MARCH 5, 1991
FOXHOUND COVERT TRAINING FACILITY
SIGMA SQUAD BARRACKS
Through the double doors and around the corner, Alligator led Cricket into the garrison. Inside the barracks were two sets of bunk beds on either side. A few of the beds had occupants: a red-haired man with a scar on his eye was perusing a Playboy magazine, a tanned and stout brunette woman was sitting in her bed and appeared to be in the process of disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling what Cricket assumed was her personally issued M16A2 rifle. She was muttering something in frustration in a language Cricket didn't recognize. Cricket felt a pang of sympathy—he didn't know of anyone back home who was fond of the M16A2 platform due to its default sighting arrangement, long length of pull and the imbalanced barrel profile; and if this woman was from Europe like he suspected from her mutterings, then she probably preferred the FAMAS as far as NATO rifles went.
A third man with silver hair was sleeping in one of the far beds. Sitting at a desk on Cricket's left next to one of the closer bunk beds, a shy-looking man with freckles was hard at work tinkering with some kind of electronic device. Finally, there was a man with jet black hair chewing on a match as he leaned against the closer beds on the right, reading a book whose title was turned away so Cricket couldn't see.
"Room, attention!" called the black-haired cadet upon their entry, and the four other occupants dropped what they were doing and lined up on either side of the hall along the bunk beds. The black-haired man put his match in his pocket.
"At ease," Alligator intoned, and the cadets stood at parade rest. He turned to the man with black hair. "Salamander. I've got a new arrival for your team. Code name is Cricket, Green Beret. I understand you have an empty bunk needs filling?"
The man called Salamander nodded. "Understood. I'll show him the ropes."
Alligator replied, "Alright. Orders are to proceed with orientation and get him settled in. I've gotta get back to admin."
"Copy that," Salamander said with a sigh as Alligator turned and walked out. The team fell out of parade rest and resumed the activities they were working on before Cricket showed up.
Salamander clapped a hand on Cricket's shoulder. "So, you're the FNG, huh? Well, welcome to Sigma Squad—your home for the next year of your life. I'm Salamander, like you heard. You can call me Sal if you want, brevity's good. That's Fruit Bat over at the desk; he's our resident tech specialist. The lady over there is Honey Badger."
Bat looked up and gave a nervous wave. Honey Badger didn't acknowledge the two of them except with a wave of her fingers, preferring not to look away from her work. Sal motioned to the scarred redhead, who nodded up at them from his magazine.
"The guy with the girly mag is Vole, expert at traps and concealment; and last but not least, we have Tortoise."
"Guten Morgen," Vole said cheerfully in a thick accent. Tortoise simply made a motion to wave them away, trying to not be bothered as he returned to his nap.
"You're German?" Cricket asked Vole, who nodded.
"Ja. Ich wurde in Ramstein geboren. I was born near the American Ramstein Airbase back in '71, to Deutsch parents. I was selected for the program due to mein service in the Grenzschutzgruppe 9 as a counter-terror policeman und sniper."
"Oh, that's right," Cricket remembered. "FOXHOUND recruits multi-nationally."
Vole nodded. "You have heard of the GSG 9?"
Cricket replied, "Yeah, I know West Germany set it up after that Black September incident in '72. But I thought you were a police agency, not a military one. Kind of like SWAT?"
"Ja, genau! There were a lot of German politicians who objected to the formation, worried that it would bring up memories of the SS. The idea of Deutsch paramilitaries understandably can put some people on edge. Legally speaking, GSG 9 officers strictly act as noncombatants by international law und can only act outside of the Bundesrepublik's borders with the consent of the host nation. Though we have been utilized before, Deutschland is proud to say that there have been very few instances in which we needed to discharge our weapons while on mission."
"So, what brought you here?" asked Cricket.
"Honestly? I was bored, und underutilized. The reunification of Deutschland last year didn't help. We'd reached an unprecedented time of peace, und it was making me restless. All those drills, all those skills, und I had nothing to show for it. I was top of my class, but I was left to waste away. I made my misgivings known, und someone must have heard me, because I was tapped for the FOXHOUND program soon after."
"How does that work, exactly? FOXHOUND is officially under US Army jurisdiction, right?"
"I believe the official excuse is that it is an inter-service joint operation between NATO und NATO-allied countries. If you are a member of a NATO country's military force or if you have prior military experience und are not currently affiliated with the government or military of an opposition nation such as for example the People's Republic of China or any member of the Warsaw Pact, then you may be eligible to train with us, assuming you can make the cut."
"That second part about not being affiliated with opposition nations is how we get people like Tortoise," Salamander interjected, pointing to the sleeping man. "He used to serve in the Red Army before he got turned by the British Secret Intelligence Service. After he renounced his ties to the Soviets, he was tagged as a possible recruit not long after."
"Is everybody here but me a foreign national?" Cricket asked.
"Nope. I'm home-grown USA, just like you. Arizona, born and raised."
"And the others?"
"Fruit Bat's Canadian—came from 427 Squadron," Sal pointed to the techie at his desk. "His specialty was aviation and electronics. Pretty sure he was a pilot. Honey's from the French Foreign Legion, but I'm pretty sure she's originally from Chechnya, because I've overheard her muttering to herself in Chechen sometimes. She's fluent in French and Russian, speaks a little English, and is an expert in guerilla tactics and weapons systems."
"She's Chechen?"
"Yeah, apparently, she left shortly after Chechnya started talking about declaring independence from the Soviets. I don't really know the details about the circumstances she was dealing with that pushed her to leave though, or why she decided to sign on with the French." Sal began to look very uncomfortable. "She doesn't like to talk about it."
"Why not?"
Sal raised an eyebrow. "You ask a lot of questions, don't you? I can see why they went with Noisy Cricket."
