Sorry about ditching guys... battery died... but here's the story.
No Place for Mercy
PROLOGUE: COMBAT FAUX
Siberian Tundra 22:00
* * *
“In the dark a man’s senses are dulled due to the lack of sight. If a man can master the other four senses, then he can continue to fight, no matter the conditions.”
I am Commander Joshua Sweitzer. I had been training the A.C.E. team for only six days now. The brass had told me that Siberia would be great for practice. Long, cold nights, no outside interference, and freedom from distraction made the location nearly perfect. There was only one problem. Being from Russia, I was the only one used to such cold weather. Everybody else had to wear extra gear. That slowed them down…
“In tonight’s training exercise, we will be simulating a full scale assault on S.T.O.R.M. s cabin without the aid of NVGs. As you all know, the STORM team has two helos. Sky is going to have to sit this one out though, which gives us an edge. Without their gunship, that evac helo has no major support. As far as approach, we can’t use vehicles this time.” I said, sitting on an overturned ammo crate in the corner of our own cabin at the time.
“Why not, Sir?” That was Andrew Carswell. He’s always asking the questions. He claims that’s how all Germans are. He sat next to me, his chair propped up against the wall. I remember he always did that. He likes having his back to the wall. “Your enemy can’t get behind you and cut your throat that way,” he always told me. He was with the others around a round dining table. But they weren’t dining. They were playing Poker. Aces Wild I remember. Tall, lean, muscular, and a former track star at that German college he’s always talking about, he was easily the fastest of our group. That’s why he was chosen to be our runner. He supplied each man with extra reserve mags in the heat of battle. He also doubled as our medic, and a fine one he was. There wasn’t a wound he couldn’t patch up into combat-ready in the flicker of an eye.
“Well ‘Drew, you wanna draw as much attention to yourself as possible out there, you go right ahead.”
“Sir, I don’t think I understand, why are vehicles going to make any difference this time? We used them last time and that seemed to work well.”
“Because you numbskull, Conway finally got his b-o-b rifle… nitwit…” That was Taylor Honeycutt. He’s our demos expert, coming from New Zealand’s own. Tall and broad at the shoulders, his build was perfect for shouldering his AT-4 and ripping those tanks a new one. He sat across from Carswell, his face hidden behind his cards. Taylor was easily the best candidate for the demo position. From his youth, he told me, he had played with explosives. Building rockets, blowing up mailboxes, he was a real character. My God, how did I find these guys?
“Well I don’t see how that makes any difference whatsoever. The cabin is nearly two miles away, I mean, he can’t very well do anything to us in a HUMVEE anyway.” Carswell retorted, slamming his hand on the table.
“Does that mean you fold?” Taylor snickered in hearty contempt.
“Dear God man, have you ever seen that man take a shot? I watched him on the long-rifle course in Dublin. I mean, Holy Christmas, how can any human being shoot like that chief?” Ahh, Coty. He was our scout. Coming from the streets of some backwater Scottish town, he knows how to sneak around. He can walk right into a man’s house, ransack every room in the place, and leave without disturbing the dog. I couldn’t even catch him. He was good, too good, I could tell, by the ace he was pulling out of his sleeve at that moment, and nobody even caught it.
“Wallace gets my point exactly Carswell. The entire reason Conway is on the team is because he is one of the world’s greatest marksmen, if not its best. He could pick you off in that HUMVEE from a mile and a half off; one shot, and wouldn’t even break a sweat. That’s why we can’t take vehicles this time. Besides, they are going to have NVGs.”
“WHAT!” Finally Jonathan decides to speak, after spewing coffee all over his hand and Wallace’s face. Jonathan McDonald is our grenadier. He can lob a grenade over a hundred feet and give a man a black eye with the damn thing. He claims that he learned it from playing catch with his dad in the fields of Kansas. We all seriously doubt that though.
“I thought we were going to have total logistic support and all the top equipment, otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to this setup!” Well ‘Drew’s stance is known, as always.
“And miss out on all the fun? I’m ready chief… the more the challenge, the more the rush I always say.”
“Of course you are Jon, we all know that already.” Wallace mutters, wiping coffee from his face. “Sometime you should try using that head of yours for something other than target practice.”
This is going to be a long night…
+ + +
“Check your equipment now. Everyone!” My name is Daniel Burgess. I’ve been out here in this god-forsaken sheet of ice and snow they call a country training the S.T.O.R.M. team for six days now. We’ve had eleven training exercises and if we win tonight, we’ve tied with the ACE s for successful missions. Since I’m coming from the Australian SAS, this damnable chilly weather is really edging away at my nerves.
