AUGUST 1994
FORT POLK, LOUISIANA
PROVING GROUNDS
It was an absurd proposition, to choose this place for the test.
To start with, there was the venue: muddy and unpleasantly humid swampland approaching the tail end of summer, swarming with the buzzing of mosquitoes and cicadas and crawling with all manner of unpleasant creatures like centipedes, earwigs, and spiders. The air was so thick with humidity that walking through it felt like you were two steps away from swimming. It was enough to make any man go crazy.
It was one of many reasons that made Fort Polk such an unpopular posting. There was also the fact that the fort was also known for hosting a hostile environment towards day-to-day work whether it be the unfortunate reputation for incompetence among its staff, the routine lack of funding for adequate resources or the emotional tensions that frequently flare into anger which is no doubt exacerbated by the aforementioned unpleasant biome in which the place resided.
On top of all of that was the nature of the scenario that marked the absurdity of the test with its contradiction: on the outskirts of Fort Polk, near where Special Forces personnel would routinely piss off soldiers on station by acting as OPFOR in training exercises and taking pot shots at lower enlisted folk while they went about their already unpleasant days, was the location of today's simulation: a mockup of an Afghani village. Never mind the fact that Afghanistan is a combination of woodland forests, mountains, meadows, and deserts without much in the way of swampland. There was nothing about the choice of location which made any logical sense in relation to the scenario, save for the fact that the environment could still be dangerous to the health of the unprepared.
Inside of this "village" were a combination of FOXHOUND personnel and volunteers from the local detachment of Green Berets, acting as Taliban militants. The Berets were told that this was a training exercise to prepare Special Forces for potential intervention in Afghanistan following the news of the ultraconservative organization's capture of Kandahar which broke that month. To play as OPFOR, they were instructed to construct and maintain defenses suitable for such a village, and to converse solely in Dari and Pashto for the sake of authenticity. As the exercise was taking place on their turf, they were left in charge of working out the details.
Their objective: to guard and prevent the rescue of a group of three foreign news correspondents that they had captured and taken hostage for ransom. The role of the news crew was played by FOXHOUND, who would be evaluating the success or failure of the applicant. The Berets turned the village into an impregnable compound, expecting a squad of four to eight soldiers to attack.
They were not informed that the test was for a single infiltrator.
Cricket wiped the thick sweat that was forming on his forehead as he crawled through the tall grass of a hill overlooking the village to observe. His hands were still shaking from the flight to Leesville earlier that week. He'd been a bundle of nerves ever since he was first told six months prior that he had passed the grade and was scheduled to take the final exam. Even now he had to focus to keep his hands from trembling as he clicked the switch of the small two-way radio clipped to his chest.
"This is Cricket," he whispered softly, "do you read me? Over."
Major Jacobs's sandpaper voice sounded on the other end into his earpiece. "This is Major Jacobs. We read you, Cricket. Have you reached the settlement yet?"
"I've reached the village," Cricket replied. "Based on the position of the sun, I appear to be on the southeast side. I see multiple enemy sentries on the outskirts, all spread out. I count…six, no, seven buildings, with tougher security further in."
When they started the exercise, Cricket was released about a half a click east of Whisky Chitto Creek. He was given two hours to brief on his mission and the general location of his target, but it still took him a couple hours to find and get within visual range of the village itself.
They told him he would have thirteen hours from the start of the exercise to locate and rescue the news crew. After that time limit passed, the Afghan fighters would execute all three of the correspondents and the mission would be over. Just like a real mission, he was given no weapons or equipment, just a general sense of where to go. He would receive no help, and no backup except for whatever intel the mission control team provided over the radio.
"We have received intel that the insurgents are keeping the hostages separate, and that the enemy has access to explosives," Maj. Jacobs intoned.
Cricket slowly raised his torso onto his elbows to try and get a better look at the sentries over the obstructing grass. "Looks like they're armed with Kalashnikovs."
"The AKs are likely a holdover from when the Soviets occupied the country several years ago," Jacobs replied. "As you know, they're both fully and semi-automatic. So, don't get careless."
"Affirmative. They'll probably be a huge help if I can get my hands on one, though."
"Indeed," Jacobs agreed. "But they're not likely to be suppressed. Remember that while you have been granted full operational freedom to achieve the objective, this is still primarily a stealth mission. If the enemy catches you, they could retaliate and endanger the hostages. Take care that you avoid raising any alarms. If you're caught, quickly subdue the enemy before he can call out to his friends. First, you should find out where exactly the hostages are being held."
Cricket nodded, momentarily forgetting that he was talking over the radio. "Understood. Commencing operation now. Will maintain radio silence barring further developments."
"Acknowledged. We will keep you apprised of any changes to mission parameters," Major Jacobs said back.
The quiet conversation now over, Cricket inched forward on his belly as he made the slow approach towards two sentries that walked on patrol together. He stayed about fifty paces behind while crawling underneath the underbrush as he shadowed their patrol path. He knew he couldn't just attack them—even if he was able to take them out unarmed without them raising an alarm, the other soldiers in the village would come looking for them and call for a search, maybe even place the hostages under greater security. No, he was better off looking for an "off-duty" militiaman hanging around inside the village by himself.