Cricket rubbed the back of his head, feeling self-conscious. "Uh…sorry."
Sal shrugged. "You can ask her if you're feeling brave, but don't say I didn't warn you."
"Fair enough."
Sal pointed at an empty bottom bunk at the far end of the room, underneath the sleeping Tortoise. "That one's yours," he explained. "There's a desk next to the beds; you'll have to share with your bunk mate. PT starts at 0400 every day, mess time is at noon. We march to and from classes and exercises together."
"Basic training all over again…" Cricket muttered.
"Pretty much." Sal shrugged with a chuckle. "Hey, don't sweat it. It's only for a year. After that, you either wash out or you get your own room. It's win-win for the rest of us, either way."
"What do you mean?" Cricket asked.
Suddenly, Sal became much more serious, and a darker edge creeped into his voice. "For the first year, we're a team, and we'll be graded accordingly. But this year is very much a transition period to help you get out of the mindset of traditional armed forces; after it's over, they move you into working on your own. That's what they told you, right?"
Cricket nodded.
"Well, what they didn't tell you is there's only so many openings in the unit for graduating cadets; and you know they only accept the best of the best. Everyone in this room, and in all the other barracks: they aren't just your classmates. They're your competition. Today, this year, we're a team—we're comrades. Next year, we'll be rivals."
Cricket gulped. "Wait, so how are we supposed to trust each other and work together?"
"Because that's what's necessary to move to the next stage. Because that's the mission, and the mission is the one thing we can believe in with absolute certainty, absolute confidence. So, you won't have to worry about betrayal or hazing or anything like that here. You'll be tested, sure. But if you work with us and you aren't deadweight, we'll make sure you get through this with us. I'll make sure of it, as your TL. But after that, you'll be on your own. This isn't whatever unit you came from before. You either climb or you fall of your own accord—don't ever assume or expect someone else will be there to save your ass."
Sal took two steps towards his bunk before looking back. "Sorry for being so intense about it. I ain't trying to spook you, kid. You seem alright. Just figured it'd be better for you to understand your situation sooner rather than later."
"You sound like you've seen it from experience."
Sal laughs. "This isn't my first attempt at getting into FOXHOUND. I've washed out before." He shrugged. "It happens. There's no shame in it—just getting this far is something that's considered worthy of respect around here. Anyway, rest up while you can: this is the last day of R&R before Hell Week starts. Got a big day tomorrow."
"Do you know what the curriculum is going to be like the first month?"
"Nothing you haven't seen before training with the Berets. They'll probably seem more like practice drills and refresher courses to you. Field medical training, deep water diving, range time, and so on. Should all be familiar to you already. Don't worry, it'll be like riding a bike. You might start learning some technical stuff outside your wheelhouse if you haven't already been trained in them, though. Curricula details change from year to year as tech and tactics get updated, so you'll just have to see."
Cricket nodded. "Got it."
With the introduction finished, Sal picked up his book and settled onto his previous position of leaning against his bunk bed. Cricket moved over to his bunk and dropped off his rucksack, looking over his bed, top sheet and blanket neatly tucked, pillow unwrinkled. He pushed down on the firm mattress. Just like Basic all over again, he once again mused to himself as he laid down. Thinking about how tired he felt, he decided to follow his bunkmate's example and get some shuteye. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
The first few weeks of training went by in a blur, just like Sal had said. The days started with PT exercises in the wee hours of the morning, where Sigma ran and marched as a unit for over four miles over the rugged terrain of the surrounding countryside outside of the base, occasionally stopping to perform whatever exercises had been selected by Salamander for that given morning. When they returned, they'd immediately wash up and go to the mess hall for a quick breakfast, followed by marching to classes.
Mondays were medical drills for trauma and triage in the early afternoon, followed by lectures on both foreign and domestic NATO and Warsaw Pact weapons platforms. Cricket was exposed to, it seemed like, every model of every type of small-arms imaginable over the course of the year. Just when he thought the education was complete, there was a new weapon to go over as well as their strengths, weaknesses, and assembly. On the first Monday of training, he asked Master Miller, who led the class: "I understand the need to familiarize ourselves with weapon systems to be used against us in terms of their relative effectiveness against the arms we carry into battle, but why do we need to learn how to assemble and maintain each and every one?"
In response, Miller faced the rest of the class. "Who here knows the answer to Cricket's question?"
Another cadet stood up. "Sir!"
Miller nodded in acknowledgement for the cadet to continue. "Speak, Rabbit."
The cadet called Rabbit answered, "Because of the nature of the missions that FOXHOUND undertakes, operatives are expected to procure all weapons and tools on-site in the AO, to prevent the host country from being able to identify the presence of US involvement."
"Correct," Miller said, letting Rabbit sit back down. "On-Site Procurement is a standard operating procedure for FOXHOUND. If the enemy can deduce your country of origin based on the tools you employ, then the mission is a failure before it's even started. Since most FOXHOUND missions take place both in and out of zones of conflict in countries outside of US jurisdiction, having an American operative present is effectively an act of war. Our job is to win wars before they break out, not after."
Miller pauses for emphasis. "If you're doing your job correctly, the enemy will never even know you were there and even if they do find you, there will be no witnesses to tell the tale. Therefore, the only weapons that will be available to you will be the same armaments that are available to the enemy. It's imperative that you are familiar with as many different weapon systems as possible, as they will most likely end up being what you use to defend yourself. So, we will train with every military and civilian weapon that is available worldwide. When we go to the gun ranges, you will be expected to practice with all of them. Both NATO and Soviet ammunition is held in our armories here on-site."
True to Miller's word, the afternoons after classes three times a week were spent at the ranges at the far end of the base. Here, cadets practiced with full and semi-automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, sidearms, and grenades in various stances and positions. The sounds of the range were filled with the cacophony of gunfire and small explosions. Every weapon introduced in Monday lectures was used that same week, and the assembly and firing drills would occur multiple times throughout.
