AN - I apologize for the delay getting this chapter posted, work was very busy. Feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you think.
Spartan Bradley Gordon gripped his rifle reflexively. The sixteen year old didn't look like a teenager. He was clad in much of the same gear his Delta Force instructors typically wore into battle. He wore a full multi-cam uniform, on top of which he had a tan Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment, or MOLLE, vest. The vest was very basic, with standard slots for ceramic plates of armor. What made it special was its modular design. There were no pouches for carrying anything on the vest, instead there was a complex web of stitching allowing the customized placement of carrying pouches for grenades, ammunition, and other gear as the individual finds necessary for the mission.
Additionally, he wore a mid-cut ballistic helmet. The helmet was much more compact than the standard Enhanced Combat Helmet fielded by the U.S. Army. It didn't offer as much ballistic protection, but the nature of Special Forces operations made compact and lightweight gear a necessity. A slot along the forehead of the helmet held a Night Optic Device that could be snapped down in front of his eyes in an instant, allowing him to see much better in near black darkness. It was a tremendous combat advantage.
He knew his gear was not standard. Not for the regular army and not for the majority of Spartans. The Spartans had been trained as a special operations force since they were six and seven years old. Children from around the world who were orphaned by acts of terrorism were offered a chance to get revenge on terrorism. Each of them had volunteered for the training, though at their ages, none of them really knew what they were in for.
Every day was another brutal day of intense training of some kind. Always physical training of some kind, and then it varied. One day might be the rifle range, then next might be hand-to-hand combat, then military strategy, or perhaps weapons maintenance. The true constant is they were always one step behind the instructors, who seemed never to tire and always had just one more exercise planned.
At thirteen years old, Gordon was among thirty other Spartans that the instructors said showed a real promise. The command staff wanted to create a Special Forces team within the Spartans, and they were selected as the most promising group for the program. They were warned that the training would be much more difficult, that their lives would be hell. However, if they survived and passed the course, they would be tier one operators, the best of the best.
Special Mission Units of the U.S. Military were separated by tier. Tier Two units such as the Army Rangers were generally considered special operations units. They conducted a variety of special operations depending on specialization of the individual unit. Tier One units like Delta Force and SEAL Team Six were invitation only units that pulled from the ranks of the Tier Two forces. Selecting only the best individuals, with a training attrition rate of up to ninety percent, Tier One units were among the deadliest warriors in the world.
Now, Spartan Gordon and the seven others that formed Reaper Team stood in a small room, all in full battle gear. They were in what was considered their final exam. When ordered, they were to clear the kill house. Their kill house was actually a warehouse-sized structure inside Fort Bragg, and each time they entered, its design was different. The instructors went out of their way to design structures that favored the defender, challenging the Spartans to adapt and safely execute a raid even in the worst locations.
Each of the Spartans were nervous, they had spent the last three years working daily with instructors from Delta Force to hone themselves into the best soldiers they could be. It all came down to today. No pressure.
"Reaper Team is go." They each heard the words over the radio implanted in their helmets, and without hesitating got to work. They each started timers on their watches and stacked up four deep on either side of the door, and Spartan Ryan Sanderson broke from his position in front of the other stack to plant a small charge along the door. He worked with expert precision and had the charge planted in what felt like record time. He went back to his position and starting from the back of each line, each squeezed the shoulder of the man in front of him, signaling that they were ready. Less than a minute after then initial order, they were ready to breach the door. Gordon gave the signal, and Sanderson lit the charge.
BANG! The blast was directed inward at the door and very little debris launched at the operators. Inside the room however, the shockwave of the charge and splinters of wood shot through the room. Its effect was shocking and very often, anyone unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side of a door charge did not recover in time to fight back.
Just after the blast, the team entered. As soon as Spartan Gordon cleared the doorway, his rifle was raised and ready to respond to any threat with deadly precision. He stepped just inside the room, and then shuffled along the wall to the right of the door. He had barely made it through the door before Sanderson was pushing through and heading to the left. The team filed in one after another, each one responsible for a specific section, or firing lane, of the room. Less than fifteen seconds had passed since the blast, and the entire team was in the room. There were no targets, but there was a door to either side of them.