“I’ll wager that I’m gonna bag at least half of them tonight.” This is Seth Chandler. He’s the one to go to on the CQC. Coming from the States, he shoots like an American, toting around that flippin’ huge USAS-12, he blows anything in his line of fire to kingdom come. He’s quite the comedian as well.
“Yeah right Chandler, Conway’s gonna put ‘em all out of action before even one of them gets half way here. You won’t even get a shot off… not one that’ll hit at any rate.”
“Seth, Daniel, now is not the time or the place… geez, can’t you guys focus at all? We’re about to get peppered with those damnably painful blue-on-blue shells and you guys can only worry about who’s gonna get the most kills? We’re all gonna catch one with our faces.” That’s Larkin London, cleaning his monocle. He’s our evac man. He flies the Black Hawk, and he does it as if he’s been doin’ it since the day he was born, and he just started nearly three weeks ago. He’s England’s top helo ace, and that’s why he’s here. Not much I can say for his nerves though.
“Larkin, shut the heck up and go spool up the ‘chopper. We may need it. As for the rest of you gentlemen, we are at an advantage. I had a nice little chat with Sweitzer a while ago. He’s agreed to not use NVGs on tonight’s exercise, but we have permission to do so, so what do you say to that?”
“I say it’s going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. Why are they making it so easy on us? Oh wait, they can’t help that.” That’s Dillon Conway. He’s the crack marksman on our team. He does his job with more efficiency than a Ford assembly line. He’s a hard-wired killing machine. I think he was born with that damn rifle in his hands… he’s never without it. He claims that knowing your rifle is all a part of being a sharpshooter… but dang, he keeps it with him while he’s eating. Which he does all the damn time, but that’s expected from an Irishman.
“Well that’s all fine and dandy but what do I do? We don’t have any use for the gunship, it can’t be outfitted with b-o-b weaponry.” Well, it’s Rice. He’s our Comanche man. He blows s**t up… yeah… that’s about it… oh, and he eats too. Americans… it’s expensive feeding these guys.
“Grab your MAC. You’ll help out Larkin after he gets the chopper ready. Conway, you head upstairs with that rifle of yours… shoot anything that moves. Seth, go to the front gate. Wait for anyone that might make it past Conway and blast ‘em all to hell. I’ll go out back and hop on the chopper with London and Rice. Everybody have their orders?”
“YES SIR!”
“Good… say, has anyone heard Larkin starting up the helo?”
* * *
Coty watched as Larkin walked out the back door of the cabin and began to remove the massive camo cover from the black hawk. It’s long, slender form slowly revealing itself. As Larkin walked around the bird, checking its systems, Coty started to train his suppressed P-90 on his head.
“Club is on the table.”
“Club, this is Spade, wait for my signal.”
“Yes sir.”
“Diamond is on the table.” Carswell had snuck all the way up to the gate of the cabin. We knew that Conway was going to use one of the upstairs windows, but now, when he takes position, he had a nice little .45 caliber surprise waiting to greet his teeth.
“Diamond, this is Spade, wait for my word.”
“Yes sir.”
“Joker, where are you at?” Jonathan was late. He was supposed to be working his was around to Coty and charge through the back door on the signal.
“Joker is on the table.”
“Okay gentlemen, remember… suppressed weapons only.”
“We know, we know.”
“Of course.”
“Roger.”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay… 3… 2… 1… GO!”
+ + +
I started on my way out back to see what was taking Larkin and I was met by two rounds stuffed with a blue powder courtesy of Jon’s CAR-15. They smacked me in the face just as I was opening the door. There I saw Larkin, lying on the ground, two little globs of blue powder across the back of his helmet. Well, they are shaping up to be pretty damn good… I’ll have to remember to uninstall that flood light on the back porch before the next night mission.
* * *
“Spade, this is Club. Jon and I have taken down Thunder and Cloud. We are moving in on the cabin.”
“Good work guys. I’m working my way over the west wall. Diamond is going to need some backup, I think they sent Lightning out front to cover the gate.”
“Yes sir, we’re on it.”
+ + +
“Wind, this is sky……..”
“Sky? Sky? SKY? DAMN IT! Lightening, are you still in this?”
“Wind, this is Lightning. It looks like it’s just you and me. I’m in the courtyard directly below your position, can you see me?”
“Yes I can see……” PFFF PFFF PFFF.