On Tuesdays, the classes were foreign languages, politics, and history, as well as SIGINT communications. Cricket himself was already decently fluent in Arabic, which enabled him to test out of the classes for it, so instead he was made to begin learning French, Turkish, and Russian to start with. He wondered if these languages were chosen specifically to help him with communicating with the members of Sigma Squad for whom English was not their native tongue. If so, then why not include German as well? Perhaps it was so he would not be overloaded with more coursework than he could handle. Although thankfully, German had many loanwords derived from English and French, so he was able to pick it up some just by talking to Vole naturally. Eventually he would be given to learn Czech and Afrikaans as well over the course of the year.
Regarding SIGINT radio transmissions, Cricket found Fruit Bat to be an invaluable ally in studying as he leveraged Bat's experience with radar and radio systems. "A friend of mine from the navy showed me how some of the naval helicopters would mount radar detection systems in the radome in the nose of the copter for weather detection or along the side for ocean search-and-rescue operations," Bat had explained.
"They make for good detection for knowing how far the nearest storm is you might fly into, or whether you might be flying over a submarine that's close enough to the surface if you're flying low enough. I've recommended to my superiors before to have such a system mounted on my bird as well, but alas—le boss des bécosses—they told me there wasn't enough of a need to justify it." Bat smirked ruefully. "Leave it to the bean counters to ignore a potential battlefield advantage, eh?"
Cricket chuckled, thinking of how many operations he'd heard of that had gone awry from bad intel or from troops being poorly equipped. Although now that he thought of it, the latter is probably going to be an ongoing occurrence for him from now on—in fact, based on what Miller had told him, it was kind of the point. Together, Bat and Cricket studied from the various codebooks that FOXHOUND had compiled for deciphering electronic transmissions, although their instructor was quick to remind them that a savvy enemy would be constantly changing and modifying their codes daily so they shouldn't be reliant purely on what's already been recorded.
On Wednesdays, Sigma conducted demolitions drills out in the fields on the side of the concourse opposite the shooting range, where they were instructed in the proper planting, detonation, disarming, and retrieval of claymore land mines and plastic explosives, as well as how to properly handle and fire anti-armor weapons like the RPG and the Carl Gustav. Much like the shooting range, these lessons were fairly straightforward for Cricket. He and Honey Badger would often take bets on who could disarm their dummy explosives the fastest, who could land their shots more on target. When Cricket would win, Honey would swear loudly and roughly in Russian, but when she won she'd spend the rest of the day looking smug. Cricket liked Honey; she wore her heart on her sleeve, didn't mess around and always let you know where you stood.
On Thursdays, Sigma would run several miles from the base to a beach on the lake, where they'd conduct swimming and diving drills. They also practiced piloting Kodiaks, rowboats, sailboats, and speedboats of various types and sizes around the lake. The waters were always cold, even in the springtime. When they returned to land, they would take an alternate route back to the base, with a different cadet leading the way each time with a map and compass, to test their land navigation skills.
On Fridays, Sigma would be transported via truck with bags over their heads to a designated airfield where they would board a small aircraft from which they'd perform parachute drills. Having been certified for Airborne, Cricket was no stranger to jumping out of airplanes. Tortoise and Honey Badger had some trouble, though. The first time they ran the drill, they simply stood at the ramp leading out of the plane, nervously staring at the yawning chasm of the sky after the other members of the team. Cricket stepped behind them and pushed them both out of the aircraft, screaming in terror as Cricket dove after them.
When they had landed safely on the target set on the ground, Honey slugged Cricket hard in the face, cursing him out in an incoherent stream of French and Russian. Tortoise, for his part, looked stiff with fear, having been shaken by the experience. Once his wits returned to him, his face went white with barely contained rage as he hissed through his teeth in heavily accented English, "You would do well not to try anything like that again, Cricket."
Cricket shrugged, rubbing his cheek where Honey had struck him. "We needed to get you out of that plane somehow and flying back to base wasn't an option. Besides, you guys were blocking the way."
Honey marched off in a huff while Tortoise glared daggers at him for the rest of the day.
On Saturdays, Sigma joined the other cadet squads for CQC training. Master Miller also attended to advise while the instructor ran them through the motions. "Many of you should already be familiar with Close-Quarters Combat training from your original units," Miller had said. "However, some of the techniques used in this martial self-defense system may be a little different to the CQC and CQB tactics you've been taught. Don't get cocky just because you think you already know the moves.
"Our system was personally developed by our very own Big Boss and has been in use since the early days of the Cold War. It is from this system that all other CQC fighting systems in the West are derived, and the Boss and FOXHOUND have been independently perfecting it ever since."
Miller stepped forward. He was wearing a bionic prosthetic arm that moved with a dexterity that Cricket had never seen before in a prosthetic limb—as the fingers flexed and folded, they moved with a quickness and accuracy that appeared uncanny as the hand rotated once 180 degrees to test its function. Miller looked about as comfortable with it as he did his own hand, and Cricket wondered to himself why he didn't wear this machine all the time. Similarly, Miller's crutch was gone, and he walked forward with the strength and confidence of a much younger man as he raised his arms to beckon to the recruits.
"Who would like to volunteer for a demonstration?"
Salamander stepped forward. "I will, sir!"
Miller cracked a smile, though the way he bared his teeth it was more like a grimace resembling how a beast bares its fangs. Cricket remembered seeing that look on drill instructors back in Basic. That level of eagerness never meant anything good for the recruit.
"Salamander, our returning cadet! This is the third year in a row you've challenged me on the first day. Trying to show off for the newbies, are we?"