"Clear!" Gordon shouted, and each of the men on his team shouted it as well. They were familiar with their tasks, and they stacked up four to a door. The same squeezing action was performed and the men poured through the doors. They moved quickly but deliberately, keeping their actions accurate and organized. Speed, surprise, and violence of action. Those three things were the key factors to a successful raid, and his Delta instructors had been beating it into his brain for the last three years.
Gordon was the first through his side, and again stepped to the right as he breached the room. In his lane, he saw Instructor Martinez being "held hostage" by a cardboard terrorist. The instructor's body blocked a clear shot, and the only shot he had was right past Martinez's head. He didn't hesitate, firing two shots rapidly. Both hit the center of the targets head, and he heard a pair of other shots before he heard his guys shout.
"Room clear!" They moved on to the next room, repeating the procedure room by room until the team regrouped. There was a single large room left with two doors, one on either side. The rest of the kill house had been cleared.
"Sanderson, take your guys to the far door." He looked at his watch. "At five minutes, toss a flashbang and clear. We will do the same from our door. Check fire lanes." They needed to be sure not to shoot each other. Sanderson and his fireteam went to the far door while Gordon's team stacked up. Gordon produced a flashbang and watched the timer on his watch as it counted down.
A flashbang was a stun grenade, useful in achieving an element of surprise during combat. It had a fuse that lasted just over a second, and on detonation, produced a flash that was just over one million candelas and the bang was one hundred and seventy decibels. A flashbang could overload the senses of whoever was unfortunate enough to be nearby, giving the attackers a precious time to seize the initiative before an effective defense could be mounted.
Five minutes. The timer on his watch ticked over. He pulled the pin on the grenade and threw it around the doorway with practiced ease. The thrown arc left the grenade at about face level when it detonated in the room and as soon as it went off, the teams entered the room.
Gordon was the first through and he cleared sideways to the right. As the teams poured through they rapidly realized that everyone in the room was unarmed. They finished entering the room and made way to the three unarmed men in the center of the room. Gordon was the first to reach the center, and as he went to grab and detain the closest man to him, the man threw an elbow at him.
"Get on the ground!" Gordon shouted, blocking the elbow and throwing a vicious knee into the man's abdomen. His target collapsed to the ground and Gordon pulled the man's arms behind his back, securing him with flex-cuffs. Behind him, his team fought the others to the ground and tied them.
"Room clear!" Sanderson shouted. Gordon stood up and heaved the instructor with him. He looked at his watch. Just shy of six minutes. That was a pretty respectable time for sure. The lamps along the roof kicked on, and they uncuffed the instructors.
"Five minutes, forty three seconds." Colonel Matias called out, his voice sounded disappointed. Gordon felt his heart sink for a moment before the colonel continued in a more congratulatory voice. "Congratulations Reaper team, and welcome to Tier One!" All of the Spartans present cheered loudly and clapped. Senior Instructor Franklin, the one who tried to fight Gordon during the raid, clapped Gordon on the back.
"Next time, you'd better bring your A-game. That knee almost tickled." He gave a quick smile and then left with the rest of the instructors, walking almost imperceptibly slower. The Spartans followed, with Colonel Matias behind them. They had barely made it outside, before they noticed a Major standing in full dress uniform.
"Attention!" Gordon shouted and his team snapped to attention.
"Major Loren," the Colonel greeted, "what can I do for you?" The colonel was not particularly familiar with Loren, but knew he was among the command staff at JSOC.
"Sir, you and the listed staff are ordered to report to HQ briefing room 2 in one hour," the major said with practiced formality. He handed Colonel Matias a paper and relaxed slightly. "General Thomas needs to speak with you." He turned and walked away, leaving a stunned colonel in his wake. What does General Thomas need?
