Norfolk Naval Station officer's club
"So, what do you think of Admiral Christy? I didn't even meet him until that GDI shinddig up in New York when they announced the taskforce creation." Bucher said, throwing a dart. It missed the board entirely. The bar area was filled with an inordinate amount of assorted NATO and Russian officers associate with the Task Force, many of them in America for the first time.
"He didn't interview you for the job?" Reynold threw his dart, it ended up dead center.
"Nope, Admiral Kolby gave me my marching orders. Said Senator Warner wanted a fella to keep an eye out for America's interests on the Task Force."
Bucher threw his dart, it missed again.
"Your appointment is political?" Reynold's dart made it into the center circle.
"I prefer 'punishment for being a patriotic citizen.'" Bucher's third dart missed, Reynold laughed. "If you suck this bad at darts, I hate to think of the poor marines and soldiers you helped out on CAS missions. Hmm...Admiral Christy. He's good people. I was surprised to get offered the ESG commander job though..."
Bucher walked over and gathered the darts, then put them on the bar. A youthful ensign walked up and asked if they were done with the darts. "Go ahead." Bucher said.
"Speaking of ESG....you see your shiplist yet?"
Reynold rolled his eyes. "I saw I have the Goddamn Russian wunderkid as my Surface Combat Commander. Worse part is I don't know the first thing about modern naval warfare, so I'm going to be leaning on him quite a bit. And the CO of my DDG...." Reynold scowled and drank his beer in one fell swoop. "...I'm worried I'm going to end up strangling some officers with my bare hands. Think I can convince you to take the Russian?"
"Sorry, I already have one hanging around Flag country, don't need another on my OOB. Speak of the devil..."
Entering the Bar area was Admiral Rebikov, followed by a Russian naval officer wearing Commodore collar devices.
The New World (Exploits of CTF-81) (CVBG)
Moderator: Thanas
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
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Ar-Adunakhor
- Jedi Knight
- Posts: 672
- Joined: 2005-09-05 03:06am
As they walked into the club, Vianor winced and quickly snatched off his cover. Flying over, he had assumed the meeting would be held in a formal stateroom onboard the Arcadia, but after quickly meeting with Christy and Rebikov and being hastily transported to the officer's club, the hope had evaporated. Damnit! He was supposed to be the one making them uncomfortable, not the other way around. Vianor's gaze jumped around the respectably-appointed room, finally coming to rest on a pair of American Flag Officers who were obviously trying not to stare.
"Well, maybe the situation is salvagable after all." He muttered, falling in half a step behind Rebikov. It was unfortunate they had missed the "good will" gesture of turning over the Harbinger's loan papers, but perhaps simply being unexpected would be enough.
"Admiral, General, it seems we have had a change in plans. This is Commodore Kurilov, captain of the Harbinger," Rebikov smiled and gestured to the Commodore, "and he is not quite as far away as we thought." Turning toward Kurilov, he continued, "This is Rear Admiral Bucher, CO of the CSG, and Brigadier General Reynold, CO of the ESG."
Forcing a smile, the Commodore offered his hand, "Pleased to meet you both, sirs; I hope my arrival did not come as too much of a shock to you."
Shaking Kurilov's hand, Bucher replied, "Well, I can't exactly say I was expecting it. The Kremlin said you were going to be meeting up with the ESG directly. Something about weather."
"Ah, yes, we just managed to outrun the storm," Kurilov responded, extending his hand to Reynold, "but it all turned out for the best, it seems, as we are here and the General can inspect the ESG's command ship."
Keeping the shake as brief as possible, Reynold motioned for the two Russians to take a seat and addressed the Commodore, "Speaking of which, I would like to have my onboard quarters prepared by tomorrow evening, if at all possible."
Chuckling, the Commodore shot Reynold a sideways glance, "Comrade General, your quarters have already been prepared, and I took the liberty of sending several sailors to help your aide with transporting your effects. He seemed quite pleased with the offer."
Savoring the General's expression, Kurilov ordered four tumblers of vodka, "Hopefully, gentlemen, you will join me in a drink?" As the spirits arrived, he looked over towards the others, "And, please, continue whatever conversation you were engaged in before I arrived. I did not mean to be a disruption."
"Well, maybe the situation is salvagable after all." He muttered, falling in half a step behind Rebikov. It was unfortunate they had missed the "good will" gesture of turning over the Harbinger's loan papers, but perhaps simply being unexpected would be enough.
"Admiral, General, it seems we have had a change in plans. This is Commodore Kurilov, captain of the Harbinger," Rebikov smiled and gestured to the Commodore, "and he is not quite as far away as we thought." Turning toward Kurilov, he continued, "This is Rear Admiral Bucher, CO of the CSG, and Brigadier General Reynold, CO of the ESG."
Forcing a smile, the Commodore offered his hand, "Pleased to meet you both, sirs; I hope my arrival did not come as too much of a shock to you."
Shaking Kurilov's hand, Bucher replied, "Well, I can't exactly say I was expecting it. The Kremlin said you were going to be meeting up with the ESG directly. Something about weather."
"Ah, yes, we just managed to outrun the storm," Kurilov responded, extending his hand to Reynold, "but it all turned out for the best, it seems, as we are here and the General can inspect the ESG's command ship."
Keeping the shake as brief as possible, Reynold motioned for the two Russians to take a seat and addressed the Commodore, "Speaking of which, I would like to have my onboard quarters prepared by tomorrow evening, if at all possible."
Chuckling, the Commodore shot Reynold a sideways glance, "Comrade General, your quarters have already been prepared, and I took the liberty of sending several sailors to help your aide with transporting your effects. He seemed quite pleased with the offer."
Savoring the General's expression, Kurilov ordered four tumblers of vodka, "Hopefully, gentlemen, you will join me in a drink?" As the spirits arrived, he looked over towards the others, "And, please, continue whatever conversation you were engaged in before I arrived. I did not mean to be a disruption."
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weemadando
- SMAKIBBFB
- Posts: 19195
- Joined: 2002-07-28 12:30pm
- Contact:
Somewhere is the Indonesian Archipelago...