If Salamander was bothered by the mention of his previous washouts, he didn't show it. "No, sir," he answered.
"Why not? Are you worried about being beaten by a one-armed old man?"
"No, sir!"
"Oh? Then maybe you're telling me that in three years straight of training, you haven't learned a damn thing?"
"No, sir!"
"Then get in here. Time to show your fellow recruits what you've learned!"
Miller tossed Salamander a piece of plastic, which Cricket realized was a fake knife. A handicap? He looked over to Salamander, who showed no trace of insult or irritation, but simply raised his hands as he got into a combat stance, his dominant hand gripping the plastic knife's handle. He took two steps forward onto the mat, but otherwise waited for Miller to make the first move.
Both men stood very still for a few seconds, which felt like hours. The tension in the air was thick as the class watched with rapt attention. Miller took a step to the side and, seeming to sense an opening, Sal rushed forward with a thrust of his knife. Miller moved like water as he grabbed Sal's wrist and flowed around him, flipping the knife out of Sal's grip and sending it flying with his bionic hand's palm pushing against the flat of the blade before pushing Sal down to the ground with his other hand.
Not to be dissuaded, Sal lowered his center of gravity to pull Miller down with him as he turned over onto his back and swept at Miller's legs with a kick, forcing Miller to let go and step back. Sal rolled back to his feet while Miller positioned himself between Sal and the fallen knife. Miller threw a punch and Salamander tried to duck beneath it, realizing too late that it was a feint as Miller grabbed Salamander's shoulder and used his own momentum to spin him around so Miller could grab him in a headlock, kicking Sal in the back of the knee to put him off balance so Miller could keep Sal in his hold while Sal struggled.
"Evade, disarm, strike, and hold," Miller grunted out with a little effort. "These four movements are the cornerstones of any effective CQC engagement. Once the enemy is in your hold, they are at your mercy. Interrogate, disable, capture, or kill: what you do with them is up to you."
Miller swept Sal's weak footing out from under him and pushed him onto the ground on his stomach before wrapping his arms and legs around Sal's right arm in an arm bar, pulling it back while sitting on Sal's back so that he couldn't move. "But whatever you do, do it quick," Miller continued in a much more relaxed tone of voice, "so you don't give him time to react."
Salamander tapped out with his free arm and Miller let go and stood up to extend a hand to help Sal to his feet. "You've been practicing," Miller said approvingly. "Good."
Sal moved back to the squad with some satisfaction on his face. Miller turned to the rest of the class.
"Now. Who's next?"
From that point forward, every Saturday was spent learning and honing FOXHOUND's various CQC techniques. Based on the emphasis on throws and using the opponent's momentum against him, Cricket believed that the base of the system must have involved some Jiu Jitsu, Judo, and Tae Kwon Do, with some Krav Maga for the weapon disarms, but there was something unrecognizable about the root of the system that Cricket couldn't put his finger on that made it unique, which fascinated him.
Finally, at the end of the full week, there were Sundays, which were by far Cricket's favorite. On these days, Sigma Squad would run various obstacle courses, combat simulations and various other team-based exercises that gave them all a chance to practically apply the skills and knowledge that they were being taught in the classrooms and on the range. They were survival and combat sims that mostly consisted of various war games where they would be pitted against the other first-year teams in the compound: Capture the Flag, Hostage Rescue, and so on.
It was around the sixth month mark of training where these games would get truly interesting, as he began to see that some members of the FOXHOUND selection process were more than what they seemed.
SEPTEMBER 22, 1991
FOXHOUND COVERT TRAINING FACILITY (BACKWOODS)
SIMULATION GAME: CAPTURE THE FLAG
"Alright, listen up, Sigma!"
Sigma Squad gathered around Salamander as he led them into a clearing. "Today's game is going to be Capture the Flag, Asymmetry Variant. We're playing offense today, which means our mission is to capture and hold the objective held by our opponent for today, Gamma Squad. We can accomplish this mission in one of two ways: either we capture the objective and carry it back to the clearing outside of the forest, or we eliminate every OPFOR protecting the objective and win by default.
Salamander laid a topographical map of the forest on the ground and gestured Sigma to come closer so all members could see. "Enemy intel is as follows," Sal began, pointing at a red box that he circled with a magic marker. "OPFOR's command post is here. They've had five hours to dig in and get settled. They'll be using the usual weapons loaded with simunition, but they've also been given flashbangs, tear gas, and smoke grenades. Now, we've never gone up against Gamma before, but I've been made to understand that they're pretty good with traps, so keep on the lookout for tripwires as we make our approach. They've also got a couple of Irregulars on their team."
Sigma's breathing collectively strained as they took in this information. "Irregular" was the term for FOXHOUND candidates and members who possessed abilities and special skills that were considered to be highly unusual, bordering on the supernatural. Cricket had never heard of such a person or seen one in action before, but based on the way that some candidates talked about Irregulars when he was in earshot, he knew it was something which shouldn't be taken lightly.
He tentatively raised a hand and said, "Irregulars, sir?"
Sal nodded grimly. "Specifically, we've got two: Black Mamba and Chameleon. Mamba's acrobatic skill and proficiency with CQC is unreal. She's especially good with blades. Remember, these exercises are classified as 'live fire;' she may not be allowed to kill you, but she sure has hell can cut you. Don't let her get near you, whatever you do. As for Chameleon, I actually think she'll be the bigger threat; she's cold-blooded, like her namesake—can internally regulate her body temperature to match the ambient environment. Thermals won't pick up her heat signature. Also, she's extremely good with camouflage; I've heard she can even change the color of her skin at will. This makes her a serious threat both at long range and in close quarters. Keep your head on a swivel."
