Operation Dead Bard
Operational Detachment #7. Designate: PILGRIM
ACT-D team inserted with Discessio partisan forces in Chalybe
Target: Miguel Mendax (Target designation: Cassius)
Extract VIT to Fort Hunt stationed in neighboring country of Kendoza
Graft and Kurtz awaiting target ID at Veneni Cantina, City of Yunzak, Chalybe. Verner and Voorhees awaiting Kurtz and Graft at Discessio safehouse.
2100 hrs. October 13th, 1963
Walt 'Tyke' Graft scrunched his nose as the acrid smell of tobacco smoke wafted up into his nostrils. His team lead had a fixation with Chalybian cigars. A man in his late forties with greying hair, with a face that if one were to ask a sculptor to carve out the face of a general of old, they likely would have come back with his likeness; all stern lines and hawklike eyes with a face that looked like it was made out of granite. Walt had seen the man smile and laugh countless times, but it always seemed impossible to imagine him doing so if you didn't know him well. Walt had only known Bill Kurtz for three years, being the newest and subsequently youngest member of the team.
"Tyke, you still see her? The one in the blue dress?" Bill asked, taking a puff.
Walt's eyes drifted over minutely to the bar and spotted the woman Bill was talking about.
"The one with long hair, got that tiny purse?" Bill nodded.
"Yeah. That's our girl. Still think this'll be a dry well?"
"Probably not, keeps lookin' to the door n' windows." Bill grunted in affirmation and shifted. Walt looked back over again and watched as a man sporting a bushy mustache and a brown leather jacket sidled up beside the woman in blue. The two began to discuss something as discretely as they could. Walt and Bill watched the exchange from the far side of the bar idly sipping on their respective whiskies.
It tasted horrible, like someone bought ten different brands of well-whiskeys from the bargain shelf and mixed them in a used bathtub. Better than drinking the water here though. The City of Yunzak was located in the tropical nation of Chalybe, nearly halfway around the world from Westalis. The ramshackle place was breathtaking in its own way were it not for the hoard of feral dogs wandering the narrow streets. Chalybe's chief exports to the rest of the world were three things: tobacco, champagne, and civil wars.
For the past seven years Chalybe had been torn apart by one such civil war between the Foederati Chalybe Respublica, Chalybe's official government, and the Discessio guerilla forces that wished to overthrow the Chalybe's Ostanian supported communist regime. Naturally, Westalis adored the idea of sticking it to Ostania without any direct consequences. So here they were, waiting for their informant to tag their target. The team had never spoken to the lady, but command had spoken well of her, so the best they could do was trust their word.
A second man approached the woman and mustachioed man. Floral purple shirt, greased back hair, five 'o clock shadow, fat cigar in his mouth, and a huge gaudy gold chain wrapped around his neck. The woman paused for a moment before a large smile grew across her face. Fake. She tapped the bar top thrice before sauntering over to the new man, completely ignoring the first man. This was their guy.
Waiting for Cassius to leave the cantina was a slow affair, but by no means boring. Walt always got antsy with this undercover crap, give him a desert, a jungle, a city; as long as he knew where his enemy was, he was golden. Sitting around just waiting to get made was not something he enjoyed. Bill didn't seem to mind though, the man smoked like a chimney in the meantime. Soon enough, the two at the bar left with the lady hanging off their target's arm, laughing at something Cassius said. Walt and Bill waited a moment as the pair passed their table.
A flash of white caught Walt's eye as a crumpled napkin fell to the floor and Bill covered it with his foot. The couple were out the door and gone with that, and Bill took one last drag of his cigar before smothering it on the table.
"Alright, go on ahead and meet up with Verner and Voorhees. I'll be a minute behind you to make sure you're not followed. I'll contact you through short range if there's any problem."
Walt blinked at the order. They were a small team, it wouldn't take much for them to become combat ineffective. Yes, they had the support of the Discessio's, but this deep into Foederati territory it was dangerous to go alone anywhere. The look Bill sent him was enough for him to nod and stand from the table. From across the bar, he caught the sight of the partisan pulling security clutching tightly a bottle of beer. He looked scared. Fair enough he supposed; any number of things could go wrong tonight.
