AUGUST 12, 1992
WILDERNESS – SIDE OF CLIFF
"You ever do much mountaineering, Cricket?" Black Mamba asked right before she leaped up to grab a higher handhold. The grace she showed moving and jumping from point to point up the wall reminded Cricket of a mountain goat.
Meanwhile, Cricket was having a much slower go of it, steadily pushing up with his legs as he used his hands to hold him in place, wedging his palms into any crack he could find. Unfortunately, the higher up the wall they got the less handholds he was able to find, which made climbing harder. After making his own leap to a handhold just out of reach, he scrambled for a place to put his foot and once he found one, he pulled himself closer to the wall so that he could give his arms a break.
"Not really," he grunted as he shook his hand to relieve the lactic acid in his finger muscles. "I fought in the Iraqi-Kuwait border region, which is mostly desert. If you want mountains, you'd have to go further north across the Euphrates, towards Iran. We had climbing drills in training of course, but I didn't make much use of it in the field except for getting over walls in urban areas."
Cricket looked at his hand, which was scratched, bloody, and covered with dirt and dust. He was glad the stinging had turned to numbness, but he knew it was going to hurt like hell to treat them later when this was all done with.
"No better time to learn then, I suppose," Mamba quipped, pushing off with her legs and reaching out to grab a hanging root, which she used to pull herself up and over the cliff wall. Cricket followed close behind to replicate the move, but when he grabbed the root, his weight pulled it out of the wall, and he swung his arms. As his brain caught up with the fact that he was about to fall, he only had just enough time to utter an "oh, shi—"
Mamba grabbed his arm. "Gotcha!" she shouted as he swung back towards the wall, shoving his hand into a lucky crack for purchase, although with the overhang he clung to, there was no place to put his feet. Mamba pulled with both arms, straining as she dug in her heels. Unfortunately, her frame was too small to pull up Cricket on her own, and she could feel her feet sliding towards the edge.
"C'mon, Cricket, pull up!" she yelled. "Help me out before I drop you!"
Cricket swung his leg up to the wall and kicked it at an angle, giving him some air and a little bit of leverage as he pulled both on the handhold and Mamba's hand so that he could get his free arm up and over the cliff and grab onto the grass. Pulling himself over the edge, both he and Mamba took a moment to catch their breath. "Thanks," Cricket said.
"Uh-huh," Mamba said, waving off his gratitude.
After checking their pockets to make sure they hadn't lost what little loose equipment they had in the climb, they both swung around the rifles that were slung across their torsos and shouldered them as they made their way forward.
Through the dense wood thicket downhill from them several hundred yards away from the cliffside was a cluster of small buildings, each no larger than probably 700 square feet in total area. Positioned around these buildings were three pairs of men and women patrolling the perimeter. On the roof of the central building was a radio antenna. Cricket and Mamba positioned themselves at the top of a small knoll just inside the surrounding forest.
Mamba pointed to the antenna. "Think there might be another map fragment in there, so we can figure out whether that circle on the map actually is the rally point? Or maybe they've got some supplies we can use?"
"I'm more interested in the radio equipment," Cricket replied. "If we can disable their comms, or even just get a hold of some radios ourselves to monitor them with, we'll be able to avoid running into anymore patrols all the way to the rally point."
"That's only if we can get the radios without getting caught," Mamba pointed out. "We would need to make sure they never knew we were in there."
Cricket went quiet. It was a valid point. Even so, a single man or a two or three-man team could manage it. The problem was, the comms building is likely to be the most well-defended due to its importance. They needed a way to give an infiltrator some better odds. "What about a distraction?" Cricket asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there's two of us. Say one of us picks a fight on the other side of that small base to draw OPFOR away from the building, while the other person goes in and collects radios and intel, and maybe sabotages equipment if they can get a shot at it. Even if the distraction doesn't completely empty the building, even some is better than nothing."
"But the person performing the distraction is going to be bringing a lot of heat down onto themselves," Mamba said. "That's a lot for even a small team to take on, never mind a single soldier. We can't even try for a psyops mission to convince them that there's more of us than there really is—it's a training exercise, so they already know there's only two of us. Even if we could draw forces away, it probably wouldn't last very long before they figure out that someone's moved in on the real prize."
"So, there wouldn't be a lot of time to work with. How much time do you think a proper distraction could buy us, with the equipment we have?" Cricket asked.
"Between us both, we've got two rifles and two pistols…I have a flashbang from Armadillo. Assuming they don't figure it out right away, I'd say…five minutes? Ten, tops. Not a lot of time. We want to sabotage their comm station, confiscate radio equipment and other supplies, and look for intel. In that amount of time, we'd probably only get away with one of those, maybe two if we're lucky."
Cricket nodded in agreement. "I think you're right. We can also just say, 'screw it,' and keep going to that circle on the map that we think is the rally point. We don't have to take the risk." He patted his pockets and shrugged. "I'd ask if you want to flip a coin, but…"
Mamba thought for a moment and shook her head. "I think the advantage we could get is worth the risk. Let's do it."
"Alright. You're the better CQC combatant," Cricket said, "so I'll handle the distraction while you infiltrate. Sound good?"
"Agreed. How do we prioritize potential objectives?"
"The only thing we know for sure about that building is they have comms equipment. So, I'd say prioritize sabotaging the comm center and the collection of radios. If you find intel or supplies in there while you're doing it, then grab it, otherwise just focus on the radios.
As for my end, I want to take some time to set up some tree traps and a tripwire with the flashbang. We're only going to get one shot at this, so let's set the environment up to give me as much of an advantage as I can get. If I'm lucky, maybe I can convince them that we're both performing a single assault, which'll give them more reason to commit more men and draw away more forces you'd otherwise have to deal with."
"Okay. I'll help you get set up. Where should I go in from?"
Together, the two trainees laid out their map and began to plan.
One fifty-one-one thousand, one fifty-two-one thousand…
Cricket crouched low in the bushes while he silently counted to himself, his weapon trained on a pair of guards standing at the northern gate in the fence. From his vantage point up the hill, he counted at least five guards that he could see—two at the gate, another two across the courtyard at the opposite gate, and a fifth smoking near a steel shed at the nearest corner. If there were any others, he couldn't see them.
The plan, such as it was, was that Mamba would circle around and enter the small base from the opposite side while Cricket opened fire and got their attention. He would then turn around and lead them into the forest where he'd hopefully be able to get them to fall for the traps he and Mamba had set up. He just hoped that the guards would take the bait and follow him in. When they had finished planning and Mamba had set out, Cricket started to count out the seconds, knowing it would take her a few minutes to get into position.
Unfortunately, with the lack of radios, he was just going to have to operate by feel and hope that Mamba will be able to succeed. They both agreed that if she didn't get back and help him lose his pursuers after fifteen minutes once the shots started firing, that he was to assume that she was taken out and that he should make for the rally point anyway. Cricket began to sweat, his nose itching something fierce, but he didn't dare scratch, didn't dare make a move that the guards could pick up on from where they stood.