M.V. Auaoratiga (NZ owned container ship, registered in Venezuala en route to Sydney with a load of electronics from Kuala Lumpur)
They struck quickly. The ship was crippled before they even registered that something had happened. They'd picked up a weird bit of radar back scatter for the past minute or so. Well, they'd thought it was scatter - now it was clear that is was a sea-skimming anti-ship missile. It had hit their engines and taken them out of commission. Not nearly enough to put a ship their size out of action. Captain Scott figured that the pirates had just kicked the game up a notch, "All hands, stand by to receive boarders. Damage control is the priority. DO NOT resist the boarders." Two little helicopters swung past the bridge - MD500s from the look of them. Each one carried several men, straight away Captain Scott realised that this was no normal pirate group.
MD500 helicopter (approaching the M.V. Auaoratiga)
He pulled his gasmask down into place, and double checked the mask of the man opposite, to ensure that there was no hair breaking the seal. "Weapons loaded and safetied! Sound off!" He checks the chamber of his Benelli M1 Super 90, 12ga buckshot is in place. The tube is full. Spare shells are clipped on the rack alongside the barrel. Sidearm is in place on his thigh.
"4 ready!"
"3 ready!"
"2 ready!"
"1 ready!"
"10 seconds to LZ." The pilot announces matter of factly, he and the co-pilot are both scanning for any obstructions.
"Assault teams - get ready. Blue, make for the bridge and secure it. Red, hit the crew quarters. Second wave will be here in two minutes!"
Bridge of the M.V. Auaoratiga
Captain Scott shouted down the hallway towards the radio room: "Get the word out! Goddamn it get the mayday out!". He watched out the bridge windows as the helicopters came down, and came within a hair of touching the tops of the container stacks. At that moment they slowed just enough to allow their complement of men to jump out. The helicopters quickly disappeared, standing just below his eye level, some 50m away now were 8 men dressed, unmistakeably in assault gear. One raised a stubby weapon and fired.
The CS gas grenade smashed through the bridge window as the first of the men quickly began descending the container stacks by means of a quickly rigged rope.
Within sixty seconds by his reckoning, Captain Scott had lost complete control of his ship. He was now watching though hazy two hydrofoils pull alongside each with at least another fifteen men aboard. A slap brings him back to reality. "We know that its onboard." The voice is muffled by the gasmask. There is something mumbled within the mask that he cannot hear. "Captain - its a simple question. Container number GLCU-2662147. We have it registered coming on board during your stop in Japan. It didn't go off in Hong Kong or Kuala Lumpur. Where in the stacks is it?"
Forty-Five minutes later...
With amazing precision, Captain Scott could see, they were dismantling the stacks around the container. Dumping them straight over the sides. The container they were after had quickly been found in the ships database. He could see it now. It was a yellow one, just now showing its top. Another helicopter was just arriving, an enormous one - Skycranes, he remembered them being called. It lowered itself down to a hover just above the container and it was slowly secured. The blades could be seen straining for lift as the helicopter lifted off with the container attached to it like an enormous tumour. "Thank you for your courtesy Captain. We've activated the emergency beacons for you and ensured you have plenty of fresh water." The lead pirate was gone, striding down the hallway, which he filled with his enormous physical presence, flanked by two guards. The last guard covering them safeties and slings his weapon, before drawing a knife, walking to the Captain and cutting his plasti-cuffs. "You can do the rest of your people I assume Captain?" He sheathes his knife and also leaves. The whine of the smaller MD500s return and the last of the pirates leave his ship as he stares out the shattered bridge window. "What the fuck just happened?" He asks no-one in particular.
NSA Headquarters - 0133Z
ECHELON watch room.
The intercept was fresh from the ECHELON system. Maritime sat-phone call from a ship in the Indonesian archipelago to its owners in New Zealand. Some kind of piracy. But a watch-word had come up besides the usual piracy. "What the fuck is GLCU-2662147 doing in out watch-list?"
"Not a clue, but HOLY SHIT. Look at all the flags attached to that - Pentagon, Langley... Fuck. Better get the watch supervisor ready to start making calls.
CIA Headquarters - 0156Z
Assistant Deputy Director For Operations Office (Night shift)
"Fuck."
Pentagon - 0203Z
Officer of the Watch's Office
"Fuck."
White House - 0542Z
Situation Room
"That's the only thing they took?"
"Yes sir. The only thing. The container contained some sensitive electronic equipment which the CIA was attempting to move covertly from our old listening posts in Japan to Australia. Part of the new surveillance initiatives focusing on South East Asian terrorism."
"What kind of equipment?"
"Primarily cryptographic equipment. We have to assume that our systems are at the very least compromised for the moment. I've taken the precaution of ordering the transition to one-time pads until we can verify the situation."
Thailand Air 737 en route to Macau
First Class
The briefcase rested in his lap, he was being met at the other end by several representatives of the Chinese gov't. Not officially of course, otherwise they would have done this themselves. Probably. They probably didn't have the intel that he'd had fall into his lap though. All because one docker in Yokohama got pissy about having some grotesque gaijin suit demanded to look over his shoulder while he was loading a container. "Well, I can't complain about that now can I?" he thought to himself. The next job was likely going to be even tougher though. But, if the Russian's intel was good, then they were going to completely deniably remove a major source of the Mujahadeen's income. He looked again at his mental image of the boat - the Prince had been living the high life that so many of his kindred enjoyed. And his boat was his pride and joy. And in the next fortnight he was due to be heading down the East Coast of Africa, no doubt in the process offering some comfort to the new leaders of Somalia. "Well, its a dangerous part of the world. You never know what might happen there." Already most of his team was en route. Quite a few had visited Somalia before. Some had been across the border in Eritrea on other contracts. This one was probably going to get messy... Somehow African jobs always ended up that way.
M.V. Auaoratiga (NZ owned container ship, registered in Venezuala en route to Sydney with a load of electronics from Kuala Lumpur)
They struck quickly. The ship was crippled before they even registered that something had happened. They'd picked up a weird bit of radar back scatter for the past minute or so. Well, they'd thought it was scatter - now it was clear that is was a sea-skimming anti-ship missile. It had hit their engines and taken them out of commission. Not nearly enough to put a ship their size out of action. Captain Scott figured that the pirates had just kicked the game up a notch, "All hands, stand by to receive boarders. Damage control is the priority. DO NOT resist the boarders." Two little helicopters swung past the bridge - MD500s from the look of them. Each one carried several men, straight away Captain Scott realised that this was no normal pirate group.