Opening the old wooden doors and stepping out into the cramped streets of Yunzak, he strode past a stray dog that had laid down to sleep for the night and looked about at the maze-like buildings. Many of them were connected, stretching off into either direction before being cut off by bleak alleys and narrow cobblestone roads. The night was warm and humid enough to make him feel like he was walking through soup. Still though, something about Yunzak made him fall in love with the place. Maybe it was the architecture, maybe it was the art, maybe it was the breathtaking geography, or maybe it was just the people; whatever the reason, despite the nature of his work here, there was something indescribably beautiful about this place.
Walt stopped before a tin garage door, one of many on the street, and struck the door four times and waited a moment. A muffled call came from the other side.
"Quogas buuco?"
"Buucwa tyn Fotsana ost." Walt replied clumsily. In truth he barely understood Chalybic at all; only as much as was deemed necessary for the mission.
The garage door rose just high enough for him to duck under. Crawling under, he was greeted with the muzzle of a poorly kept VZ-61. 32 ACP cartridges were not common in this particular part of the world, so the sight of the automatic pistol surprised him. The surprise quickly switched over to annoyance as he took a good look at the man holding the gun.
"You butta tell me who ya werkin fir, shuva!" The man was thin and filthy, his camouflage fatigues and combat webbing slouching pathetically off of his frame. His teeth were yellow and uneven. Walt was about to move on him, only to stop as a second figure struck the man upside the head.
"Quaetsa douna pon! This is a friend." The voice was cultured and charismatic, the man's wide smile even more so. "Sorry about that mha gwenyada, not all of their training is as desired."
A wide black beret sat atop his bald head, the olive skin indicative of Chalybian descent was stretched across an athlete's build. The khaki combat harness was strapped closely to the faded camouflage garb. A ridiculous handlebar moustache gleamed from an overapplication of wax; a straight set of bright white teeth were bared in a grin.
"These really the best you could come up with Llomuel?" Walt groused, taking Llomuel's outstretched hand.
"No, my best men are gearing up with your friends upstairs." Llomuel answered, "But where is your friend conoir Kurtz?"
"On his way. You got anyone to have overwatch on his approach? To make sure he isn't followed?" Walt asked, making his way through the garage filled with ragged looking volunteers and taking the stairs up.
"Kerte, mha gwenyada. I have a man on the roof right now."
"Good."
The door swung open to reveal two figures outfitted in tiger-stripe camouflage over which laid olive green nylon airforce survival vests which had been 'strategically acquired' from some chopper pilots and modified with multitudes of pouches sewed all along the vest's surfaces. A pair of black leather flight gloves hung halfway out of their pockets. Jungle boots- the black and green, spike protective type with the metal plated soles- were laced tight with the upper portion of the boot and the pant shins covered with M1938 jungle leggings. Black bump helmets- little more than bike helmets in truth- sporting top of the line NVG's, were hooked onto their battle belts. Covering their heads were olive green balaclavas, hiding their faces from Walt and Llomuel.
Dispersed throughout the room were other figures, less well equipped, but still holding themselves with a certain amount of competence. The Chalybian 'commandoes' were veterans of previous wars and rebels with extensive experience. Homemade camouflage, old rifles, and second-hand equipment did little to hide just how skilled these men were. Walt had been in a few fire fights in his short time in country, and these men proved that they could certainly hold their own.
"Tyke, took your time; get dressed, can't have a party naked." James Verner said tossing Walt a worn duffle bag.
"Really? Sounds like a party to me." Joked Samuel 'Sammy' Voorhees.
"Kurtz is on his way, should be here any minute-"
"I'm here now." Bill said stepping through the door.
Walt nodded and zipped open the duffle bag, quickly stripping out of his civvies and kitting up with a practiced ease.
"Last call, everyone straight on the procedure?" Kurtz asked, also switching into his combat attire.
"Breach the house, smoke the guards, snatch the package, n' fly outta here via skyhook." Verner idly said, assisting Walt in setting up his equipment.