* * *
“Spade, this is Diamond, Wind is down, repeat Wind is… BLAM……..” Carswell’s face is flooded by a blast of red shells from Seth’s USAS. Seth begins to run inside as Carswell lies next to the gate.
“Diamond… DIAMOND!!! DAMN IT!!! Joker, what’s your status? Joker? Damn it, everyone, report in.”
“Heart is still beating sir.”
“Club is still alive and well.”
“Club, I thought I told you and Joker to go help Diamond. How’d they get Joker and not you?”
“Lightning charged through the door and………..”
“DAMN IT!!! Heart, smoke the whole cabin, we’re movin’ in.”
“Yes sir.”
+ + +
Seth could only run now. Sweitzer and Honeycutt were closing in on him and he was trapped like a rat. He heard the clatter of Taylor’s smoke grenade and runs for cover. The blue smoke slowly seeps out of the canister as Seth runs into the living room and overturns the coffee table, awaiting the hail of bullets that he knows will ensue.
* * *
I break down the door and charge in first, only to get blasted by Seth’s 12-gauge, but my sacrifice allows Taylor to get off the shot, striking Seth in the head, just under the line of his helmet. We’ve won, but at what would be a high cost if we were in a real combat situation.
“All members of the opposing force have been eliminated.” Claims Taylor coolly over his radio unit.
“All ACE s lets go home. Sorry about the mess you STORM guys, but you know the rules. Losers clean house while the victors celebrate.” I said, half expecting what Carswell was about to do.
“Yeah, that’s right you bunch of half-witted bums!” Shouts Carswell, running around, shaking each of the opposing teams’ hands, smacking each in the face with a big handful of red dust.
“All right Carswell, knock it off. See you all in the morning. Good work by the way Seth.”
“Thank you sir, you weren’t half bad yourself, sacrificing yourself as a shield for Taylor’s shot. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“All in the name of Mother Russia Seth, all in her name.”
And so we began our first streak.
ONE: NINETY-DEGREE CHRISTMAS
Madrid, Spain 11:00
* * *
“Congratulations, gentlemen. You have made it to the final test.” This is where the fun part begins. “If you complete the next mission successfully, then ACE is considered activated. In lieu of this event, each of us is to be given new call signs and equipment, which you will find in each of your rooms at the El Matador Hotel.” Wow, I think I’m going to like Spain, and the Spanish government seems to like us already, what with the limo ride to the hotel and everything. All it’s missing is nice cold weather.
“New equipment? But I don’t want new equipment, my M1911 models are just fine.” If only Carswell knew what was awaiting him in his room, I just can’t wait to see that grin crack like a gaping fissure across his face.
“Trust me Carswell, you won’t be disappointed. Okay gentlemen, here we are.” The limo pulls into the parking lot of Spain’s most lavish motel, which the government of Spain has ordered to reserve its finest rooms for us.
+ + +
“Okay gentlemen, we’ve made it to our final examination. Please follow Sweitzer and his men into the Hotel. You shall each be assigned a room, you will have a surprise waiting in each of your rooms.” Boy this is fun.
“But Daniel, what kind of surprises are we walking into?” Conway inquired, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?” I love this part of the job. I feel like it’s Christmas morning.
* * *
Walking into the hotel, I direct each man to his pre-assigned room. Chandler is in room 790, Carswell is in room 791, Conway is in room 792, Honeycutt is in room 793, London is in room 794, Wallace is in room 795, Rice is in room 796, McDonald is in room 797, Burgess is in room 798, and I’m in room 799.
“Okay gentlemen, in each of your rooms, you’ll find a briefcase. Open it. Each one contains your personal arsenal for the duration of ACE’s service. You will also find an engraving on the lid. Read it. Trust me men, you’ll like what you find.”
*ACE*
*2*
Carswell entered room 791, suspecting he would probably be disappointed. He had never parted from his M1911 models since he first held them. They were a gift given to him by his father, who’d received them from his father, and he from his father, a veteran of the Second World War. He walked into the room and saw the black briefcase lying on the bed. He envisioned it like a coffin, the bed a grave for his pistols. He ran his fingers along the attaché, its cold lifeless shell numbing his fingers. He unfastened the first clasp, ‘almost like opening a coffin,’ he thought aloud. He opened the second clasp and lifted the lid, a feeling of dread overcoming him as he peered into the open case, knowing he would have to give in his M1911s for whatever it held.
Inside what he thought would be the burial place for his trusted heirlooms, he found a sheet of paper. He read it aloud, “So my dear friend, I talked the brass into allowing you to keep your pistols, seeing as you’re so attached to them. I hope you’re satisfied with the rest.”