What Cricket was actually hoping for in following these two sentries was that the guards' patrol would lead him on a relatively safe path into the village proper. One of the guards looked over his shoulder suddenly, and Cricket laid his head down, not wanting to be caught moving. The guard said something to his partner in Pashto. Pashto wasn't one of the languages which Cricket had learned in his time at the training facility, but his radio was transmitting to Mission Control, who had an active translator on hand to recite for him.
The guards were making idle conversation, talking about their plans for the week, what they had for breakfast that day, wondering how long until their OPFOR was going to attack their position. Nothing particularly interesting or anything that could give him information on the hostages, and nothing to indicate that the guard had seen him.
The guards made a lazy turn back toward the village, and Cricket followed until they approached the first building. As the guards moved along the street past the building, Cricket broke off and crawled to the edge of where the grass could hide him until the guards were out of sight and he got up and crouch-walked to the wall underneath the sill of an open window.
Voices could be heard inside, discussing weapon emplacements and shift rotations for the hostages. Cricket heard the click of a lighter and smelled cigarette smoke wafting from the window, and he slowly crept back away from the window while keeping pressed against the wall.
Footsteps. The voices inside were walking away, sounding from the slight echo like they were going down a hallway before they disappeared entirely. There was just the sound of the smoker puffing on his cigarette. The smoker leaned out the window, his head poking out as he stared into the sky. He hadn't seen Cricket below him and off to the side.
Cricket could grab him if he was quick, but if the man wasn't alone in the room, it could raise an alarm. Deciding to play it safe, Cricket backed away a little further, turned around and walked to the end of the wall before turning the corner, his left now facing away from the building toward the outskirts of the village.
He came up to a door on his right that was in front of him, which opened as he approached. Thankfully, the door blocked the person's view of Cricket as one of the building's occupants stepped outside, lazily pushing the door behind him without looking. Cricket spotted a knife on the guard's hip and moved forward, expecting the guard to turn to face him. Instead, the guard turned away, his back to him. Cricket took his chance and rushed up to grab the guard in a headlock from behind and pull the knife from its sheathe on the guard's hip to hold up to his captive's throat.
Acting quickly, Cricket pulled a PMM-variant Makarov pistol from its holster on the guard's right thigh and held it near his head, pushing him away from the building and pulling him down behind some bushes. He whispered into his radio, "Mission Control, I have an enemy captive. Require assistance with questioning."
"Stand by for the translator," responded Maj. Jacobs. A moment of silence, followed by a woman's response: "Ready," she said.
He looked down at the guard, whose eyes were solely on the knife Cricket held. "The hostages. Where are they?" Cricket demanded.
The guard was combative, muttering curses at him and being generally unhelpful. Made sense—not every enemy captured in the real world was going to be cooperative at the slightest bit of questioning. The guard looked like he was about to yell for help before Cricket cut him off, pointing the knife at his eye. It may have been a training exercise, but he still needed to give the impression that he was a threat. The guard visibly calmed down.
"Talk," Cricket said.
The guard confessed that one of the hostages was wearing a bomb vest and that another one of them was in the very building that he had just left. When pressed on where the other two hostages were, the guard was silent. Realizing that was as good as he was going to get, Cricket pressed the flat of the blade against the guard's neck and said, "You're dead," before laying the guard down onto the ground under the bushes. The guard himself went limp and made no effort to move, having been removed from the exercise. Now, the only role he would play is if the enemy discovered the "body."
Cricket relieved the guard of his pistol holster and strapped it to his own thigh and clipped the knife sheath to his belt. He checked the guard's vest for magazines and slipped a couple into his pockets. He considered taking the AK too but decided against it—if he was in a position to use the AK-47 then stealth would have already failed, and he'd probably fail the simulation along with it if he hadn't already rescued any of the hostages by then.
So instead, Cricket ejected the magazine from the rifle and threw it into the bayou and ejected the bullet from the chamber and threw that into the water as well. He then buried the rifle in mud so the enemy wouldn't be able to recover it and use it against him.
Retrieving his new begotten loot, Cricket moved back to the building and positioned himself next to the door, which he opened a slight crack. A hallway. No enemy movement. He opened the door a little wider, poking his head in to look down on either side. Empty.
There was a doorway at the end of the hall to his right, which led to the room with the window, which was of a decent size. The smoker was still leaning out the window, standing behind a table in the middle of the room. Was it a meeting room? Dining room? The table had papers strewn all about it from where Cricket could see. There were AKs leaning against the wall near the door.
Halfway down the hall, just across from where Cricket was and to the left, was a closed wooden door, and at the other end, the hall turned a corner, with another open window just visible around the corner.
Cricket slipped in through the door, quietly closing it behind him, and moved right into the room at the end, and briefly looked to his left as he entered to get a good look at the rest of the room while keeping his gun trained on the smoker. On his left against the wall were a couple of lockers and a doorway leading to another part of the building, opposite from where the smoker was standing with his back turned.
Moving quickly, Cricket moved up behind the smoking guard and grabbed him, pressing his blade against the struggling guard's collar bone to keep it from digging into the flesh of his neck. "Dead," he whispered. Immediately the guard stopped struggling and just went limp, forcing Cricket to drag him over to the lockers, one of which he opened and pushed the "body" inside.
Cricket sheathed the knife and leaned around the corner to point his pistol through the door. Another, longer hallway that ended in a set of double doors, which looked like they were made of iron, with a small, barred window in each one. Was this the holding cell? There were no other doors in this hallway. Cricket didn't have the time or the manpower to clear the whole building, so he pushed into the hall to the doors and peeked through the bars.