"Got it in one." Kurtz answered, being assisted himself by Voorhees.
"Positive on the address?" Voorhees asked.
Kurtz nodded, holding up a stained bar napkin with an address hastily scrawled onto it.
"Power outages are common enough here, so no one's gonna freak too much when we cut the power."
"Llomuel and his boys will assist in keeping a perimeter and sweeping the house. We nab Cassius and drive him out to the exfil zone."
"Comms chatter to a minimum and curb the accents if speech is necessary, we don't exist here."
"Kits are sterile; no patches, no makers marks, nothing tying us to anyone."
"All our gear and any extra intel pinched in SSE goes up in designated recovery balloons, torch anything else."
"Once all of you leave, my people will scatter, lay low for a while. The Foederati dogs will be scouring the city for their man." Llomuel chimed in, leaning against the door. Kurtz nodded.
Verner turned to a nearby table and handed Walt his rifle. The XM177 was, like much of their equipment, experimental tech from the airforce that they had 'acquired'. A small but robust weapon originally designed to be able to be disassembled into two pieces and stowed into an ejectors seat; the ACT-D teams had quickly taken a shine to it. An occluded red dot sight was bolted atop the carry handle. A crude foregrip made from an extra bakelite rifle grip had been screwed onto the front handguard. The suppressor and infrared laser were both aftermarket additions from SalieriArms; a rugged and effective suppressor with replaceable baffles, it had become a must have for the teams. The IR laser however, was a clunky monstrosity; roughly the size and shape of a heavy duty flashlight, the bulky attachment added a solid pound and a half of additional weight. Walt hated the laser, but when using NODs there was little choice in the matter; there was no aiming without it. Looping the sling over his shoulder, he remembered his stowed away sidearm.
Walt dug his Colt M1911 out from within his wadded-up jacket and screwed on another SalieriArms suppressor. 45 ACP already landed just within the line of being subsonic, making the weapon exceptional for wetwork ops. The pistol's feeding rap was polished to a mirror sheen. The slide was reinforced; the interlock with the frame was tightened for better precision. The frame was made with a higher-grade steel. The sights were dabbed with radium for nighttime use. The trigger itself was replaced with a competition grade one instead. The usual walnut grip remained one of the few things to stay unchanged.
Walt nodded to himself, turning to his compatriots as they too readied themselves. Kurtz and Voorhees ran much the same loadout as himself, XM177's, 1911's, and all the works included. Verner, however, ran an M14k with most of its innerworkings replaced with national match parts. A Daedalus Optics low-powered variable optic was mounted atop with great care. The obligatory SalieriArms suppressor and IR system were attached to the carbine like rifle. Verner often swore by the M14, but in the close quarters of Yunzak he had to give up the battle-rifle for something a little more compact. The M14k was an excellent compromise in this way, offering the same hard hitting 308, but lacking in his beloved range with its shorter barrel length and the side folding BM59 stock.
"You got your toothpick on ya Tyke?" Voorhees asked to which Walt nodded. His grandfather's Fairbairn Sykes commando knife remained tucked away, strapped in between his uniform and his vest. The others loved teasing him over the blade, heavily preferring the handmade hunting knives Kurtz had commissioned for the team two years ago. They were good, but Walt wanted to honor his Grandpappy.
Walt rolled his shoulders and gave a nod to himself, time to earn his pay.
{TIME ELAPSED. TIME: 0130}
The four sat huddled in the back of a cramped Morris Van. The thing had belonged to an electrician at one point or another, but he had died a while back in a shootout and the van had gone to his nephew who had donated it to the Discessios. A man by the name of Esteban sat up front. They had parked the van half a block away from the apartment building, they'd be walking the rest of the way. Esteban looked ready, no nerves to speak of.
A crackle from the hand-radio came in and Esteban responded. Walt didn't need to translate what they'd said to himself. Go time. Half a minute later, the lights of the streetlamps and those inside houses winked out. The whole city block was down. The team moved, filling out of the van and into pitch black streets. Walt reached up and pulled down his NODs. Green filled his vision as the fuzzy image of the shadow filled street appeared before him. Kurtz, Verner, and Voorhees had done the same.