MD500 helicopter (approaching the M.V. Auaoratiga)
He pulled his gasmask down into place, and double checked the mask of the man opposite, to ensure that there was no hair breaking the seal. "Weapons loaded and safetied! Sound off!" He checks the chamber of his Benelli M1 Super 90, 12ga buckshot is in place. The tube is full. Spare shells are clipped on the rack alongside the barrel. Sidearm is in place on his thigh.
"4 ready!"
"3 ready!"
"2 ready!"
"1 ready!"
"10 seconds to LZ." The pilot announces matter of factly, he and the co-pilot are both scanning for any obstructions.
"Assault teams - get ready. Blue, make for the bridge and secure it. Red, hit the crew quarters. Second wave will be here in two minutes!"
Bridge of the M.V. Auaoratiga
Captain Scott shouted down the hallway towards the radio room: "Get the word out! Goddamn it get the mayday out!". He watched out the bridge windows as the helicopters came down, and came within a hair of touching the tops of the container stacks. At that moment they slowed just enough to allow their complement of men to jump out. The helicopters quickly disappeared, standing just below his eye level, some 50m away now were 8 men dressed, unmistakeably in assault gear. One raised a stubby weapon and fired.
The CS gas grenade smashed through the bridge window as the first of the men quickly began descending the container stacks by means of a quickly rigged rope.
Within sixty seconds by his reckoning, Captain Scott had lost complete control of his ship. He was now watching though hazy two hydrofoils pull alongside each with at least another fifteen men aboard. A slap brings him back to reality. "We know that its onboard." The voice is muffled by the gasmask. There is something mumbled within the mask that he cannot hear. "Captain - its a simple question. Container number GLCU-2662147. We have it registered coming on board during your stop in Japan. It didn't go off in Hong Kong or Kuala Lumpur. Where in the stacks is it?"
Forty-Five minutes later...
With amazing precision, Captain Scott could see, they were dismantling the stacks around the container. Dumping them straight over the sides. The container they were after had quickly been found in the ships database. He could see it now. It was a yellow one, just now showing its top. Another helicopter was just arriving, an enormous one - Skycranes, he remembered them being called. It lowered itself down to a hover just above the container and it was slowly secured. The blades could be seen straining for lift as the helicopter lifted off with the container attached to it like an enormous tumour. "Thank you for your courtesy Captain. We've activated the emergency beacons for you and ensured you have plenty of fresh water." The lead pirate was gone, striding down the hallway, which he filled with his enormous physical presence, flanked by two guards. The last guard covering them safeties and slings his weapon, before drawing a knife, walking to the Captain and cutting his plasti-cuffs. "You can do the rest of your people I assume Captain?" He sheathes his knife and also leaves. The whine of the smaller MD500s return and the last of the pirates leave his ship as he stares out the shattered bridge window. "What the fuck just happened?" He asks no-one in particular.
NSA Headquarters - 0133Z
ECHELON watch room.
The intercept was fresh from the ECHELON system. Maritime sat-phone call from a ship in the Indonesian archipelago to its owners in New Zealand. Some kind of piracy. But a watch-word had come up besides the usual piracy. "What the fuck is GLCU-2662147 doing in out watch-list?"
"Not a clue, but HOLY SHIT. Look at all the flags attached to that - Pentagon, Langley... Fuck. Better get the watch supervisor ready to start making calls.
CIA Headquarters - 0156Z
Assistant Deputy Director For Operations Office (Night shift)
"Fuck."
Pentagon - 0203Z
Officer of the Watch's Office
"Fuck."
White House - 0542Z
Situation Room
"That's the only thing they took?"
"Yes sir. The only thing. The container contained some sensitive electronic equipment which the CIA was attempting to move covertly from our old listening posts in Japan to Australia. Part of the new surveillance initiatives focusing on South East Asian terrorism."
"What kind of equipment?"
"Primarily cryptographic equipment. We have to assume that our systems are at the very least compromised for the moment. I've taken the precaution of ordering the transition to one-time pads until we can verify the situation."
Thailand Air 737 en route to Macau
First Class
The briefcase rested in his lap, he was being met at the other end by several representatives of the Chinese gov't. Not officially of course, otherwise they would have done this themselves. Probably. They probably didn't have the intel that he'd had fall into his lap though. All because one docker in Yokohama got pissy about having some grotesque gaijin suit demanded to look over his shoulder while he was loading a container. "Well, I can't complain about that now can I?" he thought to himself. The next job was likely going to be even tougher though. But, if the Russian's intel was good, then they were going to completely deniably remove a major source of the Mujahadeen's income. He looked again at his mental image of the boat - the Prince had been living the high life that so many of his kindred enjoyed. And his boat was his pride and joy. And in the next fortnight he was due to be heading down the East Coast of Africa, no doubt in the process offering some comfort to the new leaders of Somalia. "Well, its a dangerous part of the world. You never know what might happen there." Already most of his team was en route. Quite a few had visited Somalia before. Some had been across the border in Eritrea on other contracts. This one was probably going to get messy... Somehow African jobs always ended up that way.
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Agent Fisher
- Rabid Monkey
- Posts: 3671
- Joined: 2003-04-29 11:56pm
- Location: Sac-Town, CA, USA, Earth, Sol, Milky Way, Universe
The two officers accepted their glasses, but when it became clear that Reynold was unwilling to bring the Russians into their conversation, Bucher tentatively cleared his throat. “There’s no disruption. General Reynold and I haven’t seen each other for quite awhile, and we were just catching up. You and Nick… um, Admiral Rebikov, are welcome to join in.” Encouraged, the other two picked up their drinks. “So Commodore, how do you like Norfolk?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen very much of it yet, Admiral,” Kurilov replied, evidently thankful that at least one of the Americans was willing to speak freely with him. “I just flew in from the Harbinger and presented her loan papers to Admiral Christy. I must admit, I expected to see you and General Reynold in the Admiral’s quarters. Not that I mind, of course. The informal setting here is… comforting.”