Inside were two guards, overlooking a prisoner inside a spacious nondescript room. The prisoner was dressed in a filthy white button-down shirt and tie and brown khakis, forced to his knees, and facing the corner while one guard looked him over and the other faced another iron single door on the opposite end of the room. The guards were making light conversation with each other in Pashto while the prisoner kneeled in silence.
There was no way to get inside without being heard or seen, Cricket noted with some frustration. It might be safer to check the rest of the building first to make sure he wouldn't attract any unwanted guests when he went in for the rescue.
Turning around, he crept back through the meeting room and back to the initial hallway to check the doorway down the hall. Checking the door handle and finding it unlocked, he moved in pressed against the door as it swung open, pointing his pistol in each direction. It was a bedroom with a single cot and a closet. He checked under the bed and in the closet, finding no threats. Without a word, he stepped out of the room and moved further down the hall and looked out the window to make sure no guards were in sight of him before he crossed the window and turned the corner.
The hallway continued a little further, ending in a door before turning left and extending some more—likely circled another room before ending in the holding cell. Cricket moved up to the door, tried the handle, and found it to be locked. A voice came out in Pashto, and his translator on the radio stated that they were saying to wait one moment. Most likely a bathroom. So, that was three combatants in the building still active. Cricket moved back behind the corner so that he couldn't be seen by any guards leaving the holding cell and waited.
After a few minutes, the flush of a toilet and some running water could be heard. The door opened, and the guard stepped out to find Cricket with his gun pointed at his face. "Freeze!" Cricket uttered in a harsh whisper. The guard put his hands up.
"Turn around, stand and stare at the wall."
The guard slowly turned his back at Cricket's command, and Cricket walked up behind and pulled the pistol from the guard's holster, tucking it into his waistband with his offhand as he started patting the guard down. Satisfied that the guard was no longer armed, Cricket forced the guard to his knees as he grabbed two hand towels from the rack by the sink and wrapped one around the guard's wrists behind his back and another around the guard's head with the towel digging into his mouth. Cricket then clicked the door handle lock on the inside before closing the door.
Knowing that there was a guard watching the cell door on his side, Cricket turned around and moved back to the iron doors on the other side of the building, grabbing some discarded paper clips from the meeting room on the way. Looking through the bars to check that they were still facing the opposite direction, Cricket got on one knee and started picking the lock. In a few moments, the door was unlocked, and he lightly pulled one of the double doors, hoping they wouldn't creak as they swung open.
Unfortunately, one of the guards heard the hinges squeak and cried out, swinging to point his rifle at Cricket while the one standing near the hostage moved to level his pistol at the hostage's head. Thinking fast, Cricket picked up a nearby metal bucket from the ground and flung it at the guard next to the hostage, beaning him in the forehead. While the pistol guard recoiled and cursed, Cricket moved into close range with the rifleman and grabbed the barrel shroud before pressing the barrel of his handgun into the guard's forehead, proclaiming "dead," and pushing the guard to the ground.
The guard he'd hit with the bucket tried to respond in kind by tossing the bucket at Cricket, only for Cricket to duck and fire two simunition rounds into the guard's chest, splattering him in paint. Not sure if it counted as a kill shot since the guard was wearing an armor vest, Cricket ran forward and yanked the guard to the ground, concussing him. When the guard didn't move, he checked the man's pulse to make sure he was still alive before moving to secure the hostage.
After cutting the hostage's bonds and removing the bag from his head, Cricket realized that he recognized the face of the young soldier from his interrogation training two years ago, the guy who sounded like a choir boy.
"Are you injured?" Cricket asked, and Choir Boy shook his head as he got to his feet.
"Intel says there are two other hostages. Do you know where they are?"
"Last I saw they were together," Choir Boy said in his lilting voice. "I overheard a guard telling them to put on something. Maybe a vest?"
Bomb vests? Is that how they plan on executing them? Cricket thought to himself. He performed a quick brass check and ammo count while Choir Boy looked around, looking every bit the panicked news correspondent that he was supposed to be portraying.
"Please, you have to get me out of here! These people are crazy!"
Wow, the guy is really laying it on thick. Did he do drama in high school or something? Cricket grunted. "Follow me, I'll get you out of the village. Stick close and keep your head down, understand?"
"G-got it."
Cricket led Choir Boy through the cleared building and back to the door he had entered it from. Peeking out the door to make sure it was clear of sentries, Cricket led Choir Boy into the dense trees and tall grass of the swamp, moving over creek beds, gnarled logs and through thick mud until they were about 3 kilometers from Cricket's extraction point.
Cricket clicked his radio. "Control, do you read me? This is Cricket, over."
"Control here. Send it, Cricket," came Jacobs's reply.
"I've successfully freed one of the three hostages. I've brought him within three clicks of the exfil. I'm going to have him wait while I go back for the other two."
"Wait, what?" the Choir Boy responded. "No, you can't leave me! What if they find us?"
Cricket ignored him as he listened to Major Jacobs. "Understood," Jacobs replied. "Be advised, we've picked up on our satellites increased enemy activity. They may have discovered that the hostage is gone. Expect increased security. They may put out a search for the hostage you freed as well."
"Should I send him to exfil alone, have him wait for someone to bring him in?"
"Negative, Cricket. We cannot guarantee the survival of multiple flights, the zone is too hot. We'll need you to safeguard the hostages when the QRF moves in for your extraction—you will only get one shot at this."