Two hundred-one thousand, two-oh-one-one thousand…
Meanwhile, Mamba moved steadily around the encampment, taking care to stay inside the tree line as she edged closer toward the fence. Giving the guards on her side a wide berth, she saw a side of fencing behind a building that looked relatively unguarded. What was even better was that there was a hole at the foot of the fence just big enough to crawl through. Laying down in a prone position, she lay still in the shadow of the trees. She was ready—it was all up to Cricket now.
Two thirty-nine one thousand, two forty one thousand!
Four minutes. It was time. Whether Mamba was ready or not, Cricket needed to get started now. Shouldering his rifle, he aimed down the sights at the nearest guard, who was unlucky enough to be standing in clear view. Taking a breath, Cricket rested his finger on the trigger, and exhaled as he squeezed.
The shots rang loud in the quiet of the forest as the rubber bullets impacted into the guard's torso, knocking him off-balance and onto the ground.
"Contact!" yelled the other gate guard, who tried to dive out of the way only to similarly get pelted for his trouble. He loudly yelled in pain and wrapped his arms around his knee and torso as he fell to the ground. The guards on the other side of the courtyard ran up and took cover behind low concrete walls while the smoking guard dropped his cigarette and opened fire on Cricket's position.
Cricket moved away from where he was squatting, keeping low to stay camouflaged. He flipped the firing mode switch to full-auto and laid down fire on the outpost's position as he slowly retreated further into the trees.
Come on, come on, take the bait, Cricket urged silently as he crouch-walked back. An alarm sounded, three more guards were seen rushing out of the radio building, and another two from the building on the opposite side. Cricket had kicked the hornet's nest. The guards behind the low walls started moving forward, with the formerly smoking guard taking point. A squad of five soldiers started moving into the forest to follow Cricket while the rest stayed behind to watch the gate.
Better than nothing, I guess, thought Cricket. Mamba, it's all up to you now.
Mamba had wasted no time rushing forward and diving for the hole in the fence as soon as the shooting started, crawling underneath, and then getting up to press her back against the wall. She saw the three guards exit the radio building when she peeked around the corner, and the other two guards burst out of a door right next to it, causing her to jump back so that she wouldn't be seen. She drew her pistol as she leaned around. The guards in the courtyard were pointing towards the southern gate. To get to the radio building she'd need to cross the courtyard on her side, but there was a guard in her way and there was no way she could cross without him spotting her, and her unsuppressed pistol would make too much noise.
Spotting a small rock near her foot, she grabbed it and tossed it out from the corner, taking care to keep her frame concealed behind the wall.
"Huh? What was that?" came a male voice from nearby. "I heard something. I'm going to check it out."
Mamba counted her breaths as she waited for the footsteps. The guard very nearly turned the corner, but stopped just short so that Mamba could see the end of his rifle's barrel. She counted her breaths.
"Clear! No sign of hostiles. Likely just some small wildlife." The guard turned around, and Mamba took her chance to round the corner and grab the man by his shirt, spinning him around behind the building out of view and slamming his head into the wall, concussing him. She then ejected a dart from the pistol by hand and jabbed it into the man's neck. In seconds, he was incapacitated by the tranquilizer, and she was free to carefully scurry across the courtyard to the radio building behind the backs of the squad at the southern gate, though not before grabbing the man's walkie-talkie and clipping it onto her waistband.
Back in the forest, Cricket ran into the thicket, his pursuers close behind. When he got well within the zone of where the traps were, he dove behind a tree and blindly fired around the trunk to pin down his pursuers.
"There he is!" shouted one guard.
"I'm pinned!" answered another.
Mamba had left him one of the magazines from her rifle, plus one extra as she took only the pistol into the base, saying something about how at the range she'll be dealing with combined with her need to keep a low profile, a rifle would be more of a hindrance than a help. Cricket ejected his mag and quickly checked his ammo count, before loading it back and switching his rifle to burst fire. His current magazine was almost dry, and he would need to reload soon. He hoped he'd be able to get an opportunity with the squad at his heels.
Keeping low, Cricket leaned around the tree and fired a three-round burst shot at one of the guards, nailing him in the shoulder and sending him reeling back. Click. The rifle was empty, Cricket would need to reload. Drawing his pistol in his other hand, he fired three more shots to get the guards to duck their heads and quickly reloaded the rifle's magazine as he ran up the hill towards the first snare trap.
Careful to vault over it, he led the guards behind him and just as he hoped, one got caught and was sent zipping up the tree. Cricket fired a tranq dart into the helpless soldier, and smirked as he ran, knowing that would keep his pursuers busy.
Two of the squad members crouched and set up defensive positions while the third worked to cut their friend down. By the time he was on the ground though, he was already unconscious. Cricket heard one of the guards activating their radio. "Outpost 2, this is Alpha 1-1. I've got two men down. OPFOR has laid traps up ahead. How copy?"
"Roger, 1-1," came a voice on the other line. "We'll send another team as backup. Exercise extra caution. Did you get a read on the number of attackers?"
"Negative, O-2. I've seen only one, but this forest is thick; it's a good place for an ambush. It's possible that it's just one tango and the traps are to keep us pinned in the forest. Recommend you call for reinforcements on the outpost in case his partner tries to get inside."
"Acknowledged, 1-1. Maintain your position until Bravo Team links up with you."
"Understood."
Cursing under his breath, Cricket moved in the direction of another trap. Mamba needs to move her ass, he thought to himself. It's about to get really hot down there.
Back at the base, Mamba carefully opened the door to the radio building, snuck down the hall and placed her back against the wall next to a doorway on her left. Peeking around, she saw one guard manning the radio station with his back to her. On the right-hand side of the room was another guard standing in the corner and observing an open doorway leading outside.
On the left-hand side of the room a cork board hung on the wall with a map of the local area, with various points of interest marked and labeled in marker, as well as some photos of specific locations. The points appeared to be the locations of other guard stations with drawn lines denoting various patrol routes.
Pay dirt.
Very slowly, she crept into the room, pistol at the ready in case one or both guards turned around and noticed her. Moving up to the corkboard, she tried to gingerly pull out the thumbtacks wedged into the bottom corners of the map. As she did so, the map fluttered slightly in the wind of the overhead ceiling fan, and the door guard looked over.
"Intruder!" he shouted, turning his weapon on her.
Acting quickly, she rushed to the side and grabbed the radio man around the neck and placed the barrel of her gun against his temple and the edge of her knife against his throat before he could grab the gun from his desk. Guiding his steps, Black Mamba gently pulled him back to the cork board. "I'd recommend not calling the radio," she said, pointing the pistol at the door guard.
"Y-you're crazy," complained the guard in her grip as she tapped the knife on his collarbone. "It's just a training exercise."
"Is it?" Mamba asked. "Then I suppose you'd better put in a convincing performance, huh?"
"Just shoot her!" said the captive guard. The door guard took aim, and Mamba held her captive as a human shield as she shot two tranq rounds into the door guard's head. He pivoted as the darts made impact into his skull, and then promptly fell over unconscious. Mamba used her gun hand to push her captive's head forward and dug her forearm into the side of his neck to cut off circulation. Within moments, he had lost consciousness as well.