“Well my friend, you’ve done it again,” he said, a smirk grin across his face. He dropped the paper and searched the remaining compartments of the case. Inside he found one hundred rounds of .45 bullets in a box marked MkIV. Wondering aloud, he said, ”hmm… never heard of MkIV rounds before…” He’d have to ask later. He also found a personal gift from me, an old Smith & Wesson 500. I knew he’d fall in love with it the moment he laid eyes on it, he’s liked that monster since he was a youth. Then he found what he was looking for. Engraved in silver on the interior of the lid was his new call sign, ACE.
*DRAGONFIRE*
*3*
Honeycutt burst through the door of room 793, laying eyes on the king size bed and seizing his opportunity for a nice comfortable break almost immediately, leaping from the doorway to the bed in one bound. On the nightstand, he saw a large attaché, like the one in Carswell’s room, only much larger. He opened it hastily, his eyes aglow with the thought of a small boy on Christmas morning. Within the confines of the black box, he found what he believed to be a dream come true.
With eyes wider than saucers, Honeycutt hoisted the 1945 Thompson Machine-Gun, almost deafening Wallace next door with his shouts of joy. “I finally have a Chicago Typewriter, I’ve wanted one of these since I was a boy! Wow, I never thought I’d actually have one!” Rummaging through the rest of the attaché, he found three magazines, six ‘Willy Pete’ White Phosphorous grenades, and instructions. The card he found read, ‘Open the closet and remove the left panel.’ Upon opening the panel as instructed, Taylor found a large black box, much longer than its width several times over.
“Wonder what it is?” He inquired of himself. “OPEN IT AND FIND OUT MORON!” Shouted Wallace from the next room. He lifted the latch on the unhinged side of the box and lifted the lid, its carbon-fiber lid lying on the bed in front of him. Inside he saw something that made his jaw drop and his drool leave a puddle on the bed. He was holding the newly released HTR-10, or Heavy Tank Rocket model 10. After sifting through the room, he found six shells for the launcher, along with a Mk II Beretta 9mm. He was so busy finding his new toys he hadn’t even noticed his new call sign emblazoned in silver on the lid of his briefcase. It read ‘DRAGONFIRE.’
* REAPER*
*4*
Coty silently opened the door to room 795, instantly noticing what could be the hundreds of potential bugs the Spanish government could be using to gather intelligence on his personality and psychological state. He cautiously investigated each of the possible positions for any form of audio or video surveillance device, not finding even one. Satisfied after a ten-minute survey of the room’s furnishings, Wallace found his attaché not on or even near his bed.
His was precariously perched on the balcony outside, on a small table. He unlocked the latches and opened the shell to find inside the replacement for his beloved P90-S. Inside the briefcase he found a piece-kit rifle. Not knowing quite what kind, he began to put the pieces together, finding that he had more pieces than he needed. That’s when he realized that this was more than one gun. It was the revolutionary X-29.
The X-29 was a rifle designed to fulfill the needs of an entire army. It was designed for long-range shots, semi-auto and burst mid-range shots, and full-auto for up close and sticky situations. The rifle had a convertible scope, IR camera, NV lens, and laser. It could fire three different types of ammunition, all depending on which chamber was used. It could fire 9mm hollow-points for the messy stuff, 7.62 rounds for the more precise work, and Wallace could perform surgery with the .50 cal. rounds. As Wallace played with his new toy, he found more new playthings, each one more intriguing than the last.
He found the Swiss Army’s latest-issue knife, the BOA, in a compartment on the side. He found razor wire in the base of the case, and a nice pair of black leather gloves for the clean jobs. He found what might possibly be the single greatest tool of a black-ops agent, the M-9S suppressed Beretta and his array of intelligence gathering devices all wrapped into one kit. Fiber optic cables, laser cutters, laser mics, phone taps, radio transmission interceptors, the works. After he was thoroughly satisfied that he’d found all his presents, he sat back and looked at the case, noticing the word ‘REAPER’ embroidered in silver on the inside of the lid.
*SLEEPING GIANT*
*5*
Jon lumbered into room 797, not really caring for much but the everlasting object of his desires, sleep. He crashed onto the bed, making a loud cracking sound when his head contacted the attaché that lied where his pillow should have been. With a grumble, Jon sat up and chucked the briefcase across the room after mumbling several curses to it in his venomous hiss of a whisper. Noting the rather large hole in the wall where he had projected the case, he examined the briefcase, which had sustained no damage and landed with an almost silent thud.