"What do you advise?" Cricket asked.
Choir Boy pointed at the extra pistol tucked in Cricket's waistband. "Why don't you give me that one? If you're going to go in anyway, you're not going to need two handguns. At least let me defend myself."
Cricket took a moment to consider the idea. Ordinarily, letting an Unknown get control of a weapon in a hot zone is insanely dangerous. They could be a threat to themselves, the enemy, or to any friendlies in the area of operations.
"Control, are you listening? What do you advise?"
Silence at first. Then: "You are on your own in the hot zone, Cricket. I know you can't be in two places at once. Under the circumstances, you are authorized to decide the best course of action for yourself. Exercise extreme caution if you do choose to arm him, however."
"Understood." Cricket turned off his radio and placed the spare pistol into Choir Boy's hands before leading him to a well-covered thicket in the swampy woods.
"Stay here until I get back. You can have this weapon to protect yourself, but don't use it unless you're sure that the enemy has seen you. I won't be long."
"How will I know that it was you?" Choir Boy asked.
"I'll whistle upon my approach. When you hear me whistle, say the password, 'thunder.' The countersign will be 'flash.' If you say thunder and don't get the right response, assume the person approaching is a threat."
Choir Boy nodded as he huddled under the tree. "Okay."
It was a strange thing, Cricket noted as he started making his way back to the village, to be giving instructions and comforting direction to a soldier who was twice his size and likely more experienced than him. He wondered why Choir Boy was selected to play as a hostage for this exercise.
When he got back to the village, he saw that the guards were now out in force. Enemy sentries moved quickly from building to building as they patrolled, and the staff was more heavily concentrated around a square building with a dome in its roof situated near the center. Cricket got onto his stomach and crawled to one of the outer buildings where there wasn't a guard directly nearby and hopped onto a dumpster so he could pull himself up onto the roof to observe the building of interest a bit more directly.
Five guards were covering the large double doors at the southern entrance, with a large window next to the doors closer to the corner that Cricket was observing from. Another two were positioned by a single door around the corner on the east side, which Cricket was facing. He couldn't see the other side of the building, but he noted that he could see a guard tower position on the other side, poking up over the roof. The building was well-defended: this was most definitely where he would find the other two hostages.
Stealth insertion would be difficult, and a one-man assault inadvisable. Maybe there was an approach on the northern side that could be taken, Cricket thought to himself as he crawled away from his position and lowered himself off the roof and back onto the dumpster. He'll have to circle around, he decided. Spotting a mostly dry irrigation ditch just past the building, he went prone and crawled down into the puddles at the bottom, following the ditch's path around the building he just performed his recon at and silently moved under a small wooden footbridge that was built over the ditch for guards to walk over.
Hearing approaching footsteps, Cricket stopped just short of crawling out from the other side while he heard more guards trampling the bridge overhead. He tugged the pistol from his thigh holster and waited for them to pass before crawling forward.
He was now at the northwestern side of the building he had scoped out. He could see the guard tower near the closest corner, next to a gate which led into a small courtyard inside the building grounds, and a pair of patrolling guards with radio antennae walking along the northern wall. He waited for the radiomen to get to the tower, counting the seconds.
When they reached the tower, they called up to the sentry up top to ask if he'd seen anything. With the guards distracted, Cricket scrambled in a very fast crawl up to the bottom of the tower on the other side, hidden by the wood from the radiomen and outside of the man in the tower's peripheral vision.
The short conversation between the guards completed, Cricket heard the footsteps of the radiomen walking away, so he got up to his feet and lightly stepped to the open gate, peeking through it before slipping inside the walls.
He very nearly walked right into a guard that had his back to him, and Cricket dove behind a stack of wooden pallets, and crawled behind a nearby port-a-john before getting back up to his knees. Luckily, either the guard hadn't heard him or didn't care because he hadn't turned around. Doing an about-face, Cricket moved up to a small set of wooden steps, which ended in another metal door—the building inside the outer walls was on a raised foundation, probably due to the marshy soil not being able to support anything heavier on its own. This made for a sort of crawlspace under the floorboards which Cricket was able to access thanks to small hole in the fencing underneath.
He crawled under the building just as the door opened and another guard stepped out to go talk to the one Cricket had bypassed just inside the gate. The crawlspace was filled with spiderwebs and bugs. Cricket prayed that he didn't encounter any wasp nests as he moved further into the interior. A millipede crawled onto his leg, and Cricket had to hold his breath and bite his lip to keep from smacking it away and just letting it crawl off to parts unknown.
He stopped crawling when he heard muffled voices through the floorboards overhead. Someone was berating someone else in Dari. That wasn't the interesting part, though—he heard another separate voice saying in English, "I understand. We won't move, I promise."
Footsteps walking away. Cricket clicked on his radio. "Cricket to Mission Control. I'm underneath one of the village's central buildings. I believe I have located the other two hostages," he whispered softly.
"Repeat your last, Cricket. Did you say you were underneath the building?" Major Jacobs asked.
"Affirmative. I am attempting to locate a safe point of entry into the building, but it's difficult-just like you said, there is increased security, all around this place. I'm guessing this is their base of operations. I'm under the floorboards. Looks like the foundations are raised. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's safe."
"Is there anything else down there with you?"
Cricket looked around. "Besides bugs, I don't think so—not that I can see, anyway. It's dark down here."