More G.I. Joe cartoon logic. Cricket kept waiting for someone to tell him that the whole thing was a joke, but nobody ever laughed when talking about Irregulars, and he'd seen enough strange things out on the battlefield that he knew better than to underestimate what was possible. Rather than call out the inherent absurdity of what they were dealing with, he followed the rest of Sigma's lead and let the information pass through to him as they took everything they heard with the utmost seriousness.
"What's the time limit?" asked Fruit Bat.
"Same as usual, we have a maximum of four hours to capture the target before automatic failure."
Vole said, "Und the terrain?"
"It's been rainy this month. Expect a lot of mud and uneven footing. Good news is, it's been foggy all morning—that might give us some good cover as we move in, but it'll make any traps or potential ambushes hard to see, as well.
Honey and Tortoise briefly shared a few words in Russian. "What are we going to be equipped with?" Tortoise asked. "What are our armaments?"
Sal placed a rucksack at the feet of each of his teammates. "Same small-arms weaponry: Beretta and M16 loaded with simunition cartridges. Two flashbangs and two smoke grenades each. No tear gas for us, though. Maps, compasses, flares, and first-aid kits in case an emergency happens, and somebody gets injured during the exercise. I also got permission to include gas masks to help combat the tear gas, but it's up to you to put it on in time when the grenades start getting thrown. Finally, we've also got hand mirrors—should be handy for peeking under doors and around corners. Just be careful about reflected light so you don't give away your position."
Sal pointed to their current location on the map and traced a line with his finger to the OPFOR's CP. "Here's the plan. We'll approach from the south along this creek bed to the bottom of this hill here, try to get in from underneath. When we reach the outer wall of their base, we'll split into two groups and try to enter via a pincer attack—team Alpha will enter from the south side and team Bravo will circle around and hit the base from the north. Honey, Vole, and Cricket, you're on B. Cricket will lead as 2-1, Honey and Vole are 2-2 and 2-3, respectively. On A, I'll lead as 1-1, and Bat and Tortoise'll be 1-2 and 1-3."
Vole nodded, Cricket and Honey fist-bumped each other.
"What's the rules of engagement for the approach?" asked Cricket.
"Our weapons aren't suppressed, so avoid engaging as much as possible until we enter OPFOR's base or until the enemy fires on us. ROE will be weapons free once we're inside, but again, be careful. If you get the opportunity to take the flag without being noticed, do it."
Sal looked at each member of Sigma in turn. "Any other questions?" he asked.
When no one responded, he put away the map and compass, hiked on his rucksack and shouldered his rifle. "Alright, Sigma. Let's get moving."
Sal wasn't kidding about the mud. It was slow, plodding work marching through the woods with their gear. Cricket's breath fogged in the cold September air as they trudged along. No one said a word to each other while they walked in case they ran into any traps or Chameleon lying in wait while they walked near the creek. They moved as a single fire team in a diamond formation, with Cricket providing rear security.
Cricket was getting antsy. Much like on the real battlefield, it wasn't so much the panicked and stressful moments of fighting that got to him, but those long stretches of boredom coupled with the anxiety of knowing that anything could happen at any moment that made him wish that someone actually would just take a shot at them. In a way, having a clear enemy to fight and a target to shoot at was almost calming in the certainty it provided. These moments of quiet marching were unbearable. But they needed to move slowly to keep clear of traps and unexpected surprises. As the saying went, "slow is smooth, and smooth is fast."
As they turned with the bend in the creek, the elevation started to rise slightly, the air getting just a little drier. The fog was lifting. They needed to pick up the pace before they lost their sight advantage. Sal waved the team forward and they started moving at a jog. The boxy shape of OPFOR's fort came into view. It was a couple of two-story abandoned buildings with a 10-foot makeshift scrap metal fence running all around the perimeter, with chain-link gates on each side in each cardinal direction. Cricket wondered if the concrete buildings were specifically constructed by FOXHOUND or if they were here before the training facility was built and simply repurposed.
Sal raised his fist and brought the team to a stop at the bottom of the hill, and they grouped up in the shadow of a small outcropping sheltered by a nearby tree's low-hanging branches.
"We'll split up here," Sal instructed. "Bravo, loop around and form up on the northern entrance. We go radio silent for all verbal communication from here on in—don't call in unless absolutely necessary. This here will be our rally point."
He clicked the button on his radio to make it squawk. "One button press to signal that teams are in position. I'll give two button presses to give the order to move in. Wait for my mark. If three minutes pass without the order being given, assume that the other team is compromised and fall back to the rally point to regroup."
He looked over the edge of the outcropping towards the fort. No tangoes were present.
"Okay," Sal breathed. "Go!"
The team exploded into movement. Cricket took point for Team B as they slid down the hill and gave the fort a wide berth with the hill on their left side as they moved northward. Each Sigma member scanned their sectors as they moved around to the north side. The elevation leveled out as they turned left back toward the fort with their left side facing south and they moved up to the northern gate, stacking up against the wall next to it.
Cricket motioned to Vole, and Vole stepped forward to check the gate for trip wires. Finding nothing, he pulled out a lockpick and went to work. Once finished, he stepped back out of view of the gate. Cricket clicked his radio once to let Alpha Team know that they were in position.
After a moment of quiet tension, he heard the radio click twice.
Bravo Team sprung through the gate, immediately turning to point their weapons in each direction. They were in an alleyway behind one of the two buildings, no targets on either side. Once clear, they moved up to the back door of the building. Cricket slid his mirror underneath and spotted a trip wire linked to a flashbang grenade. He made a throat-cutting gesture with his hand and Bravo team followed the exterior wall along the length of the building.
One end of the alleyway led into the central courtyard of the fort, where one member of Gamma Squad could be seen patrolling. Rather than head out into the courtyard, they doubled back and followed the exterior wall of the building around the opposite corner, where they found another door. Vole used his mirror, and confirmed that the doorway was clear of traps, but that there was another member of Gamma Squad inside, facing the opposite direction. Vole experimentally gave the door handle a very slight turn to determine if it was locked. When he found it was not, he opened the door slowly and quietly.