Kurtz held out his arm and motioned forward, and the four fell into formation. The stalk to the building was as silent as a grave, save for an occasional muffled cry of an infant or the barking of feral dogs. Walt's heart pounded in his ears, and he curbed his breathing into something silent and manageable. The beams of infrared light jutted out from each of their rifles and swept about the empty street. Adrenaline kicked in and Walt forced his body to comply.
"Archer 0-1, this is Pilgrim 0-1 on approach." Bill's voice buzzed in.
"Copy." Llomuel's voice responded.
The target building was as dark as the rest of the city block, a bulky, ugly thing with peeling paint and exposed concrete. The windows were either broken, boarded up, covered in a layer of grime, or curtained off. The parking lot was filled with vans and pickup trucks, four of which were theirs. A huge neon sign sat lifeless atop the complex, Nua-Widdi Sini. 'New-Tides Houses'. Wasn't the worst naming but it wasn't the best either.
Walt caught sight of ragged looking men, armed and alert, dispersed throughout the streets. These were their security; he swore he caught a glimpse of the moron that pointed a gun at him earlier. He looked terrified. More took up residence behind cars adjacent from the building, while others took up positions on the rooftops. Walt assumed there were more hunkered inside alleyways, waiting to engage should anything pop off.
The sight of nine other men on approach welcomed them. Archer. The Discessio commandos had been lent last gen NVGs for this one, the old chem treated, red tinted relics. Walt had heard horror stories about those things making people go crazy, but these guys seemed to have no issue. Urban legend then. Kurtz waved to the Archer lead, and the commando waved back. The two forces quickly assimilated and split into two groups, with Pilgrim team and four others forming up at the back door, and the other eight- led by Llomuel- taking positions at a side door around the corner.
They stacked up against the door, Kurtz, Verner, and two commandos on the right side, and Walt, Voorhees, and the other two on the left. Kurtz keyed his radio, "Pilgrim 0-1 in position."
"Archer 0-1 in position." Llomuel replied.
"Execute."
Two luminescent lines homed in on the door as Walt and Kurtz stood at the ready. With a silent, "Breacher up," from Kurtz, Voorhees came around Walt and drew a crowbar from his pack.
It took two tries before the door gave and they flowed in. The hallway was empty, musty diamond patterned carpeting and peeling floral wallpaper stretched out before them. Doors were staggard along the walls and Walt grimaced. They didn't have time to sweep every apartment. They should have. The eight flowed forward slowly in the direction of the stairwell.
"Friendlies coming in." Llomuel said as Archer came into view from across the hall.
A shout caught all's attention and sixteen rifles swiveled to point at a stout bald man blindly edging his way down the stairs. A cheap SMG was held in one hand as the other slid along the wall. Kurtz's laser wiggled and Verner took the signal to take him out. Verner was silent as he stalked forward, lowering his rifle in exchange for his knife. The man didn't have a moment's notice as one hand covered his nose and mouth as the other drove the hunting knife into the center of his neck; impaling both arteries on either side before pushing out, severing the esophagus.
"Goodnight. Pilgrim 0-1 proceeding to second floor." Verner said, sheathing his knife and re-shouldering his rifle.
The body was carried off by a commando and propped up against a wall, and the team pushed on. Walt caught sight of the SMG he had. A MAT-49. How a Gaulian SMG made it to Chalybe, Walt had no clue. Didn't matter either way. Creeping up the stairs with Verner taking point, IR lasers intersected and scanned over every possible point of contact.
Verner paused at the top of the stairs and held up a hand. Two fingers up, pointed left; three fingers up, pointed right. Move. The rest filed silently up to the second floor which was nearly identical to the first, all save for the five figures patrolling the corridor. Verner wiggled his laser on one man before leveling it center mass on his chest, claiming his target. The rest of the team followed suit lining up their own shots, leaving one for the commandos.