Cricket squinted as his eyes adjusted. "Wait," he said. "I see some boxes up ahead. Don't know what's in them. Beyond that, the crawlspace ends at a wall."
"Sounds like the enemy is using that crawlspace for storage," Jacobs guessed. "There's probably a trap door somewhere they use to access it."
"That's my way in, then," Cricket said. "Inserting into building now. I'm going to commence the rescue attempt. Will maintain radio silence until I've escorted the hostages away from the village."
Cricket turned off his radio and slithered over to the boxes, looking upward. He found a square cut of wood he believed to be the trapdoor. Experimentally, he gave slight push. When it didn't move, he shoved harder. The door lifted slightly but wouldn't open. He guessed that it was probably locked. Cricket swore under his breath.
He looked over to the boxes. One of them was a large toolbox. He unclicked and lifted the lid and was surprised to find a 15-inch prybar, which was just short enough for him to work with inside the 44-inch-tall crawlspace. Grabbing the bar, he wedged the flat end into the crack between the trap door and the rest of the floor on the side where he saw it open. He then maneuvered around it so that he could kick it hard, wrenching the trap door lock loose and lifting up the trapdoor itself.
The crunch of the wood was loudly audible, so Cricket knew he didn't have much time to celebrate his victory over the trap as he pushed it up and climbed into the room, his weapon drawn as he took in his new surroundings.
He found himself in a storage room. Crates were stacked in the small walk-in closet space, one of which was open. Cricket looked inside and saw that buried in the packing straw were AK-47s. These must have been where the Green Berets stored the shipment of rifles that they got for this exercise.
Cricket briefly wondered where exactly these imports came from—certainly not the Soviets. Maybe an arms dealer from Afghanistan or somewhere in Africa? He knew the alphabet agencies—particularly the CIA—had shady dealings and contacts all over the world; presumably those contacts extended to arms dealers as well. Then again, Kalashnikovs weren't exactly hard to find. They were all over the Middle East when Cricket was stationed in Kuwait and southern Iraq. Damn things are probably cheaper than dirt, and Cricket was definitely used to being shot at with them.
He grabbed a rifle and slung it over his shoulders; this place was heavily defended, and he might have to fight his way out to escort the VIPs. No magazines, but Cricket didn't have time to search every crate; he'll just have to acquire some ammunition from any guards he might encounter. He moved the rifle such that it lay against his back and approached the door, opening it slightly, and then opening it wider to check the opposite direction when he saw the corridor was clear.
To his right was a doorway into some kind of lounge, and to his left was a hallway. Both were empty, so Cricket turned left and moved down the corridor to the far corner, holding his pistol close to his chest. He peeked around the corner: two large windows on the left-hand side, spaced far apart, with a door at the far end. Moving to the opposite wall, Cricket sidled up to the first window. From his limited sight line, he could see three guards positioned outside, facing away from the building. This must have been part of the southern side of the building that Cricket wasn't able to see from his rooftop viewing earlier. He guessed that the double-doors must be in the adjoining room at the end of the hall.
Cricket crawled underneath the windowsills to the other end of the hallway and got up to press his back to the wall once more. Reaching out, he gently turned the handle and pushed the door open, pieing the room with his pistol following the arc of the door as he entered what he believed to be the main hall, which was thankfully empty as he closed the door behind him.
In the corner opposite him was a wooden stairway leading up to the second story. Directly across from him was another hallway. The room was bare of any distinguishing features save for a single throw rug in the middle. Next to the doors was the large window Cricket had seen earlier. From his position, Cricket saw that the hallway in front of him ended a short way in before turning left. Cricket moved forward, crouching under the window, and moved into the hallway.
He didn't know what was on the second floor, but he had heard the hostage's voices from under the building, so he knew that his objective didn't lie there. Just as he approached the corner, he heard a door open, and he pressed himself against the wall as he listened to footsteps approaching from the left. He saw the barrel of the enemy's gun pop out from behind the corner, and Cricket rushed forth to grab it and point it into a safe direction before cold cocking the unfortunate Beret in the mouth before he could scream.
The guard returned with a knee directed at Cricket's groin, which Cricket hit with his pistol hand while driving his shoulder into the guard's sternum, pushing him back as he yanked the rifle from the guard's hands before pointing his pistol at his head. The guard raised his hands while Cricket took a step back to put some distance between them.
"Lie down," Cricket commanded with a harsh whisper. As slowly as he could manage, the guard got onto his knees and leaned to put his forehead on the floor. Cricket put his pistol back into its holster and pointed the rifle at the guard. Cricket turned on his radio. "Cricket to Control. Got another live one. I'm about to query."
"Ready," came the translator's response.
"Which room has the hostages? Answer quietly," Cricket demanded from the Beret. The Green Beret answered in Dari.
"He said it's just a little further ahead, past the camera room."
"Camera room? What are you talking about?"
The guard explained that the commander of the militants was intent on televising the execution of the news crew and that they were in the process of getting things ready when they'd received word that one of the hostages had escaped and that two "dead bodies" were found, a live guard was locked in the bathroom and another was missing and unaccounted for, so the commander had ordered them to mobilize.
"I heard that one of the hostages is wearing a bomb vest. For what purpose?"
In case the perpetrator attempted to rescue the prisoners, the commander had ordered that they be placed together and wired to explode to deny the intruder their prize, the guard answered. Cricket turned off his radio—he'd heard enough. He drew his knife and lightly touched the guard's neck as he held his opponent's head up by the hair. "Dead," he intoned, and the guard obediently went limp as he was removed from play.
