had lost a daughter in the bombing. Grief filled rage had marched him straight to his local garrison and inclined him to tell them he suspected rebel soldiers were using the river as a crossing point. In that one sentence, on that one day, the strangulation of the rebel army had begun.
This led to their current mission. These nine men had been hand picked and had spent the last month training for it and missions like it. The camp they were coming across was made by a platoon of men they had been tracking for the past week. Rebel command had leaked it that General Washington himself was going to be visiting Army Group West to reassure the men. The goal was to lure the head of British Army Intelligence out of New York, knowing that he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to capture Washington. The plan had worked successfully. An asset close to the major had fed him false intelligence that encouraged him to be where he was tonight, in the camp that these men were now heading for. They were a mere 15 yards away now. Holbrook ordered his men to break formation and acquire shooting points and clear fields of fire. The goal was to attack from a 270 degree angle, trapping and slaughtering everything within that field of fire. For this strike to be successful, they would need surprise on their side. If the enemy had time to prepare, eventually his greater numbers would begin to win out.
Each man carried a grenade on him, the size of a large pomegranate with a white wick sticking out of it. These weren't standard cannon shell grenades. They were hollowed out some, their insides filled small bits of metal. The idea was that once the canon ball erupted, it would project these tiny metal pieces into every direction, cutting to pieces whatever was in its path. Successful test runs had been completed only a few weeks before. The results looked promising, if the damage done to the scarecrows mirrored what was done to humans, there might not be enough of a human left to bury. The objective was to lob the first volley of grenades into the edge of the encampment, allowing the shrapnel to rip through the tents of the sleeping men. Those who survived the first wave would naturally move towards the center of the camp, next to the fire, and form a defensive perimeter. Exactly as British military doctrine said so. Not only would the fire kill their night vision, but it would also have the added benefit of grouping the remainder of the men together, allowing for the second volley of grenades to further decimate their ranks. Those that didn't die from the grenades would be cut down by the muskets of the nine men.
Sergeant Hartford signaled Holbrook that the men were in position. Holbrook looked on the forms of the sleeping men below and felt a measure of sympathy for them. Sympathy while he lit the fuse on his grenade.
The results were beyond expectations. The resulting explosion rocketed the camp, its sound seeming to echo endlessly through the forest. The sound of whistling bomb fragments was now etched indelibly etched into the mind of the survivors. The soldiers were instantly on their feet, screaming orders to get out of the tents and form a defensive perimeter. Just as planned. Most of then men were still sleep-addled, tripping over their feet and mismatched uniforms. They fumbled with their muskets trying to reload through the fog of exhaustion and adrenaline. Added to the mix was the sound of the wounded screaming. Holbrook watched this with grim satisfaction, he placed a calming hand on the soldier closest to him, felt the tension in the muscles. They had to time the second wave just right. The first four bombs had perhaps disabled 15 soldiers, leaving 25 left to engage. Still too many for his men to handle.
Holbrook watched and waited. Now! He motioned for the second wave of grenades to be thrown. The effect was the total destruction of unit cohesion in the enemy force. Once everyone's ears stopped ringing, they realized, belatedly, that the forest was quiet. Well damn, that worked out better than I thought. Holbrook motioned for his men to move in and they began picking their way through the dead, sticking their bayonets into the corpses to make sure they were in fact corpses. At last they made it to the command tent. Major Haddock's body had not been found amongst the dead, but they could see small movement coming from inside the tent, as if someone was trying to load a musket quietly and quickly. Holbrook signaled for his men to from up on him. Two soldiers stood on either side of the tent, both grabbing a flap. On his command, they both yanked back the flaps simultaneously, and the three soldiers lined up in front of the tent fired at once. He never had a chance, his bodied thudded onto the floor, his chest a scarlet mess, musket falling to the side. He twitched once, and then fell still, never to move again.