Unfastening the latches with lightening speed, Jon slowly lifted the lid, hoping that the replacement for his CAR-15 wasn’t a downgrade. He gazed upon the M-4/M-203 with his half-opened eyes still clouded with sleep. He jerked to attention when he saw just how magnificent a tool of destruction he was given. Beneath the rifle, he found his personalized nickel-plated M-9 sporting the phrase, “First to shoot, last to shoot, and the only one not to die,” engraved into the slide. Inside his case were notes, revealing the location of several rounds of ammunition for the ‘203 hidden in his room.
Underneath his bed, Jon found a box containing thirty-six white phosphorous rounds, thirty-six fragmentation rounds, and eighteen high-explosive rounds. Jonathan was at last gazing upon the manifestation of his inner pyromaniac. He stared down into the box with a terrifying grin, not noticing the SLEEPING GIANT engraved into the lid of his attaché.
*SUBZERO*
*1*
I finally walked into room 799, exhausted after the flight and watching each of my men discovering their new toys. I walked over to the glass wall, opening the door to the balcony. I stood there for a moment, closing my eyes and feeling the cool breeze flowing into the room, whispering tales of good fortune into my ears and wondering how I had come into command of such a fine group of soldiers.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that I had also had an attaché on the table occupying my balcony. With a grin I whispered under my breath, “Stephen, you sly dog… you never cease to amaze me.” I sat at the table and slowly turned the briefcase, putting off the engagement of opening it, in hopes of increasing the suspense I suppose.
Eventually I decided that I didn’t need to put it off any longer, it was going to happen whether I liked it or not. However, I didn’t want to let go of my M-249. I’d stuck to it since my first day at the live fire course all the way back in boot camp. I’d never used any other weapon in combat and didn’t want to change that fact all that much.
Unlocking the latches, I cracked the lid to the attaché and took a deep breath, “Now is the time,” I said, tears almost coming to my eyes. So slowly I opened the lid that it almost felt like decades instead of seconds. When I looked inside, I found something that made my soul sing. I looked down into the briefcase at the broken down M-60F, the latest in the line of the fine M-60s. I so longed for one of these and Stephen always knew it. It had a greater rate of fire, a larger slug, and a much more impressive look about it than the M-249.
I found thirteen drums of ammunition in the shoe rack inside the closet. They contained a high explosive tipped .30 calibre armor-piercing Mk0 round. Each drum contained one thousand of these buggers, capable of transforming an armored car into a block of Swiss cheese.
After further examination of the box, I found an optical visor, designed specifically for interface with the M-60F variant. It was adaptable to Infrared, Light Intensification, motion detection, and IFF, making the machine gun an absolutely essential tool.
With the visor, I also found my Israeli Issue 50cal. Desert Eagle. This piece was a special request that I’d put in for my first day as a Spetznaz Operative and never received. With this sidearm, I was just as dangerous at close range as I was at intermediate range. With my formal Spetznaz training, I was the best pistol-wielder of the group, able to hit a bull’s eye at nearly 250 feet under stress, 450 feet without. I was so excited with my new equipment that I nearly forgot to look on the inside cover of my attaché. When I looked there, I found exactly what I was looking for, engraved inside was my new call sign. I smiled as I read it aloud, “SUBZERO.”
+ + +
+ROOK+
+2+
Seth walked into room 790, knowing that his shotgun was too good to replace. He wasn’t worried at all when he found his attaché waiting for him on the coffee table. “Well let’s see what they decided to do, considering my USAS is a cut above the rest, kinda like myself,” he said with a smirk. Walking over to the coffee table, Seth seats himself on the couch and unlatches the briefcase. Opening it, Seth forms his first doubts about keeping his USAS. These doubts are well founded, as he lays eyes on the contents of the case.
As Seth hoists the Russian ZIR-39 8-gauge/12-gauge over/under shotgun, he falls into a blank stare, much too far into the enlightening plains of awe and admiration to utter even a single word. The double-barreled, double gauged automatic beast that he held in his hand was the one thing that could put him in such a state, what with its tactical flashlight and laser attachment as well as the non-reflecting holographic scope and recoil shock absorption stock and the green pulse strobe light.
Immediately thrown into a state of insuppressible excitement, Seth begins rummaging through the briefcase, finding several cases of shells, each with different markings. “Mmhm, and I wonder what these are?” Seth wondered aloud, perusing the fifteen different boxes with an astonishing sense of wonder. “Fifteen different types of ammo? What am I supposed to do with fifteen different types of ammo?”