Cricket ejected the magazine from the guard's rifle, inserted it into the one he was carrying, and took the extra two magazines the guard had on his vest before quietly moving up to the door on his right. The guard had come from outside, and he knew there was another one covering this door—he needed to get rid of him before moving on to the camera room.
Peeking through the door, he saw the guard right in front of him, facing away. He slipped through the door outside and grabbed the guard in a headlock, putting a knife to his throat and declaring him dead before dragging his limp body back through the doorway and into the hall to join his friend.
Cricket stood at the door to the camera room, breathed in slowly, and then burst through to the other side, taking by surprise two guards who were setting up camera equipment and plugging two rounds into the chest of one while the other quickly dove to the side and started wrestling with his rifle to get it pointed at the intruder.
Cricket didn't give him a chance to get a shot off and was already running around the room to get a better angle on the enemy soldier taking potshots as he went to discourage him from firing. The third shot caught the enemy in the shoulder, and the Beret reflexively dropped his rifle before grabbing for his sidearm, at which point Cricket was able to get another round in his chest. The chaos lasted for about twelve seconds, but it felt like minutes.
Not waiting for the enemy to respond to those shots, Cricket rushed to the cell door on the opposite end of the room, unlocked it and threw it open. Inside next to a mattress on a steel bed frame were two kneeling figures: a man and a woman, neither of which were faces he knew. The man was wearing a vest with wires and blocks of what looked like C4, connected to a small LED light bulb that glowed green.
"Oh, thank God!" cried the man at his approach. "Get this thing offa me!"
Cricket shut the cell door behind him, grabbed the bed and leaned it against the door to buy them some time before kneeling next to the man with the vest. He turned on his radio. "Control, this is Cricket. I've found the prisoners. One of them is wearing a bomb vest that I have reason to believe is active. Need immediate advisement for removal."
"Control here," came Jacobs's reply. "Patching you to EOD now."
"This is EOD," came an irritated, thick Irish brogue. "Describe the appearance of the vest to me and be quick about it."
Cricket proceeded to describe the vest in detail. In addition to the C4 and wires was some kind of serial number on the electronic component with the LED light, and a simple padlock to hold the thing in place.
"Good news is, since the explosive is C4, it is stable and won't explode without the detonator," the Irish EOD man said. "I recognize the serial number of the detonator you described. Let me grab my manual. Stand by."
Banging was heard against the door. "We don't have a lot of time here," Cricket said as he heard the Irishman turn pages over his radio earpiece.
"Cut the red and yellow wires, in that order," came the reply. Cricket pulled out his knife and did as he was asked. The LED light turned yellow.
"The light's yellow now. What does that mean?"
"The vest is safe to remove without setting it off, but it seems that the detonator is still active. It must be using an internal battery."
"Meaning that the terrorists might still be able to activate the detonator remotely," Cricket said, finishing the thought.
"Get that vest off now, Cricket!" came Jacobs's sharp command. "Before the guards banging on the door get their commander to activate it!"
Cricket sliced down the vest with his knife and pulled it off the struggling POW before throwing it at the door. Seeing some wet and rotting wood in the floorboards, Cricket stomped hard until he kicked through into the crawlspace below. "Quick! Get under!" he ordered.
The two prisoners jumped down into the space, crawling as far away as they could. Cricket looked back at the vest on the floor, and saw the LED flashing between yellow and red. He dove down and crawled after the prisoners to the courtyard. By the time Cricket and the two prisoners made it out from under the building, the LED on the vest turned a solid bright red, and a voice was heard over intercom speakers throughout the mock village:
"The bomb vest has been detonated by the cell door. Staff Sergeant Perez, Sergeant Tolleson, Lieutenant Branagh, and Warrant Officer Briggs, you are all dead. Please lay down your arms and assume the position for the remainder of the exercise. The two cellmates and the intruder are still alive and at large. The exercise is still ongoing."
Cricket reloaded and holstered his pistol and shouldered the AK slung around his shoulders. No point in being subtle now—the prisoners were now safe from execution, but the danger wasn't gone yet. He looked up and saw a guard on the tower look around wildly. Waving for the POWs to take cover behind the stack of pallets, Cricket aimed and fired on the tower, forcing the guard to duck.
The lone courtyard guard leveled his rifle at Cricket and Cricket joined his charges behind cover to avoid the simunition flying overhead. He blind fired over the concealment and when the firing stopped, he dove out from behind the stack to see the guard as he was crouching behind a low wall and nailed him in the helmet, forcing him to go down. He then adjusted his aim at the guard in the tower and laid down a few more rounds, this time nailing him in the torso.
Scrambling to his feet, Cricket waved to the news crew to move up. Cricket turned to briefly cover the door into the building as he moved along the wall to the gate before looking outside for any more guards. The buildings across from them had no sign of activity. Cricket covered left and right before crouching behind a low barrier. Cricket looked behind him at the prisoners.
"When I tell you, run straight for the alley between those two buildings and lie down in that irrigation ditch on the other side. Don't stop for anything."
"Okay," said the woman. The man just nodded.
Cricket pointed his rifle left in case of a flanking maneuver, then looked over the barrier on his right.
"Go, now!"