Bucher nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Just what we were thinking. So tell me, what did you think of Admiral Christy?”
“He seems to be a fine man, sir. I am not very familiar with American officers, but the attributes of a good commander are universal, and I perceived some them in him even during the course of our short meeting. He is most… engaging, and I see no reason to doubt his impressive record. Of course, there are some abilities one can only really be sure of when they are witnessed firsthand, but until then…”
“I’ve heard that your own abilities are nothing to scoff at, Commodore,” Reynold put in suddenly, laying down his still-full glass.
Kurilov was obviously caught off guard by the sudden comment, but he did not let his surprise show for long. “Thank you, General. Yes, the homeland did make something of an icon of me, and I’m not surprised that some word of my career has made it to the United States. Of course, I do not expect you to simply believe the reports of the media or your intelligence services; I am most eager to make the utmost extent of my skill at your disposal, and I intend to show you…”
Reynold cut him off again. “Oh, there’s no need to convince me. I’ve already seen the products of your abilities, and believe me, they weren’t things someone easily forgets. Not when you see them up close. I only hope that you are as proficient at naval combat as you are at bombing barracks and hospitals. Of course, if Ouessant is any indication, I shouldn’t be worried. Overkill works just as well at sea as it does on land, I suppose.”
The Soviet captain’s lips tightened. “Certain things must be done in times of war, General. Surely, understand that better than anyone, including myself. Your record…”
“My record does not include the slaughter of hundreds of non-combatants whose only offense was being near a NATO base when you decided the party needed more real-estate. My record does not show me as the kind of man who sits back and polishes his rank insignia as rockets and deck guns do the talking for him. My record does not indicate that I would ever willingly serve a government that has oppressed, enslaved, and murdered millions of its own people to feed the megalomaniacal cravings of the Great Party.” Reynold’s voice was cool and steady, but as he forced out the last few words, the pure distain, the bottled up anger of dead comrades and crushed sensibilities and ingrained hate, could not have been more evident.
Lonestar placed a hand on his friend’s rigid shoulder. “Isaac, slow down. I think that last beer might have been…”
The brigadier general rose suddenly, collecting his jacket from the chair with a swift swipe. “Yeah, I think I’d better call it a night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave Bucher a curt nod, and then stalked swiftly out of the room, earning several curious glances from the other officers nearby. No doubt, the display would only serve to reinforce the rumors about his foul tempter throughout the fleet.
The remaining three were silent for a long moment, until Rebikov picked up his empty tumbler and looked at it reflectively in the artificial light. “I believe I could use another drink.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen very much of it yet, Admiral,” Kurilov replied, evidently thankful that at least one of the Americans was willing to speak freely with him. “I just flew in from the Harbinger and presented her loan papers to Admiral Christy. I must admit, I expected to see you and General Reynold in the Admiral’s quarters. Not that I mind, of course. The informal setting here is… comforting.”
Bucher nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Just what we were thinking. So tell me, what did you think of Admiral Christy?”
“He seems to be a fine man, sir. I am not very familiar with American officers, but the attributes of a good commander are universal, and I perceived some them in him even during the course of our short meeting. He is most… engaging, and I see no reason to doubt his impressive record. Of course, there are some abilities one can only really be sure of when they are witnessed firsthand, but until then…”
“I’ve heard that your own abilities are nothing to scoff at, Commodore,” Reynold put in suddenly, laying down his still-full glass.
Kurilov was obviously caught off guard by the sudden comment, but he did not let his surprise show for long. “Thank you, General. Yes, the homeland did make something of an icon of me, and I’m not surprised that some word of my career has made it to the United States. Of course, I do not expect you to simply believe the reports of the media or your intelligence services; I am most eager to make the utmost extent of my skill at your disposal, and I intend to show you…”
Reynold cut him off again. “Oh, there’s no need to convince me. I’ve already seen the products of your abilities, and believe me, they weren’t things someone easily forgets. Not when you see them up close. I only hope that you are as proficient at naval combat as you are at bombing barracks and hospitals. Of course, if Ouessant is any indication, I shouldn’t be worried. Overkill works just as well at sea as it does on land, I suppose.”
The Soviet captain’s lips tightened. “Certain things must be done in times of war, General. Surely, understand that better than anyone, including myself. Your record…”
“My record does not include the slaughter of hundreds of non-combatants whose only offense was being near a NATO base when you decided the party needed more real-estate. My record does not show me as the kind of man who sits back and polishes his rank insignia as rockets and deck guns do the talking for him. My record does not indicate that I would ever willingly serve a government that has oppressed, enslaved, and murdered millions of its own people to feed the megalomaniacal cravings of the Great Party.” Reynold’s voice was cool and steady, but as he forced out the last few words, the pure distain, the bottled up anger of dead comrades and crushed sensibilities and ingrained hate, could not have been more evident.
Lonestar placed a hand on his friend’s rigid shoulder. “Isaac, slow down. I think that last beer might have been…”
The brigadier general rose suddenly, collecting his jacket from the chair with a swift swipe. “Yeah, I think I’d better call it a night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave Bucher a curt nod, and then stalked swiftly out of the room, earning several curious glances from the other officers nearby. No doubt, the display would only serve to reinforce the rumors about his foul tempter throughout the fleet.
The remaining three were silent for a long moment, until Rebikov picked up his empty tumbler and looked at it reflectively in the artificial light. “I believe I could use another drink.”