Time dragged on as the team waited for a signal. Walt dropped his first, snapping off three quick shots into the man's chest. Four other bodies thudded to the ground in quick succession. Walt was briefly grateful that they lent the Discessios cans for this; they weren't Salieri, but they weren't crap. Several more shots were popped off into the bodies; nobody was willing to risk these guys getting back up again. The eight fanned out, five to check the bodies and three to hold the stairs up and down. Walt's eyes stared up at the third floor, a commando on the other side doing the same.
A firm hand clasped itself on his shoulder, and Walt steadied himself. The eight stacked back up on the stairs and Walt waited for the go ahead. A squeeze on his shoulder sent him pushing upward as Kurtz's voice filtered in over the radio.
"Pilgrim 0-1 moving to third floor."
"Copy Pilgrim, Archer holding position."
Walt's head craned upwards as his laser remained trained on the third level. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He told himself as his silent steps carried him up to the next floor. This floor held six tangos. Two on the other end of the hall, two posted at the target door, and two steadily skirting the walls toward the stairway. Walt halted and motioned to the others. A tap on his back was his answer. Continuing to the top of the stairs, he swept into a nearby alcove and took aim at one of the contacts tiptoeing closer and closer to him.
The team filed up, training their sights onto a target each. The commandos didn't have IR's of their own, but their pointing out their targets were clear enough. Kurtz was the one to kick it off this time, and once again the corridor was filled with the sound of pressurized pops and falling bodies. That's twelve down. Walt thought. Intel said there were 6 to 8 more. Guess the rest are inside. Once again, more assurance shots were fired off into the corpses; Walt cringed at the thought of their target hearing the shots, silenced they may be.
The team approached the apartment door cautiously, knowing that the shots were in all likelihood heard. Walt glanced at the door number, 308. Bingo. The room layouts of the second and third floor were identical, and they had readily used this to their advantage. The team had been hopping back and forth between Chalybe and Fort Hunt in Kendoza for weeks, and during that time a killhouse had been constructed in the apartment's likeness. The team had run it so often they could probably walk through the rooms blindfolded were it not for the issue of furniture placement.
Stacking up on the door, with him and Kurtz on one end and Verner and Voorhees on the other, the commandoes hugged the walls behind the team. Walt knew that this was the most dangerous part; doorways were deathtraps. This was evidenced by the hail of splinters that blew off as gunfire erupted from the other side of the door. Kurtz re-angled himself and fired back through the door. The fire halted as an agonized cry replaced the deafening staccato. Well, I guess we're done with stealthy then, Walt thought as Verner readied a flashbang.
Kurtz slammed the bottom of his boot into the ruined door, flinging it wide open. Verner tossed the flashbang as a passerby would toss litter. Shouting followed as the sound of nearing footsteps grew louder. A loud, 'BANG!' rang out and the team flowed in. Walt took it all in in a second. One door- a bedroom- on the left, one door-a bathroom- on the right, a living space and kitchen up ahead. Beyond the bedroom on the left would be a hallway leading to one door on the left, and two doors on the right.
A blinded tango clutching a Krinkov was standing stunned in the kitchen before them. Kurtz dropped him and pivoted right, breaching into the bathroom; Walt and a commando went left into the bedroom. A man was frantically struggling to pull his trousers on, he was probably sleeping only moments before. Walt rushed the man and grabbed him by his face. It wasn't Cassius. Walt threw him back to the floor before reshouldering his gun and putting five in his chest. Walt turned and swept the rest of the room, finding nothing.
"CLEAR!"
"Clear! One coming out!" Kurtz called from the adjacent bathroom.
"Two exiting!" Walt called leaving the bedroom and hugging the corner of the hall.
"All stations, this is Pilgrim 0-2, we've got a Jackpot! I say again, Jackpot!" called the strained voice of Voorhees.
Kurtz sighed and cracked his neck. "Solid copy 2. Archer, you get that?"
"Archer copies, bringing the cars around now." Llomuel replied.
"Good stuff Archer. This is Pilgrim 0-1, begin SSE."
Walt nodded and removed his NODs and switched on the flashlight pinned on his vest. White-light was a welcome change from the night-vision. Five more lights flicked on and whisked about, all tearing apart the apartment for any scrap of intel. A commando and Voorhees passed by dragging the target. The man had blood running down his nose and mouth and onto his stained undershirt and briefs.