The couple ran forth, keeping their head down. Shouting was heard from behind Cricket, and he spun around to start laying down fire in the direction of the OPFOR's voices. He continued firing as he moved across the street to join his charges in the alleyway, not letting up lest the militants try to follow. By the time he reached the alley, his weapon was dry, and he had to reload. He kept running to the ditch as he changed mags and threw himself to the ground when he reached it.
"Move into the trees," Cricket commanded the hostages. "And keep your heads down!"
The POWs did as they were told, and half-ran, half-crawled in their scramble into the tree line into the swamp while Cricket continued firing on pursuing Berets, who stayed behind the buildings for cover. When he got the Berets to duck their heads, Cricket sprinted into the swamp himself.
He quickly caught up to the prisoners as he reloaded to his last AK magazine and started guiding them eastward away from the village and into the marshlands. Every few seconds, he'd turn and level his rifle back where they came, waiting for any pursuers. When they got to about 2 km from the clearing that was the exfil point, Cricket thought they were in the clear.
When they got near where he'd left Choir Boy, he instructed the duo to get low to the ground to avoid being seen before he blew out a loud, long, and sharp whistle. A moment passed, with no response. Cricket waited several seconds. Was Choir Boy still here?
It was risky to give away their position, but Cricket decided to chance whistling again. Still nothing for another thirty seconds, and then:
"Thunder!"
Cricket yelled back, "Flash!" He motioned for the duo to stand up with him as he walked confidently forward to meet an approaching Choir Boy. Cricket raised his rifle, pointing at him. Choir Boy jumped.
"Hey, what gives?"
"Your sidearm," Cricket replied bluntly. "Hand it over."
"Jeez, alright. Here, take it." Choir Boy obediently handed Cricket the spare Makarov.
Cricket nodded in approval as he stuck it into his waistband behind his back. "Thanks. Sorry about the scare; can't be too careful." He pointed ahead to the clearing. "All of you, go ahead to the middle of that clearing and wait for me there."
The three news crew members jogged up to the clearing while Cricket clicked on his radio. "Cricket to Control. We've successfully reached the exfiltration point and are ready for pickup. All three prisoners are present and accounted for."
"Good to hear, Cricket," said Major Jacobs. "We are dispatching a Quick Response Force now. They will arrive in thirty minutes. You are to defend the hostages until their arrival."
"Understood, Control. Cricket out."
Major Jacobs hadn't declared the exercise complete, meaning the mission was still on. Cricket was determined to put in a perfect performance and pass his test. He joined the three hostages in the clearing and instructed them to lie low on the ground so that they would be obscured by the grass. Cricket for his part crouched low and leveled his rifle in the direction of the trees in case their pursuers had tracked them this far.
Now came the boring part. "Hurry up and wait," as they said. The thirty minutes felt like hours as Cricket tried to stay focused as he felt the adrenaline wearing off. He could feel the impatience that the hostages showed as the "news crew" squirmed.
After thirty minutes had passed, a small squad of uniformed Green Berets not wearing the costume of the militiamen from the village emerged from the trees. Cricket leveled his rifle, calling out the challenge he was given when he started the exercise: "Crab Battle!"
The Beret in the front shouted, "Tasty!"
Cricket thought that the challenge and password both sounded ridiculous and had no idea what it meant, but he didn't question it when it was brought up in the briefing. He and the journalists stood to greet the QRF as they approached, and everybody lowered their weapons.
"Nice to meet you," said the man in front as he reached out for a handshake. His nametape read, 'A. SIMMONS.' "Cricket, was it?" he asked.
Cricket shook Simmons's hand. "Yeah. Though this'll probably be the last day I go by that name." He nodded over to the news crew. "But I guess that's up to them."
Choir Boy looked over at the other two FOXHOUND members who were accompanying them. "Eagle? Otter? What do you think?"
"He's able to respond swiftly and decisively to changing battlefield conditions, he's good at instantaneous threat-level assessment. He was able to rescue us without putting us in danger from the 'explosion.' He is competent with foreign weapon platforms and crisis management," said the woman named Otter.
The man who Choir Boy acknowledged as Eagle nodded. "He was a bit clumsy with how he handled the EOD but based on the circumstances provided and what I've observed, I'd say he's ready, Mouse."
Choir Boy—or rather, Mouse—nodded. "I got to see his CQC up close," he said, "And he was smart enough to clear the obstacles from inside the building before going for the rescue. Rookie knows what he's doing. I'm comfortable passing on my recommendation."
"I agree," said Eagle. Otter nodded.
"That just leaves the assessment of Major Jacobs and his team," Mouse said, clapping his hand on Cricket's shoulder with a smirk. "But I think I know what he'll say. Congratulations, rookie: you're in. Welcome to the team."
SEPTEMBER 23, 1994
FOXHOUND TRAINING FACILITY
THE INDUCTION CEREMONY
Thirty men and women stood at parade rest in the grassy concourse before a stage with a podium and a microphone. Speakers lined each side of the stage. In the middle of the stage was a set of bleachers, upon which were seated various FOXHOUND personnel, mainly instructors who had watched over these thirty men and women for over three and a half years. Standing at the podium was Big Boss, looking solemn as he gripped the podium's edges. Standing next to him were the stern figures of Gray Fox and Commander Miller.