Honey Badger drew her knife and snuck in, grabbing the guard around his neck, and holding her blade to his throat. "Dead," she whispered.
The guard nodded, laid his weapon on the ground, and proceeded to turn off his radio and sit in the corner. The rest of Team Bravo followed her inside and cleared the room, which appeared to have once been a kitchen. They swept the entire area, and once they found that there was no one hiding in the pantry or under the table and that the objective wasn't present, they moved on to one of the other two doors.
Through the door was a hallway, with a stairway on the immediate right-hand side and two doors further on the right, with an exterior door at the end on the left. Two windows facing the other building across the courtyard were on the left. Cricket looked out, being careful not to put himself in view. He could see Alpha Team moving through the building on the other side. He looked to Honey and Vole. "Watch the windows," he whispered in a hushed tone. "We'll clear the rest of this floor first before we go upstairs."
The other two nodded and they systematically checked and cleared the two rooms in the hallway, which were empty. Cricket pointed up towards the ceiling. "You two check the upstairs landing, I'll check the other door in the kitchen and then meet you."
Vole and Honey moved carefully up the stairs. Cricket didn't like the idea of having to clear a room by himself, but he knew the rest of the first floor was clear and he would be checking the door with the mirror first before proceeding, so he was fairly confident that as long as he didn't rush in he would be fine. He turned back and reentered the kitchen, and just as he was about to approach the other door it opened, revealing a young thirty-something blonde woman with blue eyes staring back at him.
They looked at each other for a couple of heartbeats, but it felt like a lifetime. Cricket's breath was caught in his throat before he realized what was happening and raised his rifle.
He was too slow. The blonde woman grabbed the barrel shroud of the rifle with one hand and Cricket's trigger hand with the other, yanking the rifle towards her and then shoving it into his chest parallel to his torso. She grabbed a nearby bottle off a wall shelf and slammed it against his temple before he could try pointing it at her again. Seeing stars, Cricket lost his grip on the rifle, and she yanked, sending it flying out of his hands to the other side of the room.
The blonde woman pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to her shoulder and lunged at Cricket, who only had just enough mind to dodge as he was still disoriented. He realized that while she was using cutting and slashing movements, it wasn't wild swinging—it was purposeful, precise. She wasn't aiming for anything vital. He realized in that moment that if she wanted to kill him, she absolutely could. This must be Black Mamba.
Alertness returning to his senses, Cricket dodged Mamba's thrust and tried to grab at the wrist of her knife hand, but he was too slow, and ended up getting his forearm cut for his trouble. He gasped in pain but didn't falter. Dodging under a cut, he rolled over the table, scattering its contents on the floor as he positioned himself to have the table between the two of them to give himself room to breathe. But before he could draw his sidearm, Mamba leaped over the table, planting her feet into his chest, sending him reeling into the stove. He knocked his elbow against a pan and thinking quickly, grabbed it and swung at Mamba, who ducked and grabbed his shoulder for leverage as she sent her knee into his solar plexus. All the air left Cricket's lungs and he doubled over, letting Mamba kick the side of his face, sending him tumbling to the ground.
"Stay down," Mamba commanded.
Cricket considered it. If he gave up and conceded, he would be considered dead for the purposes of the simulation. But Mamba hadn't technically landed a killing blow. As long as Cricket was physically capable of fighting back and didn't have paint on his body or a knife to his throat, he didn't have to concede. And Honey and Vole were still upstairs. He grabbed the table and started pulling himself up.
Mamba tsked and lowered herself to climb on his back and tried to put the knife to his neck to force a concession, and it was then that Cricket moved. Grabbing her left arm, he backed up and slammed her against the stove to loosen her grip on him and then, pulling her knife arm, he tossed her over his shoulder over the table and into the opposite wall. She cried in pain as her shoulder connected to the shelf on the wall before landing on the floor and becoming too winded to vocalize. Seizing the moment, Cricket drew his Beretta and ran over to put the barrel to her head.
"Bang. You're dead, Mamba," Cricket intoned.
Black Mamba looked up at Cricket with exhaustion, chuckled a little, and nodded. "Yup. Good game." Coughing, she flopped onto her back and began nursing her shoulder. Cricket put away the Beretta and grabbed his rifle. He looked out the door into a sitting room with a couch and quickly cleared it. Three doors, one leading out to the courtyard, one was the booby-trapped door that led into the back alleyway, and the third was a bathroom.
Honey and Vole entered the kitchen. The fight with Black Mamba had lasted only a few minutes, but it was loud enough to have them come rushing down. "You alright?" Vole asked. Cricket nodded. Honey looked over the beaten Black Mamba and whistled with approval.
Team Bravo couldn't stop to celebrate, however. That fight wasn't quiet, and it was bound to attract attention. Indeed, he could already hear a yell of alarm from outside as he saw the guard from the courtyard start running in the direction of the front door. With Vole's help, Cricket picked up and moved the couch over to the door to barricade it and buy some time.
Honey pointed up. "Clear upstairs."
Cricket nodded. "And the flag?"
"Negative."
Cricket clicked his radio. "Bravo 2-1 to Alpha. How copy?"
Sal's voice answered. "This is Alpha 1-1. Send it, Bravo."
"North building is clear, no sign of the objective. Had a run-in with Black Mamba, had to take her down. It wasn't quiet. Expecting increased level of alertness and force from Gamma. You guys have any better luck in there?"
"Affirmative, 2-1. Building is clear. No tangoes inside, but we did hit paydirt. We've got the flag in our possession. Be advised, I've seen no sign of any other guards besides the one outside. Which means the other three are somewhere outside the fort and unaccounted for."