Looking through the other compartments of the case, Seth finds the Israeli Army Issue Combat Knife with the titanium edge extra added just for him, making his knife the only one of its kind anywhere. He also found his Mk23 SOCOM pistol and the suppressor that came with it.
Continuing to find more and more toys for his exploitation and enjoyment, Seth doesn’t even notice the silver engraving in the lid of his attaché reading ROOK.
+ARCHER+
+3+
Conway strolled into room 792, looking forward to the hours at the shooting range that awaited him. Being an expert sniper, Conway knew that the biggest part of being a crack sniper was getting to know his rifle. Seeing the attaché on the bar in the kitchen/dining room, Conway walks over and, unlatching the clasps, opens the case. Inside he finds an American M-91. Without even a change of expression, Conway removes the pieces of the rifle and puts them together like he’s done numerous times in the past. He lifts the completed rifle and shoulders it, test-sliding the bolt, feeling it slide with ease. Laying down the rifle, Conway takes his old LR-13 and lies it down for the last time, without any evidence of remorse.
Searching through the remaining compartments of the case, Conway finds two iron boxes. He opens the first to find the M-91s anti-personnel ammunition. The box held sixty rounds, or twelve mags. The second contained the anti-tank rounds. There were only twenty rounds or five mags. “I’m gonna have a lot of fun with these babies,” Conway said, cracking the first smile he’d had since his days at the IRA.
Conway also found the M91s box of rotational scopes. The M91 comes standard with an Infrared Target-Finder Scope, a Night-Vision Scope, and a classic Optic Scope. The gift from A.C.E. was the Laser Range-Finding Scope, the Motion Detection Scope, and the IFF Scope.
Picking up the Colt .45 and looking through the sights, Conway claims, “Every sniper needs his pistol at his side,” and tests the slide, saying, “glides like friction was never a part of motion physics.” Holstering the pistol, Conway looks under the lid, finding the word ARCHER engraved in silver. “Hmm… ARCHER… I think I like it…”
+WARLOCK+
+4+
London walked into room 794, not quite sure what to expect, considering that it would be impractical and nearly impossible to replace his Black Hawk. He walked over to the bar in his room and poured himself a glass of scotch. Taking a drink, he notices his attaché, which is lying on the opposite end of the bar.
Walking over, Larkin begins to wonder what exactly would be inside. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said aloud, unfastening the locks to the case. Lifting the lid, Larkin found photographs of a helo that he’d never seen before. “What the bloody hell is this thing?” Larkin began sifting through the photos and found a small flight manual, explaining that the helo in question was, in fact, the American-made SH-26 Super Stallion. The manual contained several explanations of the various gauges and controls for the bird that London was to fly.
Reading the manual, London becomes aware that the Super Stallion had several features that the Black Hawk lacked. “Turboshaft propulsion, five blade prop, and all the firepower I could ask for… I’m gonna love getting to know this bird.” “Three miniguns, four Vulcan cannons, six missile pylons, four manned M60s and enough room for eighteen passengers… this Super Stallion needs to be called the Flying Gun… I’m bloody well sure that nothing can take this thing.”
Laying the manual next to the case, he continues to search the attaché, finding two pistols he’d never seen before. “There’s a damn lot of new hardware coming my way, I just wish we’d stick with one thing, that way I’d know what’s going on,” Larkin said, adjusting his monocle and examining the new weaponry. Looking closely, Larkin found that the pistols were Swedish T-95s. “Capable of automatic fire?” Larkin asked to the imaginary apparition in his mind, considering no one was in the room, after he found the fire selector switch. “These could come in handy.” With that Larkin closed the lid, not noticing the word WARLOCK engraved into the interior.
+TREBUCHET+
+5+
Rice stumbled into room 796, being much more stable behind the stick of a helicopter than on his own two feet. Walking over to the bed, he kicks a chair, stubbing his toe and bruising his shin, “AHHH THAT HURT!!!” he screamed, causing Larkin to jump, smacking his head on the pan-rack over his kitchen’s island bar. “Oh will you shut up you oaf!” he shouted to Rice.
“All right, all right,” Rice muttered as he sat on the bed, where he noticed his attaché situated over on the dining table. He approached the table and knocked over a stack of books on a small table next to the telephone, which he bent over to pick up, and hit his head on the table. “THAT’S IT!!!” he shouted, throwing the books out the window and walking over to the table. He attempted to tear open the clasps with an angry jolt, cutting his finger on the latch when it didn’t open. He screamed and cursed beneath his breath, wrapping his wound with his tie. He tried to open the case again, this time with more patience, and succeeding. When he lifted the lid, he found photos of his new chopper, much like the ones Larkin found, but his Super Stallion was armed to the teeth, and he loved it.