There was no way that the guards outside hadn't heard her shots. Acting quickly, she grabbed the radioman's walkie-talkie and headset from his desk, and then picked up the transceiver box and yanked the cables out of the wall before hurtling it over her head at the nearest wall. Electronic parts flew all over the room as the box shattered into many pieces. Taped to the windowsill behind the desk was a list of radio frequencies—likely the other guard posts and the frequencies used by the patrols. She snatched the note and stuffed it into her pocket.
As she ran out the door, she was immediately met by a group of soldiers, forcing her to wheel around and sprint back the way she came.
"She's over here!" she heard a man shout behind her as she pushed the radio man's desk in front of the door she slammed shut before moving into the hallway. Another guard had burst in through the door she had first entered. Not having time to run, she sprinted forward, jumped and springboarded off of one wall and used the momentum to swing her leg and kick the guard in the head as she fell forward over his falling body and rolled through the doorway onto the ground outside.
Gunshots followed her from around the corner as she ran through the open gate. Without looking, she blindly fired her pistol behind her to try and deter any shooters and buy her a few seconds to run back into the forest.
Cricket laid down next to the log as he caught his breath, inserting his last magazine of rubber bullets into his rifle's mag well and ratcheting back the charging handle to insert a round into the receiver. A moment afterward, a loud bang was heard, and a burst of light flared in his peripheral vision. One of his pursuers had activated the flashbang tripwire.
Peeking around the end of the log, he saw two guards disoriented while a third looked around wildly trying to find out where the grenade may have been thrown from, not realizing that the grenade was already in their midst when they walked on it.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Cricket hurriedly crawled away, keeping the log between them, and hoping that his camouflage would help to enable his escape. As the elevation of the ground started to recede, he found himself rolling into a ditch, from which he was able to crawl under a low overhang of rock and dirt in the side of the hill.
Now relatively safe, he pressed his shoulder into the rifle's stock, and waited. He heard the stomping footsteps of the other squad nearby. Cricket held his breath as one set of footsteps came dangerously close to his position. He rested his finger on the trigger. They were right on top of him when a crackle of static burst on one of their radios.
"2-1 Actual, this is Command Post O-2. Respond."
"Roger, O-2. What's your status?"
"We've been hit by enemy forces! Communications with other CPs have been disabled. Full extent of damage unknown. Your rabbit isn't acting alone. We believe that OPFOR is still in the area. We have multiple friendlies down and are in need of reinforcements. Return to base to assist."
"What about the scout we're tracking?"
"We believe that he's meant to be a diversion to lead you away and thin our numbers. Ignore him for now, he's wasted enough of your time. We need reinforcements now before our hitter gets too far away!"
"Understood, O-2. RTB." The boots outside the overhang stepped as the unseen body they're attached to turns around. "You heard the man. Let's get moving. We'll grab what's left of Team 1 on the way back."
"Roger, TL," came the reply.
The boots walked away. Cricket waited until they were too far away to hear, and then counted another twenty breaths before he crawled out from under the rock. He started moving northward, bearing east towards the command post. If Black Mamba looked to be in trouble, he wanted to assess the situation and find out whether it would be possible to assist before moving to the rally point.
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long, as she found him soon after. Before he could ask any questions, she shook her head. "Not here. I've still got guys on my ass. We need to start heading north now before they catch up." She handed him a radio and headset. "Tune to 145.73; that's the frequency that the locals are using—we can monitor their communication with it. In case we get separated, we can use frequency 141.80 to talk to each other."
Cricket nodded, donning the headset, and tuning the radio to the frequency specified. Together they moved from tree to tree with their heads on a swivel, waiting for OPFOR to come rushing at them at any moment.
After about an hour of trekking, they both decided to chance stopping so they could go over the map that Black Mamba had recovered. "Here's the rally point," Mamba pointed to a green 'X' on the map, which was in the same place as the circled area on their map fragments. The 'X' was labeled as "Objective."
Mamba pointed out the lines and points. "These are other CPs in this region, and these lines are patrol routes. I have a list of frequencies that I recovered from the one we were just at. With their comms down, it's going to take them time to warn the other bases that their radios and frequencies have been stolen, so that should buy us just long enough to get to the rally point if we monitor them while we move north."
"Which means we can dodge their patrols on the way there," Cricket finished the thought, nodding. "Good idea."
Black Mamba folded the map with the frequency list and put both in her pocket. "How are we on ammo?" she asked.
Cricket glanced at his rifle. "Last mag, so thirty more rounds for the rifle. I've got…" he ejected the magazine from his Mk22 pistol. "…about ten tranquilizer rounds left, plus one in the chamber."
Mamba checked her pistol. "I've got seven rounds left, myself. And one mag with 25 rounds for my rifle. We'll have to make it count."
"Rally point's not too far away," Cricket said reassuringly, "Just a little bit further."
Mamba agreed, with the caveat that they should still be ready for anything.
Their plan set; the duo moved northward uphill along the edges of the cliffs to get to the objective. By the time they reached the clearing at the top, it was almost sunset. In the middle of the clearing was a box whose lid had a sticky note reading, 'OPEN ME.' Inside was a flare gun.
"Must be the signal for exfil," Cricket suggested, grabbing the gun.
"Or it could be another test," Mamba retorted. "Just…be careful, alright?"
"Don't worry," Cricket replied. "If something else comes to surprise us, we'll be ready."
Cricket pointed the flare gun into the sky and shot the round. A bright pink burning light ascended into the heavens. When nothing happened, the two trainees shrugged to each other and took prone positions on the ground, aiming their weapons in opposite directions to await any approaching enemies. There was nothing left to do but wait.
After a few hours, they heard the familiar fluttering of propellers in the distance, accompanied by the loud buzzing of an engine that steadily turned into a roar as a V-22 Osprey zoomed into view. The VTOL aircraft's rotors tilted as it stabilized its trajectory overhead and the clearing was blown about with great gusts of wind as it landed gently at the center. The rear hatch opened and lowered, revealing Salamander and a second member of FOXHOUND staff that Cricket hadn't met before.
Salamander slowly clapped as Cricket and Black Mamba approached, shouting loudly over the engine, "Good to see you two make it this far! Well done!"
Cricket moved forward to step on the ramp, but Salamander held up his hand and shook his head, leaving him confused. "Not yet. There's one more test," he said. He passed them, waving over his shoulder. "C'mon, my voice is gonna get hoarse from all the shouting. Let's get away from these engines so I can hear myself think."
Black Mamba and Cricket followed Sal away from the Osprey a considerable distance to the opposite end of the clearing. The engines were still running loudly, but they no longer had to shout to make themselves heard. Salamander brushed a few errant strands of hair from his forehead.
"Here's the deal," he began, "We've only got a seat on the bird for one trainee. We'll have to send a second one over to pick up the other. But these two birds are going different places, and only one of those places is FOXHOUND."
He gave a meaningful look to both of them. Mamba's eyes widened, but Cricket just shook his head. "I don't understand."