Banging against the door. Bravo Team stayed as far as they could away from the main window as they egressed back into the kitchen.
"Let's link up at the rally point. We can start making our way back to the starting position from there," Sal said.
"Understood," Cricket answered.
Bravo team moved towards the back door from which they entered and checked outside. Not seeing the patrol guard that was banging on the front door, they moved around back towards the booby-trapped door around the corner. When they reached the corner, gunshots cracked near their heads, and they moved back. Honey grabbed a flashbang and tossed it around the corner. Once it popped, she and Cricket moved around and pushed to the other end of the alleyway where they caught the guard stumbling. Honey shot him twice in the chest, and paint splattered against his vest.
The fort now clear, they leisurely made their way to the southern gate where they saw Alpha already halfway to the rally point. Just as they started making their way down the hill, simunition bullets impacted against Vole's chest plate and arms.
"CONTACT!" Cricket shouted, and he and Honey threw themselves upon the ground. Looking up, he saw Sal and Tortoise moving towards cover. Fruit Bat was laying on the ground—OPFOR must have gotten him. Vole followed Bat's example and laid down on the grass.
Cricket crawled behind a large rock while Honey took up position behind a tree. Gunshots were being exchanged between Alpha Team and the remains of Gamma Squad. Cricket looked out into the tree line, but he couldn't see where the enemy was. Honey Badger was laying down fire in the general direction that she thought they were coming from.
Cricket clicked his radio. "1-1, this is 2-1. I saw 1-2 got hit. 2-3's also down. Where are you at? Can you tell where they're shooting from?"
"1-3's hit, too. It's just me. I think they're firing from the southeast. Can you see anything from your vantage point up there?"
Cricket peeked over the rock. Brown and green as far as the eye can see. He tried to search without straining his eyes. There! Movement!
"I see someone! Bearing 220 from our position!"
Honey nodded and looked around the tree to spot one of the shooters, carefully lining up a shot before squeezing off a few rounds. "Got them!" she cried triumphantly. She reloaded her rifle. "Two mags left," she said.
Cricket nodded, and hailed Sal again. "Do you have the flag, 1-1?"
"Got it right here."
"Okay. We're going to try and make our way to you. Stay where you are if you can."
Cricket peeked over the rock, and seeing movement from the southeast, ducked back down. "Honey," he said, "let's pop some smoke. I'll lay down some suppressing fire, and you head down first."
Honey nodded, grabbing a smoke grenade from her belt, pulling the pin and tossing it down the hill. Cricket followed suit, and when smoke started filling the clearing, Cricket emptied half a magazine downrange before looking back at Honey. "Okay, go now!"
Honey scrambled down the hill to Sal's position, and then started putting down suppressing fire of her own so that Cricket could join them. Together, they made their way deeper back into the woods towards the creek bed before Gamma Squad could get too close.
"They know our objective is east, and the creek is too obvious a landmark," Sal said. "Let's divert downhill further south where the woods are denser. Should give us some better cover."
"What about Chameleon?" Honey asked.
"We'll just have to chance it and keep a close eye on our surroundings. Come on."
The remains of Sigma moved quickly through the woods, the downward sloping elevation giving them a bit of speed to help them put distance between themselves and Gamma, at the expense of caution. This proved to be an error in judgment: when they finally decided it was safe enough to continue moving eastward, Honey caught herself on a tripwire, releasing the pin on a tear gas grenade.
"Masks, now!" Sal yelled.
While they were donning their masks, two simunition bullets caught Honey in her legs, making her stumble and fall to the ground. This caused her to get hit with the full brunt of the tear gas, and she started coughing and sneezing, covering her face as she tried desperately to protect herself from the worst of the effects.
Cricket and Salamander turned in the direction the fire had come from and quickly spotted the head of one of Gamma Squad's members as it moved back into cover behind a tree. Sal gave a hand signal for him and Cricket to move forward in a pincer attack to keep the OPFOR from running, and together they were able to move forward and quickly subdue him.
Returning to Honey, Sal picked her up and slung her over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and together Sigma ran as far from the spot as they could. When they were safely away from the tear gas, Sal set Honey down and pulled out a bottle of water. Facing her against the wind, he held her hair out of her face and began pouring water into her eyes and over her face.
Honey Badger made blubbering noises as her sinuses inflamed, muttering some extremely colorful curses in Russian. Sal said, "I think it's safe to say that Honey's out of commission." He handed her two more plastic water bottles. "Keep your face against the wind and keep rinsing out your eyes, Honey. You'll be okay."
Sal shouldered his rifle. "We're not far. Just a little more to the northeast. But first," he grabbed a flare gun out of her backpack and put it in Honey's hands, "when you're able to see again, fire this into the air so the medics know where to find you."
Honey nodded.
Now down to two, Sal and Cricket moved northward towards the finish line. It was almost 1300 hours. The trees were beginning to thin out. The clearing was in sight. Sal had them take a short break to catch their breath.
This was their second big mistake. As soon as they stopped to rest, a pair of eyes suddenly appeared on one of the nearby trees and a woman melted into view, tossing a flashbang into their midst. Cricket only had just enough time to shut his eyes and fling himself to the ground, rolling away as the grenade went off. Deaf but not blind, he continued to roll away even as Chameleon took down Salamander.
He came to a stop at the bottom of a ditch, hidden underneath some bushes. He'd lost his rifle in the confusion; he'd have to make do with his sidearm. He looked through the leaves. Sal was lying on the ground, not moving. Standing above him was Chameleon.