An hour later, Colonel Matias, the three Senior Instructors, and Spartans Gordon, Mason, Jordan, and Price all sat at a conference table in JSOC Headquarters. The Spartans present all had positions of authority within the Spartan program. They were what passed for leadership among the Spartans, who had not yet been given official ranks.
There was a shuffle outside, and the conference room door opened. General Thomas entered, followed by Colonel Spicer and a man in a lab coat he didn't recognize. They all sat and the general looked them over.
"Thank you for coming gentlemen," the general started. "There is one purpose to this meeting. I need an honest, no-bullshit assessment Colonel."
"Sir?" Colonel Matias was proud of his Spartans. They had done a remarkable job and promised to be an extraordinary fighting force. Was he about to lose funding? What would he do with these boys and girls?
"Are your Spartans combat ready?" The general did not break eye contact. Even so, Matias knew he wasn't kidding. The Spartans still had three years of scheduled training before they were supposed to be considered ready for duty.
"Sir," Matias started, "The Spartans aren't slated to be-"
"I'm well aware of the original timetable," General Thomas said impatiently. "If the Spartans were thrust into a fight right know, would they be ready?"
"Sir, I have every confidence that the Spartans would be a successful fighting force," Matias finally replied. They had trained hard since they were very young, and he had been impressed by every act of ingenuity by his boys and girls.
"Senior Instructors?" The general looked at them, "Same question. No bullshit, would they cut it as a fighting force?"
"Yes, sir," Instructor Franklin said almost immediately. He was a long time Delta Force instructor who had been responsible for the training of the small cadre of Spartan operators. He had personally overseen the training of that small force, and would vouch for each of the twenty-eight who graduated his Delta program.
"Absolutely," Instructor Martinez replied just after. He was one of the two senior instructors for the hundreds of Spartans, and had been an instructor for the US Army Rangers for years before that. He would put a Spartan toe-to-toe against a Ranger any day.
"Sir, these boys would benefit from training as much as the next soldier. Right now, I would put them up against any SOF unit we have, and they would perform just as well, if not better." Senior Instructor Carlisle was a career soldier and had spent a significant portion of that career training Green Berets. He had been in the game a long time, and General Thomas held a high respect for the man.
Gordon did his best not to let his face betray his thoughts. As far back as he could remember, the closest thing to a compliment the instructors had given them had been something along the lines of "That's not half bad, try it again," and was almost always followed by continuous drilling. Hearing them directly say they would bet on the Spartans was something he wasn't expecting to hear, but it gave him a tremendous surge of pride.
"Spartans," the general addressed the youths present, who sat a little straighter at their mention. "Do you feel that you and those you trained with are ready?"
"Yes, sir!" They called in unison. None of them had imagined they would be deployed so soon, but having trained since they were literally children, they were all itching to do what they were trained for.
"Excellent," the general said. He looked to Colonel Matias. "Colonel, you have one week to set the Spartans up. Give me two airborne companies and two mechanized companies. Split the Special Forces teams however you see fit. Issue ranks as you see appropriate, but the entire chain of command is to be Spartan only. Nothing higher than Major. I want all of the Spartans present for a briefing and induction into Task Force Ansible at 0700 on Monday morning. They are to report to Major Loren, who will show them where to go."
"Yes, sir," Matias said, stunned at the development. There was a lot of work to do.
"Dismissed," the general said, standing up to leave.
Newly minted Captain Bradley Gordon sat down with the rest of the Spartans in a large briefing room. The last week had been one of the busiest in his life, especially since the Senior Instructors unanimously named him as not just Reaper Team leader, but as the Executive Officer of the Spartan Special Forces teams.
Being that none of the Spartans had previously held an official rank, the officers and non-commissioned officers were all given a crash course in what was expected of them. Meanwhile, they assisted in the organization of three infantry companies. Gordon was not involved much in that portion, as he was responsible for the twenty-four operators that graduated the Special Forces training regimen.