"What I'm getting at, Cricket, is that only one of you is completing this mission and moving on to the next step in your training. Which one, is a decision I leave up to the two of you."
"You're telling me to leave a fellow soldier behind?" Cricket demanded. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Remember what I told you day one, rookie: every other cadet on base is your competition. If you don't like it, you're more than welcome to wait for the next ride." Sal looked to Mamba, whose fists were clenched, and brow was furrowed in understanding, like she'd been waiting for this. "You can talk it over with each other if you want, but I'm guessing you both have fought too hard to get where you are now—if neither of you are willing to give it up, only way to solve it is with what you've got on hand. You won't be penalized for accidents, but all the same; try not to kill each other."
Sal started to walk away back to the bird, turning his head back to briefly say, "Make it fast, would you? I'd rather not wait all night."
Cricket turned to Mamba. "Mamba, look, I—"
Cricket didn't get to finish his sentence as Mamba was already drawing her pistol. Thinking fast, Cricket grabbed the gun and pushed the slide back so he could wedge his hand into the chamber like he did when he fought Mongoose. He tried hooking his leg inside of Mamba's left knee to try and sweep her feet out from under her, but she stepped away, throwing him off balance. Sensing an opening, Mamba turned her hips and grabbed Cricket's shirt to throw him head over heels into the ground, though she lost her grip on her gun while doing so, sending it flying.
Utilizing her forward momentum, Black Mamba swung horizontally around Cricket's head and wrapped her legs around his right arm, leaving him immobilized as she started to reel back. Cricket knew instinctually that he needed to act quickly to get out of the armbar before his shoulder got dislocated, and pushed his feet against the ground to lift his hips and he leaned over with his free hand clutching the knife he pulled from his pocket.
As Mamba reeled away from the blade, Cricket kicked her off and slid up to his knees in the opposite direction, getting back to his feet. He pulled his own Mk22 pistol from his waistband and fired a round, but Mamba was already rolling away, and he found he didn't have time to pull back the slide and prepare another tranquilizer dart before she leveled her rifle at him. He was already running into the tree line and taking cover behind a trunk.
His rifle magazine still held 30 rounds. Her rifle should have 20 or 25 in the magazine she had. Seven tranqs in her pistol if she picked it up. She was the better CQC specialist, but he had the numerical advantage in terms of ammunition and was the better shot if their range scores were anything to go by. If she ran out before he did, then the fight would be over right then and there. If not…Cricket preferred not to contemplate the alternative. He took a short breath and steeled himself as he wheeled around the trunk.
She was gone. She must have run into the trees nearby, but she hadn't run past him, so she hadn't gone the same direction. Cricket spun wildly as he watched the woods in the distance. He couldn't afford to move too far away from the clearing, and neither could she—lest one of them make a mad dash for the Osprey without the other knowing. The dusk was deepening as the sun hung lower into the horizon. There wasn't a lot of time.
Crack! A shot rang out and a dart imbedded itself into the tree bark right next to his head. Cricket swung in the direction of the shot and sent a five-round burst into the trees. He just barely caught Mamba's dirty blonde hair as she moved out of sight. He gave chase for a few paces before she disappeared entirely, and then fell back to reposition back at the edge of the tree line. He switched his rifle to single shot.
"You know, I've been waiting for a rematch," Mamba's voice called out. "Ever since that Capture the Flag game last year."
Cricket smirked, despite himself. "Trying to salvage your bruised ego?"
He saw a blonde head poking out from distant bushes and fired. Mamba dodged and returned fire with her rifle on semi-auto, he ducked away, but grunted in pain as he caught a glancing blow on his bicep that started to bleed. That was close—a more direct hit and she might have broken his arm.
"Something like that," came her answer. "It's been a while since I ever had any real competition. Not used to being beaten."
"When was the last time?" Cricket called out. Keep the banter going, he thought. Let her give away her position. Of course, assuming she didn't find him first.
Crack! Crack! Two more tranq shots. Mamba was really quick with resetting the slide on her pistol. Cricket barely managed to dodge them, flicked back to semi-auto on the rifle and rolled to his feet to return fire in two more bursts. He heard a yell and smiled. Managed to nail her with that one. He started to move in towards the sound of her yell.
She had taken cover behind a tree and started laying down suppressing fire from around the trunk, forcing him back into cover. He knew she had to be low on rubber bullets now. Soon she'd switch exclusively to the pistol or be forced to try and get closer. He checked his magazine: 14 rounds left. He hadn't even really used most of his remaining tranquilizer rounds in his pistol. He took a crouching position and tried to minimize his profile peeking around the tree. He waited for her to make a move.
Leaves fell from overhead, and he looked up to see Black Mamba pointing her pistol right at him. She had climbed the tree from before and jumped from branch to branch to get close. How had he not heard her coming? He rolled out of the way just as she took a shot, flicked to full auto, and swung around to let loose on her. She jumped and kicked away from the trunk to somersault over him, moving too fast for him to get a bead on her as she took her own shot with her rifle to hit him in the leg. Cricket yelled in pain as one of the projectiles slammed full force into his right foot.
He had just the presence of mind to point his rifle at her, just as she did the same to him.
Click. Click. Click.
They'd both run dry. Tossing their rifles away at the same time, they each pulled out their pistols. With his injured foot, Cricket was going to make for a much easier target. He took the first two shots, limping away as he tried to put some distance between them. Mamba only fired one shot, that tore through a loose part of his pants and just barely missed grazing his leg.
Too close.
Cricket drew his knife with his left hand and fired another shot behind him to try and discourage Mamba from following. He needed to get out of sight. Spotting a ditch, he dove and rolled underneath some particularly thick underbrush and crawled away. He hoped what was left of his camouflage would keep him concealed long enough to reposition to a better point of attack.
When he felt sufficiently safe, he sidled around and faced in the direction from which he ran. He tried not to think of his aching foot. He hoped the boot was thick enough to prevent any broken bones. He wouldn't be able to know the full extent of the damage until he saw a medic. He shook his head. He didn't need to be distracted by this right now.
A rustling in the nearby tall grass brought him back to attention. He readied his Mk22, hoping to take Mamba by surprise. Instead, a snake with banded markings slithered into view in front of him. Cricket froze, as the snake looked a lot like a rattlesnake. However, he noticed that the tail possessed no rattle. Maybe a related subspecies? The snake didn't take any notice of him as it went along, so Cricket surmised that he was in no danger.
Suddenly, his nostrils were filled with a foul musky stench that he'd never encountered before that made his whole face recoil. He had to fight to keep from moving his arm to cover his face. The snake, almost as if in response, coiled up and started shaking its rattle-less tail as it stared daggers to Cricket's left. Cricket turned his head and saw the tiniest patch of yellow in the treetops away from him. Very slowly, he turned onto his side and aimed down the sights of his pistol.
He rested his finger on the trigger and waited. He didn't want to upset the snake and provoke it into biting him. The tension of the moment hung like a thick curtain between them. Eventually, when the snake realized there was no threat, it uncoiled and slithered away, taking the stench away with it. Cricket counted silently to himself after the snake was gone: one, two, three.