Standing at around 5'4" and surprisingly lightly equipped, Chameleon wore only a camo-patterned tank top and cargo pants, with no other weapon besides her knife and pistol. Her hair was the same color and texture as moss, and her dry, scaly skin was a mottled mixture of grey, green, and brown to match the color of her surroundings. When she squinted, her eyes moved independently of each other. It was the strangest and most terrifying thing that Cricket had ever witnessed in a human being. He stared, mesmerized by the sight.
Chameleon made as if to search Sal's person—presumably for the flag so that she could take possession of it—before stopping and looking around. "He's still here," she muttered.
Suddenly, she changed color and disappeared. Cricket didn't move an inch. Chances were, she was still in the area, just waiting for him to go and get the flag. Problem was, she wasn't wrong. He checked his watch. Two hours left on the timer. Either he went and got the flag, risking getting shot by Chameleon, or he did nothing except wait, in which case Gamma would win anyway with the timer running out.
Two hours. The exfil point was only about 200 meters away. He had time to think about his next move. Very, very slowly, he tugged his Beretta from its holster. He tried to calm and quiet his breathing so that he could hear only the sounds of the forest around him. He cursed inwardly at himself. He was never very good at wilderness tracking. He dimly recalled that one of his foster fathers once offered to take him hunting as a kid. He was beginning to regret not taking that man up on his offer.
Minutes ticked by. Every ten minutes or so, he checked his watch. After about forty-five minutes with still no sign of Chameleon, he slowly started to crawl forward. He didn't have an infinite amount of time. At some point, he needed to get that flag.
Slowly, inch by aching inch he moved towards the prone body of Salamander. Cricket desperately hoped his camouflage could keep him as well-hidden as Chameleon, knowing full well that it wouldn't. To try to at least keep his gun hidden while he moved, he had covered his hand in a tiny pile of leaves that moved with him as he inch-wormed his way forward.
After what seemed like an eternity, he was within arm's reach of Sal. Being "dead," Sal wasn't allowed to speak or communicate with Cricket in any way, verbally or non-verbally, which meant that Cricket had to find where Sal had put the flag himself. After eyeing Sal's body, he saw it—a piece of navy-blue fabric sticking slightly out of Salamander's pocket. Slowly, with very careful deliberation, Cricket reached up with his free hand and tugged at the fabric with his fingertips before gingerly pulling it out and wrapping it around his hand. Wasn't really much of a flag. It was more the size of a simple bandana.
Cricket slowly started pushing away from Sal's "corpse," when he noticed a couple of leaves falling gently in front of him in an abnormally uniform fashion.
"I see you."
The whisper came from above him, in a threatening, almost inhuman hiss. Cricket spun around onto his back just in time to see another flashbang fall from the branches above. Screwing his eyes shut, he rolled as the grenade once again went off right next to him, filling his ears with the high-pitched whine of tinnitus. He pushed himself to his feet and opened his eyes to see Chameleon rushing at him with her knife. He dodged, and she ran past him straight into the tree line, dropping another flashbang after her.
This time he was prepared for it and booked it straight into the trees before the flashbang could permanently damage his hearing.
A tree branch reached out to hit him in the face. He grabbed and tore at it and the "tree" rolled over his shoulder and fell to the ground. He darted in the direction of the clearing 200 meters away. Something pulled at his ankle, making him fall over. He kicked in the direction the pull came from and felt its grip loosen along with a cry of pain. Running straight out of the woods and into the clearing, he could see the finish line up ahead. He only needed to cross it.
A round whizzed by his head. With nowhere to hide, Chameleon had opted for the direct approach. He rolled to the side and took aim with his pistol, plugging two rounds into her chest. He ran and crossed the finish line before collapsing onto the grass, out of breath. He looked up to see Master Miller standing over him, offering his only hand while leaning on his crutch.
"Good work, Cricket. Looks like Sigma wins this one."
FEBRUARY 12,1992
FOXHOUND COVERT TRAINING FACILITY
LOCATION CLASSIFIED
"So, how has our subject been keeping?"
The dark room was hazy with cigar smoke. Salamander tried his hardest to keep from coughing out of politeness, though he found it difficult. Having grown up with smokers for parents, he never really was able to tolerate the stench.
"He's an excellent soldier, no doubt about it," Sal answered. "He takes to pretty much every subject his class instructors can throw at him, regardless of familiarity. No matter what exercises I run him through, he comes out on top. No specialty skills, no Irregular abilities of his own, and yet…"
Sal gestured vaguely. "He's a regular jack of all trades. 'Master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one.'"
"But do you think he has what it takes?"
Sal responded, "I think he's got potential. Although he's not quite as observant as I'd like. He got lucky with Chameleon and Mamba back in September, and he still hasn't figured out that I'm an instructor and not actually a cadet. That lack of inquisitiveness and lack of suspicion could be dangerous."
"Is that enough to wash him out?"
Sal thought hard before answering. "No, not yet. But I think you'll need to turn up the heat. This stuff is child's play. We need to put him in real danger if we want to see what he's made of. But that's exactly what we excel at, isn't it?"
"So, I take it that you give your recommendation."
Sal nodded. "Yes. Move him forward in the program. He's ready to move on to his second year. He's solid."
"Very well. We'll move him forward. Thank you for your time and assistance on this, Salamander."
A/N: Much like the previous chapter, I originally had a different ending in mind in which I would show Snake's graduation from his first year of training to the second year, but this was getting pretty long as it was and honestly the short vignette of Sal talking to the powers that be just flowed a lot better, in my opinion. Next chapter will probably focus less on the instructional part of his training, as I plan to have it basically be one or two (or maybe a series of; haven't decided yet) dangerous training simulations for Snake to endure. I wanted to flesh out Snake's induction into FOXHOUND, but I don't want to spend more than one or two more chapters on it before I get into the meat and potatoes of adapting Metal Gear proper. Look forward to the next one, as that's when I plan on introducing Gray Fox into the story.