Originally, thirty Spartans were selected for training. Two died in separate training accidents that were thoroughly investigated, though no charges were brought against anyone. Three died together during a night land navigation exercise during the winter, when they got lost. The remaining Spartan was permanently injured when she lost her grip on the rope during rappelling training.
Gordon divided the graduating Spartan operators into three separate eight-man teams, largely leaving their teams from training intact. After three years of training together, they knew and trusted each other implicitly, and Gordon had no desire to fix something that wasn't broken to begin with.
The sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway brought Captain Gordon out of his reflection. He wasn't the only one who noticed, and the light conversation and movement in the room died down as almost two hundred and thirty Spartans anxiously waited to be briefed on their future. The door opened and five men entered.
General Thomas was at the front of the group. Behind him, a sharply dressed colonel that carried himself with the confidence borne of routine life or death fights. The next was a man wearing an eye-poppingly colorful suit, followed closely by a man in fatigues and a man wearing a lab coat. They stood facing the Spartans, and General Thomas cleared his throat.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I am General Thomas," he said. "Welcome to Task Force Ansible. You are going to be the tip of the spear in a fight unlike any before. There is a lot of information to catch you up on, so listen up. This," he gestured toward the Colonel standing next to him, "is Colonel Marshall Sumner. He will be your commanding officer. I expect you to give him your undivided attention." The general stepped aside, and Colonel Sumner took a step forward.
"Thank you, general." The colonel gave a nod of appreciation, then turned confidently toward the assembled Spartans. "There is no real way to ease you into this, so I am going to get right to the point. Early last year in Britain, my Delta team stumbled upon a site with witches and wizard.," The Spartans did not have the opportunity to question the validity of the statement, as Colonel Sumner continued on without missing a beat. "Further investigation by the leadership of JSOC found that there is a similar community in the United States." He paused to let the information sink in. The Spartans mostly looked skeptical, but said nothing.
"We made contact with the leadership of this community, the Magical Congress of the United States of America, and together laid the groundwork for this task force. This is Auror Tyson, he is here to help get you up to speed on the kinds of threats you will face. With him is Informer Woods. He is also with MACUSA, and will be assisting Auror Tyson. Auror?" The colonel stepped back and Auror Tyson took his place. Before he could speak, one of the Spartans raised a hand.
"Spartan, you have something to add?" Colonel Sumner asked.
"Sir, what exactly is an Auror?" The Spartan stood and asked one of many questions they had.
"An Auror," Tyson answered before anyone could beat him to it, "is much like your police officers. In your case, the military police. I am going to give you a general briefing on the current situation of the United States. You are going to have a lot of questions. Save them, I will be spending the next month with you all so we will have plenty of time." Satisfied, the Spartan sat back down.
"The witch trials of the 1700s were particularly bad for the magical community in America. We were hunted near extinction, and only just survived. It took a significant amount of time for us to recover from the losses, and during that time, dark creatures of every kind made their way to the United States and gangs that stand even today. We have been unable to strengthen to the point that we could wipe them out effectively. One of the primary duties of this task force will be the hunting down and destroying of these gangs." He spoke quickly and clearly. It was obvious to them that he was eager to get started.
"Sir," Captain Mason, the leader of SF team, Specter, began. "What exactly are these 'dark creatures'?"
"Dark creatures are classified by the MACUSA as anything not human that regularly poses a threat to human life," Informer Woods stated. "Werewolves and vampires are more common than the rest, but there are many others. Dementors, red caps, hinkypunks, things like that. We will go over them more thoroughly soon."
Woods saw that Auror Tyson was losing patience already. He had been an Auror for the majority of his life, and he had lost more friends and comrades than he cared to admit. He wanted this task force operational as soon as possible, and had worked diligently to that end.
"As I was saying," Tyson said, with a brief look of irritation at Woods, "I will do my best to send you out there prepared. To that end, Doctor Handover has been working on one of the biggest challenges of this whole program." He gestured to the doctor, who stepped forward. Handover was tall and thin wearing a look of poorly masked discomfort on his face.