He squeezed the trigger and heard a shout as something moved amidst the trees. Quickly resetting the slide, he took another shot, and another. With no further shouts, he assumed that the other two must have missed. He scrambled to his feet and awkwardly ran back towards the end of the tree line towards the clearing.
He was pretty certain that at least one shot had hit her, but it was going to take more than one dart to put her down. Tranquilizer darts were tricky—it takes a very precise dose to put a human down, depending on many factors like their body weight, age, sex, blood-alcohol content, and so on. Depending on where in the body the target was hit and how many darts they were hit with, it could be several seconds or several minutes before they went down, assuming there was enough tranquilizer in their system to take effect at all. He couldn't count on one successful shot being enough to finish the fight. He checked his magazine. Four shots left.
He had kept count of Mamba's tranq shots. She had fired five in total since the fighting had begun. She'd be down to two now. She had to know two darts were unlikely to take him down unless she nailed him in the head or neck. Which means her goal was going to be to close the distance before he could get any more darts in her. He moved out of the forest and into the clearing, crouching behind a tree on the outskirts for cover. She'd have no choice but to move to his preferred terrain now, and he didn't want to be taken by surprise. The Osprey's engines roared in the background as he waited.
She saw him first, taking aim as she ran forward. Crack! Crack! The first shot missed, but while Cricket leaned away, the second dart struck him in the shoulder. He returned fire as she ran wide around him. One miss, one tagged her in the calf, two more misses. They both tossed aside their pistols as Cricket raised his knife in his right hand.
It was like an elaborate dance. He'd lunge forward, she'd dodge back and sweep his legs, only for him to roll out of the way. He lunged again and she grabbed his arm for leverage as she tried to knee him in the groin; he turned his hips and responded with an elbow jab to the forehead before hooking his free hand around the back of her head and throwing her down.
He tried to straddle on top of her, but she was too quick and too flexible—she grabbed his forearm with both hands and wrapped her legs around his bicep, putting one foot against his head as she tried to use her legs and core muscles to force Cricket onto the ground with her. Cricket lost his balance and reflexively grabbed a clump of grass and dirt with his free hand as he was brought down, which he threw into her face to blind her. As she started sputtering, she loosened her grip a bit.
Unfortunately, as Cricket got back up, Black Mamba had managed to come away with the knife, and she immediately began putting it to good use. It wasn't like the first time they'd met; she was actively going for thrusts that could seriously injure him, maybe even kill him if they landed. He remembered that her specialty was blades.
A couple of times she got a few slashes on his chest and arms, but thankfully he moved quick enough that they were shallow ones. It was all he could do to keep her from getting close enough to get a killing shot in. They were both breathing hard, getting tired. Neither of them could keep it up forever—it was just a matter of who made the first mistake. As it was, there wasn't much he could do aside from dodge the blade and wait for an opportunity.
Thankfully, it came: Black Mamba went in for a thrust but overextended herself. Cricket grabbed the wrist of the arm wielding the knife with his right hand and used his other hand as leverage as he grabbed her bicep and twisted his hips to mimic her earlier judo throw. As soon as her back was on the ground, he swung his leg around her arm in the same armbar she'd had him in earlier. He had to move quickly: he'd only get one shot at this, and he didn't want her to escape like he did last time when the roles were reversed. Using his size advantage to pin her free arm with his feet, he yanked back hard as he rotated her knife arm.
A sickening, crunchy POP was heard, and Black Mamba screamed in pain as her hand reflexively dropped the knife. Cricket rolled off of her and took multiple steps back while Mamba clutched at her shoulder, her arm dangling limply from its socket. Cricket didn't even spare her a second glance as he marched over to the Osprey and walked up the ramp.
Salamander pushed the button to close the hatch while the other FOXHOUND agent relayed instructions into his radio to have a medical team sent with the next pickup. The Osprey was already lifting off before the ramp was completely raised. Once the hatch was closed, Salamander turned to face Cricket.
"Congratulations, cade—"
Salamander's mouth couldn't finish the sentence as his face was too busy getting plowed by one of Cricket's fists.
"Stand down, cadet!" protested the other nameless FOXHOUNDer, but Cricket wasn't listening. All he could see and hear was the object of his rage.
The FOXHOUNDer must have been about to make a move on Cricket, because Cricket saw Sal motioning him to stop. Salamander's next words were deadly calm, barely audible over the hum of the engines.
"You get one free one, rookie. One. And that was it."
Silence, save for the engines. The two men glared intensely for two long, uncomfortable minutes as they stared each other down. It was Cricket who broke the silence first.
"What the fuck was that?" he demanded.
"A test. And you passed. Congratulations," Salamander responded, in a tone that was anything but congratulatory.
"What was that supposed to be a test for?"
"Commitment. You were given a mission, and you completed it with flying colors."
Cricket didn't respond.
"Aw, what's wrong, Cricket? This not turning out like you expected? Well, news flash, rookie: this is what we do. We work in the shadows, we fight dirty, and we finish the job no matter what it takes. What exactly did you think this was, a Saturday morning cartoon? An episode of G.I. Joes? No, this is real life, and if you don't get with the program, you're going to wind up a dead man, and you'll be of no use to us.
"The lesson, rookie, is this: trust no one. Not your friends, not your allies, not strangers. It's us vs. them—anyone who isn't a member of FOXHOUND is a potential enemy. What did I say, day one? Every cadet you meet is competition; there's only so many open spots for new recruits and if you don't take yours, someone else will. The only thing, the only thing that you can trust is the mission. You want to quit? You want to give your spot up to Mamba? Say the word, I'll turn this bird right back around."
Cricket clenched his fists and said nothing. He turned his gaze to the floor.
"That's what I thought," Salamander grunted as he wiped blood from his lips. He pointed to the seats. "Sit your ass down, strap in, and shut up. We'll be back at base in 30."
Cricket did as he was told. Not another word was spoken the whole flight back. In the weeks after the exercise, Cricket would break things off with Honey Badger. From now on, no more distractions, no more camaraderie. He took Salamander's lesson to heart. From that point forward, he trusted no one on that base but himself, and the rest of his second year was spent with a heightened sense of paranoia.
As his training moved into his third year, Cricket would become more reserved, more professional in his mannerisms, at the expense of his earlier friendly demeanor. It would serve him well in the days leading up to his last few months of training.
DECEMBER 19, 1993
MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN
Cricket pulled his jacket tighter around him as he walked on the sidewalk along Pleasant Street. The local businesses and cafes were abuzz with families and tourists going about their last-minute Christmas shopping for the year. It had been over four years since Cricket had been anywhere near anything resembling a civilian setting. The whole thing felt so surreal to him. The way these people moved, without a care in the world. The idea that the whole thing that kept their relatively peaceful existence in motion was the waging of bloodshed, cruelty, and misery half a world away didn't even seem to register with them. In a way, Cricket envied them. To live in such ignorance…it must be so calming.