The Rift
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
-
Darth Raptor
- Red Mage
- Posts: 5448
- Joined: 2003-12-18 03:39am
It had taken a discreet moment for Vianor's casual veneer of inscrutability to regenerate after having been blasted off by the Marine's namesake rage. Even so, Bucher thought it was a remarkably swift recovery. Kurilov was probably unaccustomed to admonitions, especially in regards to Party ideology or the ethics of warfare. In his mind, the worst thing he had ever done was betray the Union. But such treason was wholly justifiable, because in so doing he saved his country from certain destruction. Certainly an American of all people would respect such a sentiment; the idea of being loyal to the end above the transient officials who preside over that end. Nevertheless, these bourgeois types were far less utilitarian and far more sentimental when it came to such things. Still, it was rather unexpected to find such sentimentality among the nation's greatest warriors. How was it that this country maintained parity with his own if its people were so weak? Material wealth, of course. There couldn't be any other reason. No, there just couldn't be. The United States maintained its supremacy by ruthlessly exploiting its own citizens. “Freedom” and “liberty” for the individual, at the expense of society as a whole. That was geopolitics at its most elementary.
The two Russians exchanged an unreadable glance as Rebikov rose to secure another glass of sub-standard vodka. Lonestar bitterly reflected that he felt less helpless on the receiving end of AAA.
“I don't know what to tell you, Commodore.” He admitted. “I suppose I could offer up some kind of bullshit consolation like 'don't take it personally' or something but it'd be a lie. I'm averse to bullshitting, you see, and as flag officer I don't get a lot of opportunities to be honest. I'd apologize for Isaac's outburst but the truth is I can't exactly see how it's out of line. Maybe not the zenith of professionalism, but we're off duty. Nick and I had a similar exchange the other day.” He paused for a moment. Kurilov's cold implacability really irritated him. He shook his head. “Maybe this was a bad idea after all. This little get together was my idea, you see. I just- *sigh*”
“You don't need to concern yourself with any perceived injuries on my part, sir.” Vianor assured the elder bombardier coolly. “The general's convictions are completely understandable.”
“That's good,” Bucher muttered. “No, I'm glad, really. It could get pretty tiresome having to explain why no one likes you.”
“I'm enough of a celebrity back home, sir.” Kurilov smiled. “When expectations are at their lowest, the opportunity to make the best impressions is at its peak.”
“Hmph. Well, your attitude's admirable, if nothing else.”
Nickolai finally returned with a full glass of straight potato liquor. Just as he set his drink down his phone started buzzing. It was a ridiculously obsolete cell, probably considered antique in Japan, but some of its finer features were hardly standard. It had a direct link to the Arcadia's intelligence bay, for one. That link was heavily encrypted, for another. Accessories by the Graniny Gorki Design Bureau, not Nokia.
“Da, Kontr-admiral Rebikov-” Bucher couldn't make out the rest the hasty conversation; conducted in Russian. He was amused to see a very readable reaction on his face though, a welcome reprieve from Vianor's almost mechanical behavior. Surprise, mixed with intrigue. Once the call was over, the two Soviet officers started babbling to each other almost immediately.
“Hey!” The American interjected. “There'll be none of that now! If it's Soviet business keep it to yourselves. Don't just blab it in public and assume it's safe because it's in Russian.”
Rebikov jerked. Changing languages was a very visible, almost physical process for him. “My apologies. You have a need to know as well, but I imagine your own superiors will inform you via the proper channels in due time. I-”
“Out with it.”
“Of course, Comrade. I don't have many details, but it appears as if there's been a coordinated raid on your country's counter-intelligence systems in the South Pacific. Some very sensitive equipment has been stolen.”
“Stolen? What equipment?”
Nickolai shrugged in a most un-military manner. “I have no idea. Our KGB and your CIA are still not on what you would call speaking terms. Like I said, your superiors may fill you in. Ultimately, my information comes... how you say... 'second hand'? This is an American problem right now, but it may become a UN problem in short order. At any rate, I must contact the admiral. You should get some rest. If my suspicions are correct, tomorrow, the work begins in earnest.”
Lonestar threw up his hands. “Alright, I'll let you do your thing.” In all actuality, he was relieved to see Nickolai have a “thing” to do. The weird man had a disturbingly vague role and nonsensical title disproportionate to his rank. Bucher had begun to suspect he was little more than a dual commissar/spy sent to keep tabs on the Americans. Having full control over everything intel would definitely make that job easier. Intelligence types were always much more likable when their attentions were focused outward. It didn't matter which hemisphere they were from.
As Vianor and Lonestar wordlessly shuffled out of the bar- together- Rebikov took his seat at the otherwise empty table and quickly dialed.
The response was timely, but the voice reflected anything but readiness. “Christy here. What is it?” The commander answered groggily.
“Comrade Admiral, we have a situation that requires your attention.”
“*yawn* Is it about the box? Yeah, I heard. They already told me. We're shipping out tomorrow morning, forty-eight hours ahead of schedule.”
“Maluku?”
“That's right. Your department has probably received the official orders already. You don't need to do anything with them tonight. Our mobilization is urgent, but not incredibly so. They're probably just sending us to patch the chink in their armor.”
“That's a very large “chink”, sir. I never would have expected them to make the first move.”
“Good night, Nick. *click*”
The two Russians exchanged an unreadable glance as Rebikov rose to secure another glass of sub-standard vodka. Lonestar bitterly reflected that he felt less helpless on the receiving end of AAA.
“I don't know what to tell you, Commodore.” He admitted. “I suppose I could offer up some kind of bullshit consolation like 'don't take it personally' or something but it'd be a lie. I'm averse to bullshitting, you see, and as flag officer I don't get a lot of opportunities to be honest. I'd apologize for Isaac's outburst but the truth is I can't exactly see how it's out of line. Maybe not the zenith of professionalism, but we're off duty. Nick and I had a similar exchange the other day.” He paused for a moment. Kurilov's cold implacability really irritated him. He shook his head. “Maybe this was a bad idea after all. This little get together was my idea, you see. I just- *sigh*”
“You don't need to concern yourself with any perceived injuries on my part, sir.” Vianor assured the elder bombardier coolly. “The general's convictions are completely understandable.”
“That's good,” Bucher muttered. “No, I'm glad, really. It could get pretty tiresome having to explain why no one likes you.”
“I'm enough of a celebrity back home, sir.” Kurilov smiled. “When expectations are at their lowest, the opportunity to make the best impressions is at its peak.”
“Hmph. Well, your attitude's admirable, if nothing else.”