"Right, yes." He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. "One of the big problems is the nature of magic itself. You see, by its very nature, much of it is hidden to those of us that cannot do magic. 'Muggles' I believe is the term." He looked to Woods for confirmation. Woods gave a quick nod of affirmation, and the doctor continued.
"Obviously our ability to see is important to our ability to fight. I have worked with several research wizards to create a work around. Here," he produced a small vial, "I have a solution. You each will receive one injection a day for the next two weeks. After the series is completed, you will be able to see and interact with magic. You will not be wizards, no. I have not been able to determine why that is, but there you have it. There is an estimated ninety-five percent success rate in gene manipulation with…" He paused again, shifting uncomfortably. He had not been serious when he suggested children, and to say he was shocked when he learned that General Thomas did in fact have youths would be quite an understatement. He was told to run the numbers, and with a little tweaking to the formula of the injection, they projected a much higher success rate. The order went through, and here he stood. "…younger populations, such as yourselves. Colonel Sumner here has also successfully received the injection series." He stopped and looked at his feet until someone else took over. It was an uncomfortable moment before anyone realized he was finished.
"Before we release you to Doctor Handover's people, I want to give you an overview of some of the equipment you'll be familiarizing yourselves with." Colonel Sumner took over after shaking his head slightly at the awkward silence. At his words, a pair of MPs entered, each with a wooden crate. Sumner reached into one and continued talking. "The Magic-Infused Munitions Program, or MIME, was created to give us an edge in combat with magical entities. First off,we will look at MIME rounds." He pulled out what looked like a standard M4 magazine, only there was a green stripe along the bottom. He began passing magazines around, each with a differently colored stripe at the bottom. None were particularly bright, but you could tell the difference at a glance.
"These are rubber bullets that have had spells, hexes, enchantments, or any other manner of magic directly infused into them. For example, the green stripe is a disarming spell. Every round in the magazine will be enchanted the same way, so each shot you fire will disarm the target. We will be training extensively with these rounds, and will become very familiar with each color." They passed the magazines back, and Sumner produced several bullets.
"This is going to be the standard lethal cartridge." He passed several out. They were 5.56, the standard cartridge size of the Army's primary weapons. "It was designed to be as lethal as can be to as many things as can be. It is a steel bullet with a hollowed center. The center is filled with wood and silver shards. It should be able to penetrate most targets, and if your shot placement is good, it will kill a wide variety of dark creatures." They passed the bullets back and Sumner pulled out what looked like a satchel.
"This is a ward-pack." It was a ten pound device with a carrying satchel. He passed several out, and opened the one he was carrying. It was labeled "AA" and had a single dial on the face. "These are area of effect enchantments that will be a necessity. This one is an Anti-Apparition pack. Apparition is a form of magical travel, basically teleportation. This pack, when turned on, will prevent them from being able to do so within a fifty foot radius." He set the pack down. "Once you turn a pack on, it will last for about ten minutes. Keep in mind these packs are one time use. Once turned on, it cannot be turned off and once it burns out, you cannot use it again. You'll need another pack." He put the satchels in the box and stepped back.
"You have had a lot of information thrown at you today. You have a lot of learning to do, so we are going to finish up and let you get to it," Sumner said. "When you leave, you'll each receive the first injection in the series. We will also give you a handbook that outlines many of the dark creatures we expect to face and how to fight them, along with a lot of general information on magic. Study it, memorize it, because it may save your lives." He looked out across the group and it felt like he was looking each of them in the eye. "We have a lot of work to do. So let's get to it. Dismissed."
The group stood almost as one and filed toward the door. Outside, there were medical technicians with tables of injections laid out. They lined up and received a rather painful shot in the arm before they picked up a thick book labeled The US Army Field Manual on Magic and Magical Creatures.
Gordon picked up his copy and headed to the barracks to start reading. If they were going to be fighting magical creatures, he had a lot of studying to do before the first engagement.