As he moved closer to the Milwaukee River, the crowds started to make way for construction equipment and renovation. A couple of years ago, the city had started to undergo some kind of infrastructure project. "RiverWalk," the locals called it. The way it was explained to Cricket, the idea was to beautify the district along the river to give local businesses a boost and give the tourists something to look at. They got the permits in 1990, and it was expected that they'd finish sometime in the next several years before the decade was out. It sounded like a good idea, Cricket supposed. Not being from the area, he didn't really have any opinion one way or the other. But the gas station attendant who had chatted him up while he bought his cigarettes seemed really excited about it.
After another twenty to thirty minutes of walking, Cricket found himself at a public park. There were some kids playing under the watchful eye of their parents, teenage lovers sat next to each other on wooden benches as they huddled together to share their warmth in the cold December weather. Cricket looked around, trying not to draw too much attention to himself.
Turning the corner, he moved down Cass Street past an elementary school to what seemed to be some sort of marketplace with various restaurants. He paused in front of one, making a show of looking at the restaurant's name on the building as if trying to decide whether he wanted to go inside. In reality, he was checking the reflection in the window.
For this exercise, he was placed in a public setting for the purpose of locating two FOXHOUND observers. It was a test of his observational skills: could he spot a tail in a crowded area? Could he successfully tail a target with them being none the wiser?
He'd undergone plenty of combat stealth training on the FOXHOUND base up north (or at least, he assumed it was further north, given the cold and the fact that water trainings took place on one of the actual Great Lakes)—hiding in shadows, making good use of wilderness camouflage, etc. However, some missions may require insertion into a populated area, and he would need to be able to blend in effectively to complete his given objective.
Cricket rubbed his face, to give the impression that he was checking his own reflection for whether he needed to shave, to buy himself time before he'd have to move again. They'd dropped him off in some random alleyway. He only knew he was in Milwaukee because he stepped into a pay phone and saw the phone book. Thankfully, FOXHOUND had left him with some cash in his pocket—they must be working under the assumption that the exercise could take some time.
Nodding to himself, Cricket stepped into the restaurant. Hell, if they were going to give him lunch money, he might as well use it. If nothing else, it gave him an excuse to get out of the cold. It must have been a slow day at the restaurant—there were only a few other patrons besides him, which suited Cricket just fine as that would make people watching a little easier. A pretty waitress sat him down at a corner booth in the smoking section, and he ordered a coffee as he removed his jacket.
The waitress kindly offered him a menu with his coffee and as he sipped on it thoughtfully, he pulled out one of his Lucky Strikes and lit the end with a sigh. Alternating between sipping his coffee and taking a drag, Cricket leaned back contentedly against the soft cushion of the booth seat as he allowed himself to relax for what felt like the first time since Basic Training.
He lazily rolled his eyes to look out the window. No familiar faces, nobody looking suspicious or trying too hard not to look suspicious. Just families, lovers, and tourists enjoying their holidays. Cricket couldn't help but smile a little. He couldn't exactly claim to know what a normal, happy family home life was like, but from the smiles on the faces of all these strangers, he couldn't help but feel a little warm at the prospect. He blew out of plume of smoke and rubbed his eye.
"Long day?"
Cricket looked up. The waitress had returned with the pot of coffee and started to refill his cup. Cricket chuckled. "You could say that" he said. "Technically, I'm still on the clock. Just figured I'd stop for a bite, since the job is paying for it."
"Oh, yeah? Are you doing some business travel?"
Cricket nodded. Not too far from the truth. "Sure am."
The waitress gave a very charming smile as she continued making small talk. "I thought so. You don't look like you're from around here. This your first time in Milwaukee?"
Cricket blew on his hot fresh coffee to keep from scalding his tongue before answering, "First time in Wisconsin period, I'm pretty sure."
"Makes sense," the waitress nodded. "The accent was a dead giveaway. You don't sound like a cheesehead."
"Cheesehead?"
"Yeah. Surprised you haven't heard of it before! Wisconsin is the dairy capital of America. The Green Bay Packers have a big rivalry with Illinois, and their baseball and football fans call us 'cheeseheads' to make fun of us for it, like an insult. Joke's on them though—we take pride in our dairy around here. Heck, I think there was a guy a few years ago who even started making novelty cheese-shaped hats!"
"Oh, yeah?" The concept sounded strange to Cricket, and more than a little ridiculous. What would that even look like?
"For sure, mister! I'm surprised you haven't seen them around yet. I take it you're not much of a football fan?"
Cricket shrugged. "Can't say I am. To be fair though, I've been overseas most of the past few years. Maybe I just missed the boat on the whole 'cheesehead' thing."
"Overseas?" the waitress asked before her eyes lit up. "Oh, are you a veteran?"
Cricket chuckled. "You're pretty perceptive."
"Well, our restaurant gives discounts to veterans! You wouldn't happen to have your VA card on you?"
Cricket shrugged. "Left it at home. Sorry."
The waitress shook her head. "It's no worry. I'll apply the discount to your bill anyway. I won't tell anyone if you don't," she said with a wink.
Cricket smirked and held a finger to his lips, winking back. "Mum's the word."
After he ordered his food, the waitress moved away, and Cricket returned to the task of observing his surroundings. An old man sat at the bar, smoking, and nursing a beer as he watched the Packers play the Minnesota Vikings with a dejected look on his face. Two booths down from Cricket, a young couple were enjoying what looked to be a lively Christmas date. At the opposite corner was an elderly couple enjoying an early dinner with their toddler-aged grandchild.
Cricket looked out the window again, trying to place more focus on the people outside. A man in a dark coat, smoking at the bus stop. A family with two rowdy children in tow. A businesswoman arguing with someone over a large expensive-looking cellular phone. Cars going either direction, the occasional yellow cab. In the window of a café across the street, a man reading a newspaper. A barista was busy behind the counter. A dance studio next door.
Cricket sighed. None of these people looked like the probable target. He'd been wandering around Milwaukee for something like two hours before he had reached this restaurant and even now, he was still coming up squat. The whole thing was enough to put him in a sour mood, though he perked up slightly when the waitress came out with his food.
"Anything else I can get for you, honey?"
Cricket glanced at his coffee and saw it was still mostly full, so he shook his head with a smile. "No thanks, I'm good on my end, uh…"
"It's Penny," the waitress replied with a nod. "Don't be afraid to holler if you need anything."
Cricket raised his coffee cup with a nod, and she went back to work tending to the other guests. As he ate, Cricket nonchalantly let his eyes wander around the restaurant again. The old man at the bar wore khakis and a button-down shirt blotchy with oil stains—probably a mechanic—and a pair of old glasses were sitting on the tip of his nose. The teen couple wore jeans and tennis shoes, the girl wore a blouse and letter jacket, the guy a plaid flannel shirt over a Nirvana T-shirt. The elderly man and his wife wore similarly plain clothes. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
The man with the newspaper across the street wore a polo—business casual wear. Maybe he was on his lunch break? The barista wore a skirt and a denim jacket with an apron over the front. Cricket was starting to get frustrated. The more he tried to look for anything unusual or noteworthy the more he started to worry about drawing attention to himself and tipping off any observers into performing a disappearing act.