Nickolai finally returned with a full glass of straight potato liquor. Just as he set his drink down his phone started buzzing. It was a ridiculously obsolete cell, probably considered antique in Japan, but some of its finer features were hardly standard. It had a direct link to the Arcadia's intelligence bay, for one. That link was heavily encrypted, for another. Accessories by the Graniny Gorki Design Bureau, not Nokia.
“Da, Kontr-admiral Rebikov-” Bucher couldn't make out the rest the hasty conversation; conducted in Russian. He was amused to see a very readable reaction on his face though, a welcome reprieve from Vianor's almost mechanical behavior. Surprise, mixed with intrigue. Once the call was over, the two Soviet officers started babbling to each other almost immediately.
“Hey!” The American interjected. “There'll be none of that now! If it's Soviet business keep it to yourselves. Don't just blab it in public and assume it's safe because it's in Russian.”
Rebikov jerked. Changing languages was a very visible, almost physical process for him. “My apologies. You have a need to know as well, but I imagine your own superiors will inform you via the proper channels in due time. I-”
“Out with it.”
“Of course, Comrade. I don't have many details, but it appears as if there's been a coordinated raid on your country's counter-intelligence systems in the South Pacific. Some very sensitive equipment has been stolen.”
“Stolen? What equipment?”
Nickolai shrugged in a most un-military manner. “I have no idea. Our KGB and your CIA are still not on what you would call speaking terms. Like I said, your superiors may fill you in. Ultimately, my information comes... how you say... 'second hand'? This is an American problem right now, but it may become a UN problem in short order. At any rate, I must contact the admiral. You should get some rest. If my suspicions are correct, tomorrow, the work begins in earnest.”
Lonestar threw up his hands. “Alright, I'll let you do your thing.” In all actuality, he was relieved to see Nickolai have a “thing” to do. The weird man had a disturbingly vague role and nonsensical title disproportionate to his rank. Bucher had begun to suspect he was little more than a dual commissar/spy sent to keep tabs on the Americans. Having full control over everything intel would definitely make that job easier. Intelligence types were always much more likable when their attentions were focused outward. It didn't matter which hemisphere they were from.
As Vianor and Lonestar wordlessly shuffled out of the bar- together- Rebikov took his seat at the otherwise empty table and quickly dialed.
The response was timely, but the voice reflected anything but readiness. “Christy here. What is it?” The commander answered groggily.
“Comrade Admiral, we have a situation that requires your attention.”
“*yawn* Is it about the box? Yeah, I heard. They already told me. We're shipping out tomorrow morning, forty-eight hours ahead of schedule.”
“Maluku?”
“That's right. Your department has probably received the official orders already. You don't need to do anything with them tonight. Our mobilization is urgent, but not incredibly so. They're probably just sending us to patch the chink in their armor.”
“That's a very large “chink”, sir. I never would have expected them to make the first move.”
“Good night, Nick. *click*”
-
Ar-Adunakhor
- Jedi Knight
- Posts: 672
- Joined: 2005-09-05 03:06am
Walking along the path to the Arcadia's moorings, Vianor inhaled the brisk night air. It was interesting that events had turned out the way they had, with Reynolds as his Commanding Officer. It might even turn out to be beneficial.
Before he had come ashore, he had visited the sailors who were transporting the General's baggage to the Harbinger and noticed quite a few naval combat primers among the General's effects. When viewed alongside his deployment history and comments in the club, it showed that the General would be quite out of his element when commanding a sea force. That was perfect, and it sped up Vianor's plans considerably. There would be no long process of constantly demonstrating more effective strategies and tactics, slowly gaining the CO's confidence, but rather a forced reliance from the outset. Perhaps, if played correctly he could even --
-- "...ing about, over there?"
The Commodore was jolted out of his reverie by Rear Admiral Bucher's voice. "Did you say something to me, Comrade Admiral?" he replied.
Glancing over, Bucher repeated, "What are you smiling about, over there? Happy to get back to your ship after all this crap?"
"Ah, my apologies Comrade Admiral, I was merely thinking about how pleasureable it will be to begin our voyage. I had been concerned about granting my crew leave under such... ah... circumstances."
"What?" smiled Bucher, "You don't want your crew soaking up our decadant western lifestyle and playing rock music at ungodly hours in the morning?"
Annoyed, Commodore Kurilov pressed his lips together in a grim smile, "Hah. A fine jest. Perhaps, or perhaps I was concerned about their safety when roaming the base and city. I trust you remember the conversation we had not too long ago?"
"I remember, but like I said -- "
The Commodore cut him off, "I understand perfectly, Comrade Admiral, and bear no ill will towards any of you. Recognize, however, that I must take all such factors into account when making my decisions."
"Yeah," Bucher grimaced, "just don't take it too hard. Besides, I bet you guys would be the same way if we were meeting at Leningrad or Severomorsk."
"Doubtful, Comrade. The People's Navy may feel the same way, but we are far too disciplined to show it in such a manner."
"Right, I'll be sure to mention the Soviet Navy's discipline to the half dozen people still alive in Iceland, if we ever head that way. I'm sure they would love to hear about it."
Covering the rest of the distance in strained silence, the two boarded the Arcadia and bid each other farewell. As Bucher turned away, however, Vianor hailed him from behind, "Admiral, may I have a final word with you?"
Turning, Bucher warily replied, "Yeah, what's up?"
"I apologize if I was... harsh... today. As you no doubt have noticed, these circumstances do not bring out a person's better side." Kurilov offered his hand, "Perhaps you would be my guest for dinner aboard the Harbinger while we are en-route? I would like to make amends for this evening, and perhaps we can depart on better terms."
Taking Kurilov's hand, Bucher replied, "Sounds good, I'll drop in when the mess serves their famous 'Mystery Meat Suprise'." Though he felt a bit apprehensive as he watched the Commodore's chopper lift off, he was also hopeful. "Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought." he muttered, heading to his quarters to grab some much-needed sleep.
As he watched the Arcadia recede behind him, Vianor turned his thoughts toward his own ship. What he had said earlier was true, the crew of the Harbinger was far too disciplined to ever disregard his orders to be civil. He smiled. And of course, they were also the best of the best, able to carry out his orders autonomously, creatively, and within the given limits. He was looking forward to his XO's report.