“Six miniguns, eight Vulcan cannons, twelve missile pylons, one rail gun, four M-60s, two rocket pods, an EMP radar-jammer, an entire array of electronic warfare devices, and countermeasures… this is gonna be SWEET!!!” Rice exclaimed, reading the schematics for the helicopter. He sets the blueprints aside, searching the rest of the case to find his own T-95s, saying, “Good thing these are automatic, I would never hit a thing if it weren’t, I need to go the shooting range at least one time this month, I told Daniel I would…”
With that, Rice closed the lid, not seeing his new call sign, TREBUCHET, engraved in the lid’s interior.
+BLACK KNIGHT+
+1+
Daniel quietly dragged himself into room 798, too tired to do much else but lie down on the chesterfield, imported from England. As he did so, he propped his feet up on the armrest and rubbed his sore eyes with the tips of his fingers, whispering, “What a day. Thirteen time zones in only about three hours, I need a drink.” With that, Daniel rose to go into the kitchen, but saw his attaché, located on the nightstand next to the couch. He sat back down and lifted the briefcase, finding it very heavy. He sat it down on the coffee table and worked the clasps opened, finding the lid to the case heavy itself, not knowing what to expect.
Opening the case, Daniel found inside a special relic that he held dear. It was the Vietnam War era version of the M-16 Bushmaster rifle. Daniel lifted the rifle out of the case and attached the stock, hoisting the rifle and staring down the sights, taking an air-shot at the imaginary enemy right in front of him. He set the rifle down on the table next to the case and continued his search. He found six double-drum mags of one thousand high explosive tipped 7.62mm armor-piercing Mk0 rounds placed inside the lid and base’s hidden compartments, three in each.
Daniel found a LTD, or Laser Target Designator, with a mount custom made for his rifle. The LTD mounted below the barrel of his rifle, avoiding any obstruction of his sight while firing. He also found that the weaver rail was removable and the double-drums adjustable to twist to be parallel with the rifle for a more compact rifle for easy hiding and ready-storage.
Satisfied with what he found, Daniel closed the lid of his briefcase, the beautiful engraving of the name of BLACK KNIGHT going unnoticed.
TWO: BASQUE IN THE SUN
Madrid, Spain 20:00
- - -
Miguel Vasquez didn’t know what to say, reading over the document that Alberti Francesco had just handed him. He read it a second, a third time, and still didn’t believe the incredible sense it made. He awed at the list of members of the pact, ranging from would-be democracies to long-time communists. He was more than prepared to add his name and thus the Basque organization to the long list of terrorist cells that have signed the pact.
The Moscow Pact called for communists to come together. The Basques had long been against communism, but this document swayed the commander of the Basque Party, as well as the commanders of the Al Qaida, both China and Korea Meijao cells, Rossiskja Resista, the Irish Republic Army, the Congo Liberation Army, the People’s Army of Ghana, Benin People’s Army, and the Romanian claimed that he was only getting started. Each of these terrorist cells are to convert their followers to communism and start a revolution in each of their countries, creating a coup that will overthrow their governments and set each head of the cell as the leader of their own country. The Moscow Pact set up the United Eastern Socialist Republics, the new-world Soviet Union.
Vasquez took the pen from Alberti and signed his name to the pact, binding the Basques to the overthrow of both the Spanish and Brazilian governments. Vasquez could see that this was a great day for the Basque Party. He envisioned the new power that they would have, the prestige, they would have their own say in the way the world worked.
With a smile Vasquez looked over to his right-hand man, Roman Manuel Soto, and said, “Today, my friend, we make our place in the world’s history, today we make ourselves more important than any other persons of this century. We, my friend, are gods!” “Guard your words, friend,” Roman responded to his friends maniacal rant, “What you say today, may come back to you tomorrow.” “Ah, my friend Roman, you worry too much, we are untouchable!”
Immediately after Vasquez finished speaking, the wall next to his chair exploded into a thousand pieces, throwing both he and Roman across the room, where they fell at Alberti’s feet. “This changes nothing,” he said as he opened the door to Vasquez’s safe house, walking out into the street. “I will expect you both to uphold your word, until the day of our forthcoming,” and with that… he was gone.