Sighing, he tried to relax again and focus on just enjoying what was left of his meal and cigarette before going on the move again. When he'd finished, Penny came again to hand him the bill.
"How was your meal?" she asked.
"It was good, thank you," Cricket smiled politely.
"I'm glad you liked it. Be sure to come back again sometime hon, I'll have something extra special made just for you," she replied with a wink as she put the bill on the table. As she walked away with the 'clack, clack, clack' of her heels, Cricket picked up the receipt and realized that she had also left him her phone number. Chuckling to himself, he laid out the cash for the meal plus an extra $20 for a tip, which almost emptied his pocket. Grabbing his smokes and the number, Cricket pulled his jacket back on and climbed out of the booth to walk out of the restaurant when he noticed something.
The old man at the bar was wearing steel toe boots. Not especially strange if he's a blue-collar worker, especially a mechanic—however, the boots were polished to a mirror sheen. Most civilians below a certain age wouldn't bother polishing their shoes and even when someone goes to the trouble to polish their shoes, they're usually dress shoes. And if he were a blue-collar worker, it'd be unlikely he'd go to the trouble of polishing his boots as they'd just end up scuffed and dirty from the next workday anyway. Maybe he's a military man, or a veteran, still keeping up the old dress regulations? But that couldn't be right, as this old man had a beard and between his stubble, rough-hewn hands, and oil marks on his button-down, he seemed far too relaxed to fit that description.
It wasn't enough to peg him as a potential spy, but it was something that Cricket took as worth noting as he kept walking to head out the door and into the fog outside. Taking a bus, he travelled further east on Brady St for a few stops and stopped at a newsstand to purchase a newspaper before walking into an alleyway next to a barber shop and circling around the building, taking care not to walk too fast.
When he emerged from the alley on the opposite side of the building's front, he turned into the barber shop and sat down in the waiting area, opening his newspaper while he waited to be called by the proprietor as the chairs were all already full of customers. Holding his newspaper in front of him, he peeked over the top out at the other customers in the waiting area. A bearded thirty-something man with a scarf and overcoat pulled off his hat to reveal a shaved head. A stressed single mother in a skirt and leggings tried in vain to shush her hyperactive and impatient children. An older man with an arm cast, dark aviator sunglasses, and a trilby hat with the brim pulled down low leaned against the window, lazily looking out into the crowd.
When two of the seated customers got up to pay for their haircuts, the mother and her kids got up for their turn and the man with the cast and shades glanced over to regard the newcomer. "Anything interesting in the news today?"
Cricket shrugged. "Not really. Some music news, I guess. Carey's song 'Hero' made the charts. Michael Clarke didn't make it—liver failure."
"That's a shame," the man commented. "I liked his drumming in Firefall."
"I'll take your word for it," said Cricket as he glanced out the window.
"Hey, if you're done with that, you mind if I take it?"
Not wanting to prolong the conversation, Cricket handed the newspaper over. "Knock yourself out," he said.
The man gratefully accepted the newspaper with his good hand with a nod as he flipped through the pages. "Hmm, Russia and Abkhazia taking Sukhumi from Georgia…Serbian and Croatian secessionists in Bosnia. Looks like the fall of the USSR hasn't caused the Eastern Europeans to lose their taste for regional conflicts and empire building. And then there's that new European Union in the west."
"You go in for the whole geopolitics thing?" Cricket asked curiously.
The man shrugged. "It's a pastime of mine. I used to be a lecturer of International Affairs at the University of Wisconsin."
"What's your take?"
"That the Air Force hospital in Landstuhl better get ready for an influx of new patients."
"You think America would intervene? Last I heard our involvement was strictly diplomatic."
"I think it's only a matter of time. Clinton was very public about his intentions to expand NATO further across the Atlantic, and if the old hatreds against Muslim ethnic groups in Yugoslavia, Croatia, and Bosnia are anything to go by, it would be a prime opportunity to gain some goodwill by rushing to their aid and resolving the matter," the man sighed. "The Eastern nations aren't the only ones with a history of empire building."
"What about the UN?"
"What about them?" the man asked. "The combined military forces of the United Nations are mostly composed of or heavily bolstered by the American military anyway. They're in no position to say anything one way or the other, and they know it. Twenty-five hundred years of human history, and to this day the only rule that matters is who has the bigger stick."
The man shook his head. "No sir, war is coming. I'm sure of it."
Cricket leaned back. Could that be the next move for FOXHOUND, he wondered? Deployment into Kosovo? For a moment he forgot why he was even there in that barbershop as he contemplated the question before the staff called him up for his turn.
Wordlessly he walked over to his chair and sat down, looking into the mirror at the wild, long, and shaggy mullet that had grown like a mop on his head in the time he'd spent at the FOXHOUND training facility. He instructed the barber to take about an inch and a half off the back, and a little off the front and top.
As the barber got to work, he saw the man with the arm cast sit down next to him in his peripheral vision. There was something about the man which unsettled him, so he did his best not to acknowledge him as the old man took off his shades with a sigh before he nodded to his barber.
"How old are you, kid?"
What a weird, out of nowhere question. Cricket couldn't figure out why, but there was something about the man next to him that set him on edge—alarm bells blared in his head telling him to avoid interacting with him as much as possible. Unfortunately, they were both confined to their chairs and there was no way for Cricket to extricate himself without making a scene and drawing attention, and he couldn't stay silent without coming off as rude.
"…I'm twenty-one," Cricket replied.
"Ah, you're still young. Old enough to serve, though. Something about the way you carry yourself tells me you already have. Am I right?" the man chuckled dryly.
Cricket didn't respond, just letting the air hang in uncomfortable silence.
"Tell me something," the man went on, as if Cricket didn't just no-sell the conversation. "If America does intervene, what's your plan? Will you go to Bosnia?"
Cricket shrugged. Why does this stranger care so much about his future plans, he wondered? "If I'm serving, then I'd have to go wherever my orders take me. Isn't that how it works?" Cricket hedged.
"True, true," the man said. "Once you sign on the dotted lines, you become property of the United States government until your term's up. They'd have to offer quite a bit to make it worth your freedom. So, why'd you do it? If you don't mind my asking, of course."
Cricket did mind him asking, but he felt it would be rude to say so. He'd been raised—such as it were—to respect his elders, so rather than saying the obvious thing, he furrowed his brow and made a big show of being lost in thought. "Because I'm loyal," he said.
"Loyal, huh? Loyal to whom?"
Cricket went silent. Something about the question had an edge to it that made it seem less than innocent. He was about to tell the man to mind his own damn business when the man stood up, his barber having finished his work. Cricket looked over just as the man was putting his hat back on, his forearm obstructing his face.
"Never mind," the man said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough. Be seeing you, kid."
With a tip of the hat, the man pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose and walked over to the register to pay and leave. As the man was walking out the door, Cricket got up to hurriedly pay for his haircut and walked out the door, looking around before spotting the man in the distance halfway down the block. Cricket flipped up the collar of his jacket against the wind, waited for the man to walk further by about thirty more paces and began his tail.