Before he had come ashore, he had visited the sailors who were transporting the General's baggage to the Harbinger and noticed quite a few naval combat primers among the General's effects. When viewed alongside his deployment history and comments in the club, it showed that the General would be quite out of his element when commanding a sea force. That was perfect, and it sped up Vianor's plans considerably. There would be no long process of constantly demonstrating more effective strategies and tactics, slowly gaining the CO's confidence, but rather a forced reliance from the outset. Perhaps, if played correctly he could even --
-- "...ing about, over there?"
The Commodore was jolted out of his reverie by Rear Admiral Bucher's voice. "Did you say something to me, Comrade Admiral?" he replied.
Glancing over, Bucher repeated, "What are you smiling about, over there? Happy to get back to your ship after all this crap?"
"Ah, my apologies Comrade Admiral, I was merely thinking about how pleasureable it will be to begin our voyage. I had been concerned about granting my crew leave under such... ah... circumstances."
"What?" smiled Bucher, "You don't want your crew soaking up our decadant western lifestyle and playing rock music at ungodly hours in the morning?"
Annoyed, Commodore Kurilov pressed his lips together in a grim smile, "Hah. A fine jest. Perhaps, or perhaps I was concerned about their safety when roaming the base and city. I trust you remember the conversation we had not too long ago?"
"I remember, but like I said -- "
The Commodore cut him off, "I understand perfectly, Comrade Admiral, and bear no ill will towards any of you. Recognize, however, that I must take all such factors into account when making my decisions."
"Yeah," Bucher grimaced, "just don't take it too hard. Besides, I bet you guys would be the same way if we were meeting at Leningrad or Severomorsk."
"Doubtful, Comrade. The People's Navy may feel the same way, but we are far too disciplined to show it in such a manner."
"Right, I'll be sure to mention the Soviet Navy's discipline to the half dozen people still alive in Iceland, if we ever head that way. I'm sure they would love to hear about it."
Covering the rest of the distance in strained silence, the two boarded the Arcadia and bid each other farewell. As Bucher turned away, however, Vianor hailed him from behind, "Admiral, may I have a final word with you?"
Turning, Bucher warily replied, "Yeah, what's up?"
"I apologize if I was... harsh... today. As you no doubt have noticed, these circumstances do not bring out a person's better side." Kurilov offered his hand, "Perhaps you would be my guest for dinner aboard the Harbinger while we are en-route? I would like to make amends for this evening, and perhaps we can depart on better terms."
Taking Kurilov's hand, Bucher replied, "Sounds good, I'll drop in when the mess serves their famous 'Mystery Meat Suprise'." Though he felt a bit apprehensive as he watched the Commodore's chopper lift off, he was also hopeful. "Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought." he muttered, heading to his quarters to grab some much-needed sleep.
As he watched the Arcadia recede behind him, Vianor turned his thoughts toward his own ship. What he had said earlier was true, the crew of the Harbinger was far too disciplined to ever disregard his orders to be civil. He smiled. And of course, they were also the best of the best, able to carry out his orders autonomously, creatively, and within the given limits. He was looking forward to his XO's report.
-
Tar-Minyatur
- Redshirt
- Posts: 3
- Joined: 2006-07-19 04:00pm
Captain-Lieutenant Alexi Pavlovich was pleased. The Commodore had ordered him to be civil with the American general, but they had both seen the files. General Reynolds was unlikely to be civil towards the crew of the Soviet ship, and with that in mind Alexi had decided to get a little "head start" on the General. In fact, he had seen to it personally.
General Reynolds emerged from the bar, still fuming over the attitude of Commodore Kurilov. For all his awards and genius, the Commodore was still a cold, ruthless Soviet, and the general couldn't help but dislike the man. Immediately outside, a Russian lieutenant caught the general's attention.
The young Russian spoke up immediately. "General Reynolds, please, come with me. I will escort you to the Harbringer. Your quarters are prepared, and we have a helicopter waiting for you."
Expecting to see one of the usual Soviet Kamovs, General Reynolds was shocked to see a modern Merlin helicopter waiting to take him and his escort to the Soviet battlecruiser. How the hell did they get their hands on a western helicopter? The flight to the ship was uneventful, and very quiet. General Reynolds shunned conversation with the Soviet crewmen, clearly having difficulty considering them allies.
The Merlin landed on the Harbringer without difficulty, and as Reynolds stepped down onto the battlecruiser he noticed that the XO, Captain-Lieutenant Alexi Pavlovich, was already waiting for him. The General had read the man's file, and already disliked him. The XO of the Harbringer had a reputation for getting things done, no matter who got hurt by his actions or how much collateral damage was caused.
"Greetings, Comrade General," said Alexi, after the formalities were complete, "I am Captain-Lieutenant Pavlovich. Please, come with me; we have already prepared quarters for you."
The general followed the XO, struggling to control himself. The man in front of him deserved his ire, he knew, but now wasn't the time to let it show. He wasn't drunk, far from it, but he also knew that he wasn't completely rational after his argument with the Commodore.
As they stepped into the ship Alexi spoke again, "We have transferred most of your personal effects to your new quarters general, though I regret to inform you that some of your clothes were mishandled. We've sent them to be washed, and I have arranged to ensure that you have a dress uniform for when we leave tomorrow. I hope you find the arrangements to your liking."
Reynolds gave curt thanks and mouthed some pleasantries. He was in enemy country, and he wanted to become familiar with his surroundings before he voiced any complaint. There would be plenty of time to argue with the Soviet Commodore and his subordinates in the coming months, but for now the best course of action was to take it easy.
Alexi stopped in the corridor ahead. "Here are your quarters, Comrade General." There was a faint sound of music coming from the room, but Reynolds didn't recognize the song through the door, despite its familiar feel. The XO spoke again, "I will leave you to see to your things, General Reynolds. If there are any problems, feel free to call for assistance and we will attempt to see to your needs. Good night, Comrade General." With that, Alexi turned on his heel and left him in peace.
Internally, however, Alexi was laughing already. He was sure the Commodore would get a good laugh out of this when he returned, though that would need to be hidden from the American. He expected that Reynolds would be exploding in the next few minutes, but by that time he'd be well away from him.