* * *
I ran into Coty’s room, finding him out on the balcony. I ran outside and saw that he had heard the explosion too. “What do you suppose that was?” I asked him. “I’m not quite sure, but I think we should check it out… not all of us… just a few… we don’t want anything too public yet…” “You’re right… grab your attaché, you, me, and Conway are going to go see what that was all about…” Then we heard a burst of automatic fire and another explosion… “Do it now Coty, we haven’t got much time!” With that I ran back to my room and grabbed my attaché, informing Conway of the situation on the way.
- - -
“Roman! What just happened?!? Who is shooting at us?” Miguel screamed as he took cover in the doorway, scanning the room for his friend. He saw Roman hiding behind an overturned table, where he was removing his SPETZ AK-47 from its sling around his torso.
“Its Juan Chavez, he’s here to take us out, he wants to lead the Basques himself. What should we do boss?” he yelled to Miguel from across the room, bullets whizzing and exploding all around him as Chavez and his insubordinate mob fill the apartment with lead. Miguel reached around the corner of the doorway for his Dragonov Sniper Rifle that he kept in the adjacent room of the safe house for cases like this.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do Roman,” said Vasquez as he trained his sights on one of Chavez’s henchmen. With a loud explosion, Vasquez’s rifle converted the henchman’s head into a fountain of blood as Vasquez yelled, “We’re gonna do that!”
With that, Roman rolled out from behind the table and opened fire with his AK, taking out six of the men behind the barricade of cars parked across the street before his mag ran empty and he had to duck behind the table again.
“Sir, there’s seven cars and only twenty of the twenty eight men are still standing. Sir, I don’t like these odds, we aren’t giving them much of a chance,” Roman bellowed a laugh, looking over to see Miguel take another life, laughing himself as he reached around the corner again and pulled back with a hand grenade. With a sinister grin, Vasquez looked at his partner and shouted, “This will show them that they’ve chosen the wrong day to turn on Miguel Diago Vasquez!” and he tossed the grenade into the barricade of cars.
* * *
I ran to the stairwell, Conway and Wallace right on my heels. All three of us were dressed in our urban camo BDUs, a Kevlar vest, a flak jacket, and a combat vest, disguised as Madrid Police. I had ordered the others to stay behind, seeing that we didn’t need that much publicity yet. As we were running down the staircase of the hotel, I noticed that we were skipping steps. We were jumping down the stairs three and four steps at a time in order to reach the ground floor in as little time as possible.
Reaching the lobby, we flashed our papers announcing that the Spanish government authorized us for the use of our equipment, saving us the time it would take for the guards to search our attachés, and ran out the door to our car. The car procured for us was a German BMW M5 sedan, black of course. We threw the doors open and jumped in with extreme alacrity. I was to drive, Coty in the passenger seat, and Conway in the back, readying his rifle.
We peeled out of the parking lot as we heard another explosion that sounded like it was coming from a nearby apartment complex we saw on our way to the hotel, it was only a few blocks away and I punched the gas to belittle our transit time to as quick as possible. Racing through the streets of Madrid is no small feat, those roads are tiny, I’m telling you.
“Coty, see what you can find out about that apartment building on the car’s onboard computer, Conway, get to that building across the street,” I shouted as I swerved around a corner to find six cars parked bumper to bumper, an army of men behind the barricade wielding all sorts of automatic weapons, RPGs, and rifles. A sixth car was overturned and burning, windows shattered and tires shredded.
“GENTLEMEN, DISREGARD THOSE ORDERS AND JUMP!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, seeing Conway and Wallace roll out of the car before I jumped from the driver’s door to the ground. There was a loud explosion and the debris from the car showered down on me, a white-hot rain of steel, as an RPG smashed through the rear-passenger side door, the remains flying over my head and rolling into the middle of the road, a twisted heap of metal.
Coty and I scrambled to the wall of the apartment building, taking cover behind a dumpster while Conway ran across the street and into the apartment opposite us. I hailed Conway on the radio and found that he was working his way to the roof. I ordered Coty to stay put and ready his weapon as I worked around to the opposite corner of the building, giving us a triangular perimeter around the men behind the cars.
+ARCHER+
Conway was on the fifth floor now, one more flight and he was on the roof. He sprinted, fast as he could, leaping up the stairs taking two, three at a time, his rifle not slowing him down even the least bit. Reaching the roof, he takes position behind the low wall bordering it. It takes Conway only eight seconds to assemble the rifle and relay the positions of each of the gunmen to Sweitzer below in the street.
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