The next quarter of an hour was spent shoving sensitive intel into duffle bags; books, folders, mail, pictures, film, anything the intel guys might find interesting. Walt felt like he was conducting a heist, loading up loot in black bags which were to be hauled into dark vans out front.
"Tyke, we'll need a body bag in bedroom three."
Walt's eyebrows shot up at Verner's words. Moving into the bedroom Cassius was found in, Walt was met with the sight of Verner standing over the body of the woman from the bar.
"Guy wasted her the moment he realized she was one of ours." He said, answering Walt's unspoken question.
"Sh- crap." Walt aborted the curse with a sigh. Verner answered with a simple 'Yup,' before ordering Walt to help him. Bagging the body was strangely uncomfortable for Walt, considering his line of work. Nevertheless, she was bagged, tagged, and passed on to be packed into a van like the rest of the intel. Poor lady, she deserved better. Probably. Never could tell with these WISE types.
The apartment was left in ruins as the allied force made their way downstairs. Walt passed by Archer team holding the lower floors. By now, curious on lookers peeked out from their doors into the halls. The forceful orders from the commandos forced most back into their homes. Headlights bleared through the main door as the convoy sat parked out front.
"Pilgrim 0-1 to all stations, SSE complete; proceed to exfill locations."
Walt let out a pleased groan as he piled into the third van. Almost there.
{TIME ELAPSED. TIME: 0345}
Walt looked up at the blinking balloon above them; then to the long tether connecting to the team, the intel, HVI, and the casualty. Skyhook extractions were gentler than one would think when the concept of being yanked up by a cargo plane is described to them. Walt had used it a few times in the past and he had found that the experience was actually rather fun. The team had been waiting for half an hour since the balloon went up. Now, all they had to do was wait in the middle of a field.
'Hey-ey-ey we're comin' home,
Hey-ey-ey not far to go,
Hey-ey-ey Papa I'll be there,
Hey-ey-ey Mama now don't be scared,
'Cause dow-'
"Stop singing."
Walt froze as he realized the others were looking at him, including the HVT. Red creeped up along his neck and face, and he was suddenly immensely grateful for his balaclava. Great. Walt thought, add that to the tally of things they'll never let me live down. Walt looked back up into the starry skies, hoping the others would move on.
"Night-Crawler to Pilgrim Actual, approaching pickup. ETA 5 mikes." A drawling voice said over the radio. Kurtz turned to the huge, boxy device and picked up the microphone.
"Pilgrim copies Night-Crawler, welcome wagon is ready, we've even got balloons, out."
The group was spurred into movement again as the Discessios rigged the radio and other pieces of equipment to blow and the team re-checked their harnesses for the umpteenth time. Llomuel approached the four with a champagne bottle in hand.
"I did not know if this partnership of ours would work at first mha gwenyada, but I must say, you've done my people a great service! It has been an honor to work with you men!" The man's mustache twitched as he smiled wide and handed the bodle to Kurtz before latching onto the man's hand and shaking it fiercely.
"Likewise Llomuel, but do us all a favor next time," He said, a smile in his voice.
"Yes?"
"Don't vote for communists again."
Llomuel laughed and the distant drone of a plane's engine fell over the field.
Walt looked up, trying to spot the 'Spooky'. Soon enough, the AC-47 passed over them and snagged the balloon and carried forward. A moment passed before Verner was gently hoisted up and away, followed by Voorhees. Kurtz turned to Llomuel one last time and nodded before taking to the skies himself. Walt struggled for something witty to say before he felt the tension on his line go taught and he too found himself in the air. The next thing he heard was the terrified screaming of their prisoner who had just discovered his fear of heights.
AN: There we go! Chapter 1 done! More will follow and the Forgers and the ACT-D team will soon meet. Sorry if this one is a little dense, I enjoy firearm history. Anyway, if you like the story, feel free to fav or follow, or drop a comment… or not, you do you my friends. Have a great day!