He tried to stick to walking behind throngs of people to make his following less obvious. As the man walked back towards the RiverWalk construction and the crowds began to disperse, Cricket crossed the street to stay with the people, using the man's reflection in the windows of the shops and businesses he passed to make his observation of the man less conspicuous.
Something was off about the man; Cricket just knew it. While it was possible that he was just an overly chatty old university professor who's well-versed on current events, something about the air the man exuded just screamed into Cricket's head that he was more than he let on. The hat, shades, and cast felt like a distraction or a disguise, and Cricket had learnt in his time with FOXHOUND and with the Berets before that to trust his instincts.
Suddenly, the man turned into an alleyway. Cricket glanced down the alley after the man, who just kept walking and saw that the alley ended and turned left with a dead end on the right-hand side. Rather than follow the man down, Cricket kept walking to the corner and turned right around the building and walked into an electronics store next to the alleyway to pretend to browse their merchandise while looking out the window to wait for the man to emerge from the other side of the alley.
However, the man from the barbershop didn't reappear. Instead, Cricket recognized the old man from the restaurant from earlier, accompanied by one half of the teenage couple who had apparently left her boyfriend behind at the restaurant, both heading straight for the mouth of the alleyway ahead. A meeting?
It was too many coincidences. Looking around the store, Cricket saw an employee service entrance in the back that led to a stairway and moved to position himself nearby. When an employee came out of the door carelessly swinging it open wide, Cricket caught it before it closed and slipped through, taking the stairs two at a time until he found the exit to the rooftop.
Emerging into the cold fog on the flat rooftop of the one-story building, Cricket moved toward the top of a nearby fire escape and peered down into the alleyway to see the three individuals standing together. Back by the service door was a cardboard box filled with assorted electronics. Struck with an idea, Cricket quickly picked up and put aside the electronic devices as he grabbed and folded the box under his arm.
As slowly and quietly as he could he descended the rungs of the ladder to the metal platform below and crouched behind the railing and pulled the box over his head. Staring through the handle slit, he watched the trio and listened as they conducted their meeting.
"Were you seen?" asked the man with the cast and aviators.
"I think he suspected something when he walked by me," said the old man with the stained shirt and polished boots, "but if he did, I haven't seen him following me here."
"He looked right at me," said the girl, "but I didn't see any recognition in his eyes. Pretty sure I wasn't made."
The man with sunglasses nodded. "I just encountered him, myself. Didn't get a good look at me, but I could tell that he knew. I slipped out before he could follow. If he didn't follow either of you here, then that's the results of our test right there. It's a shame. The kid was starting to show some promise."
"It's not over yet," the old man responded. "The exercise doesn't conclude until he reaches exfil."
"But the only way he can get there is if he follows us," the girl pointed out. "If he couldn't find his way here, he's not going to know where to go for extraction."
"Exactly. So, either we'll see him there, or we won't," the man with shades replied. "Either way, we'll know enough to get conclusive test results. Let's move out. We'll rendezvous at Point Charlie."
The three individuals nodded to each other. The old man and the girl left first, and then after several moments, the man with the aviators turned to leave. Once Cricket saw him get to the end of the alleyway and turn the corner, Cricket pushed the box off him and jumped the railing to land and roll safely on the ground, jogging up to the alleyway to peek around the corner, spotting his target just as he began to cross the street.
Cricket had to jog to keep up, as the man was moving much faster now. The pacing was erratic, directions constantly shifting. Cricket was worried that he had been caught a couple of times as the man moved into less and less populated areas. At one point, the man turned around quickly, and Cricket only just barely managed to duck into an alcove before he could be seen.
After about an hour of the silent chase, the man climbed into a car waiting for him on the street. Cricket had let the man get a substantial lead on him to avoid being seen, even at the risk of losing him entirely. When he saw the man enter the vehicle, he called a cab and handed the driver the last cash he had in a wad and instructed them to follow the man's car as discreetly as he could.
"What are you, a private eye?" the driver asked.
"Just follow the damn car," Cricket responded, whose rudeness didn't win him any points with the driver, who grumbled the whole way.
After a solid thirty minutes of driving, the cabbie asked if he had any more money for the meter, and when Cricket admitted that he didn't, the driver pulled over curbside and told him this was where he got off. Rather than make a stink of it, Cricket complied. He ran to the end of a nearby bridge and watched his target's car drive away. By some miracle, rather than the car driving out of sight like he expected, it pulled out into a small industrial area toward a large warehouse. Cricket started running while he watched the man get out in the distance and walk inside.
After about a fifteen-minute jog, Cricket reached the warehouse and took a minute to catch his breath before walking up to the entrance door and knocking three times before opening it. Inside he was greeted by the three strangers he had encountered over the course of that day, standing next to a grey windowless van.
"So, you made it here," said the man with aviators. "How'd you find us?"
"Just followed you," Cricket answered. "Though you didn't make it easy."
"That's the idea," said the old man.
The man with aviators took off his hat and shades, revealing his eyepatch. "That box on the fire escape," Big Boss started, waving his hat in his hand for emphasis. "Was that you?"
Cricket's eyes widened. He didn't think he'd been seen there. "How'd you—"
"You think you're the only one who had the idea to use a box for stealth?" Big Boss smiled ruefully. "Kid, I invented the trick."
The younger girl looked over at the other two. "So, what do you think, Boss? Did he pass?"
The Boss looked Cricket up and down, sizing him up. With a grunt of approval, he nodded and tore the fake cast off his left arm before approaching. "You passed. Congrats, kid. You get to keep going." He looked over to the old man. "Bag him and let's go home."
Moments later, Cricket's elation was stifled by the black cloth bag being pulled over his head as he was led into the back of the van and driven back to the pickup to be delivered back to the FOXHOUND training facility, another exercise completed and one more step closer to the end of his training.
A/N: Sorry, this took longer than I thought, it's been kind of a long month. To be honest, while this chapter was a joy to write, I'm not as big of a fan of how the tailing exercise ended. I realized I spent so much time focusing on the more combat-oriented aspects of Snake's training I didn't show much of his espionage work which is ironic considering that's kind of the whole point of FOXHOUND. So, I looked to the tailing mission from MGS4 and scenes from John le Carré's books for inspiration.
I liked the idea of having Big Boss being one of the instructors because I wanted to start developing a bit of his relationship with Snake prior to Intrude N313 and his short conversation in the barbershop gives me the chance to have them have a sort of introduction to each other in a less formal setting compared to when they technically first met at the Pentagon. That, and Big Boss's questions about Snake's sense of loyalty lets me follow up on Snake's conversation with Honey Badger in the previous chapter and will give me a through line for where I want to take his and Big Boss's interactions in future work. My only gripe with this chapter is that I didn't really know how to end it, and I think it kind of shows when they get to the warehouse that it was kind of running out of steam.
In any event, next chapter will have the final exam and Snake's official induction into the FOXHOUND unit, as well as when he'll get his official codename assigned to him, so I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am! This has been a lot of fun to write, so thank you for reading and for your continued support as it gives me the motivation to keep at it!