Big Boss scanned the graduating class with his good eye, staring intensely over the crowd. His gaze stopped momentarily at a man with brown hair in the third row, whose face looked like it was etched in stone and who stood like he was built with steel in his spine. Big Boss felt a warm familiarity and pride as he looked at the man, though he stifled the feeling just as quickly as he remembered just what brought the man here in the first place. The man glanced up at him for a split second and then quickly returned to staring straight ahead when he accidentally met the Boss's gaze.
Big Boss looked away and focused on the task at hand: welcoming his new crop to the blood harvest. He turned on the microphone, waited for the squeak of the feedback to subside, and began to speak:
"Every year, starting in March, approximately 500 candidates from all over the world enter the doors of the FOXHOUND training facility's barracks to undergo a harsh and unforgiving training regimen. They are soldiers, combat medics and surgeons, pilots, marines, sailors, and mercenaries, and Special Forces personnel from every participating military force and mercenary company on the planet.
Every year in September, four hundred and seventy people leave: washouts, those who couldn't handle the academic requirements or the extreme training simulations. These people leave, but not in disgrace: simply being selected as a possible candidate is considered a great honor, and every member of FOXHOUND knows that anyone who is willing to put themselves through the kind of hell that molds and shapes every warrior in the field of battle is a person who is deserving of respect.
Every year, 500 enter. Every year, 470 leave. Every year, 30 remain.
These thirty men and women have together taken up a higher duty: to enter into the black and shadowy hell from which there is no escape or comfort. Here, they will know an existence of everlasting battle and death. And when the day comes for them to lay down their lives for the mission, they will do so knowing that no one will ever know of their existence, or the effect they had on the world. Indeed, it will be as though they never existed at all."
Big Boss let the silence drag on, to punctuate his point. He leaned forward, the words dripping heavy from his lips.
"This is your burden. This is your curse. From this day forward, from now until you retire or until the day you die, you will renounce your old names, and your old lives. You will pledge yourselves to FOXHOUND and place yourselves in service to the United States of America. You fight her enemies in the shadows, you will soak yourselves in blood so that others may rest safe. You will renounce your old name, your old life, your very existence as anything other than a tool, a shield that stands as the bulwark of your country. You will fight, so that your fellow soldiers in the conflict may live to fight another day.
But we are not fodder, we are not fuel for the meat grinder, nor are we common. You are truly the most valuable of your kind to exist: a higher breed of warrior. This is what we were meant for, what we were born for. We know our fate and accept it gladly with honor and pride in our hearts, for this is what we were made to do. It is our purpose, and it is for that reason that you will not go quietly into the night.
In your darkest moments, always remember: never give up. Fight until the end. Always believe that you will succeed, even when the odds are against you. That hope, that strength of will—it is what will keep you alive. It is proof of your purpose and of your humanity. Be loyal to your purpose, and to your true nature.
You are FOXHOUND. You are warriors. Welcome to the fires of hell, my brothers. Come up to the stage and claim your new name for your own."
One by one, each cadet lined up for their turn on the stage. One by one, each cadet ascended the steps, shook hands with Cmdr. Miller and Big Boss, and received their code name. Big Boss received each of them like a stern father greeting his children.
The steely blue-eyed cadet with the stony face that the Boss observed earlier came up for his turn. A man who was a jack of all trades and a master of none, solidly skilled in just about every facet of infantry warfare and espionage in which he was taught. In some ways, the man reminded Big Boss of himself when he was younger, though he cringed internally at the thought of comparing himself to him.
The Boss wasn't the only one who saw the similarity, either: while the first half of the code name assigned to the man was an appropriate descriptor for his skillset, the second half of the code name was far more specific: it was a reminder of a time long past, that the Boss had considered dead and buried. It was Miller who chose the name, and the Boss had to wonder if it wasn't out of an attempt to spite him. He knew there was no love lost between him and Miller—it was something that Miller had made abundantly clear when Big Boss had FOXHOUND approach him years ago, and he hasn't stopped reminding him of it since.
Still, while he was initially against the idea, Big Boss couldn't deny that there was something appropriate about the choice; a sort of passing of the torch. And while he denied the connection that existed, Big Boss had to admit that with the way this rookie had performed he would be hard pressed to think of anyone else who would be worthy of the name. So, in the end, he relented and approved the designation, seeing it as a gift—the one single acknowledgement he would allow for what he considered to be an otherwise unspeakable fact that he would forever deny.
The man approached, pride shining in his eyes. He had been waiting for this day. Longing for it. Big Boss could see the fire in his eyes. The man was ready.
Big Boss shook his hand and said, "Welcome to FOXHOUND, Solid Snake."
A/N: And we're finally here! A lot of work to get to this moment, but we've finally arrived and completed the origin story. The words for Big Boss's speech at the end have been rattling around in my head for weeks, with some variation, and I'm really proud of the result. I also wanted to say that the bits about Fort Polk's reputation at the beginning are sourced from a combination of stories I've heard from a couple of former Army service members I either know personally or know of, one of which actually was stationed there; they are not reflective of my actual opinion or experiences, having never served myself.
As a little preview of things to come, next chapter is going to be an interlude with a few different POVs covering the months leading up to Operation Intrude N313. Basically just a few short vignettes to set the stage for things to come, followed by Chapter 7, which will be the mission briefing, after which I'll have Snake on a plane (but with no Sam Jackson) to South Africa ready to hit the ground running on Chapter 8. I hope to have Chapter 7 done by the middle of May, but no promises.
Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck with the story so far, and I look forward to bringing you more as I come up with it.