Standing alone in the corridor, General Isaac Reynolds sighed. He was glad that he could finally rest, and be done with the damned Soviets for the day. Opening the door and entering his quarters, he found his effects...and two other things. On a night table next to his bed was a tape player, playing the Soviet national anthem. On his bed was a full Soviet Union flag officer's dress uniform.
Alexi walked away quickly after leaving the general. On one hand he wanted to hear the general's imminent outburst, but on the other... well, he didn't want to actually be that close to an angry flag officer. Replacing the general's dress uniform had been a brilliant touch, if he did say so himself. He'd have to arrange for a "routine new vessel safety inspection" to be done on the rooms around the General's quarters in the next few days. Preferably while the general was sleeping. This voyage was going to be quite amusing. With that thought, Alexi went to the bridge to await Vianor's arrival.
General Reynolds emerged from the bar, still fuming over the attitude of Commodore Kurilov. For all his awards and genius, the Commodore was still a cold, ruthless Soviet, and the general couldn't help but dislike the man. Immediately outside, a Russian lieutenant caught the general's attention.
The young Russian spoke up immediately. "General Reynolds, please, come with me. I will escort you to the Harbringer. Your quarters are prepared, and we have a helicopter waiting for you."
Expecting to see one of the usual Soviet Kamovs, General Reynolds was shocked to see a modern Merlin helicopter waiting to take him and his escort to the Soviet battlecruiser. How the hell did they get their hands on a western helicopter? The flight to the ship was uneventful, and very quiet. General Reynolds shunned conversation with the Soviet crewmen, clearly having difficulty considering them allies.
The Merlin landed on the Harbringer without difficulty, and as Reynolds stepped down onto the battlecruiser he noticed that the XO, Captain-Lieutenant Alexi Pavlovich, was already waiting for him. The General had read the man's file, and already disliked him. The XO of the Harbringer had a reputation for getting things done, no matter who got hurt by his actions or how much collateral damage was caused.
"Greetings, Comrade General," said Alexi, after the formalities were complete, "I am Captain-Lieutenant Pavlovich. Please, come with me; we have already prepared quarters for you."
The general followed the XO, struggling to control himself. The man in front of him deserved his ire, he knew, but now wasn't the time to let it show. He wasn't drunk, far from it, but he also knew that he wasn't completely rational after his argument with the Commodore.
As they stepped into the ship Alexi spoke again, "We have transferred most of your personal effects to your new quarters general, though I regret to inform you that some of your clothes were mishandled. We've sent them to be washed, and I have arranged to ensure that you have a dress uniform for when we leave tomorrow. I hope you find the arrangements to your liking."
Reynolds gave curt thanks and mouthed some pleasantries. He was in enemy country, and he wanted to become familiar with his surroundings before he voiced any complaint. There would be plenty of time to argue with the Soviet Commodore and his subordinates in the coming months, but for now the best course of action was to take it easy.
Alexi stopped in the corridor ahead. "Here are your quarters, Comrade General." There was a faint sound of music coming from the room, but Reynolds didn't recognize the song through the door, despite its familiar feel. The XO spoke again, "I will leave you to see to your things, General Reynolds. If there are any problems, feel free to call for assistance and we will attempt to see to your needs. Good night, Comrade General." With that, Alexi turned on his heel and left him in peace.
Internally, however, Alexi was laughing already. He was sure the Commodore would get a good laugh out of this when he returned, though that would need to be hidden from the American. He expected that Reynolds would be exploding in the next few minutes, but by that time he'd be well away from him.
Standing alone in the corridor, General Isaac Reynolds sighed. He was glad that he could finally rest, and be done with the damned Soviets for the day. Opening the door and entering his quarters, he found his effects...and two other things. On a night table next to his bed was a tape player, playing the Soviet national anthem. On his bed was a full Soviet Union flag officer's dress uniform.
Alexi walked away quickly after leaving the general. On one hand he wanted to hear the general's imminent outburst, but on the other... well, he didn't want to actually be that close to an angry flag officer. Replacing the general's dress uniform had been a brilliant touch, if he did say so himself. He'd have to arrange for a "routine new vessel safety inspection" to be done on the rooms around the General's quarters in the next few days. Preferably while the general was sleeping. This voyage was going to be quite amusing. With that thought, Alexi went to the bridge to await Vianor's arrival.
-
weemadando
- SMAKIBBFB
- Posts: 19195
- Joined: 2002-07-28 12:30pm
- Contact:
Somalia, East Africa.
0715Local
Several members of his team had been here before. That's why he'd chosen them for this mission. The earpiece crackled and he heard the familiar chitter of the encryption being confirmed.
"Target is rolling. Currently third in convoy. White SUV. Target is in left rear seat."
He looked around. He hated East Africa. If he was a religious sort he might have said it was clearly a part of the world forsaken by god. But he wasn't religious. He just knew fucked up when he saw it. A white face in Somalia was still somewhat unusual, but the Red Cross/Red Crescent vest helped a lot. They'd been unloading rice for about half an hour now, at a small aid station at the outskirts of Mogadishu. Two kilometres away the main highway gently curved away from the sea and headed in towards Mogadishu. It was on this curve that they'd planted the bombs. Two large charges of Czech plastic explosive set to bracket the vehicle. It was 500m from this curve that two more members of his team lay in a shallow sniper hide, with a V-94 anti-material rifle. They'd been following Khalid Al-Suwaii for two weeks. He'd seemed unpredictable at first, but after a few days a logic emerged. His guards seemed to position him in the vehicle and then that vehicle in the convoy in a recognisable pattern. It repeated every 15 trips. It showed that someone, somewhere had given them at least some basic training in VIP details.
He turned to one of the other aid workers. "Any sign of those MOIS or VEVAK guys?"
"None Sir, they went to ground two days ago. Haven't popped their heads up since."
"OK. Keep unloading here. Make sure that we keep on our toes though, we know how erratic Mr K's drivers are." He turned and walked away towards a Red Cross marked Land Rover. Two militiamen who had been overseeing the unloading wandering over.
"Good morning. You are after the dues for the Imam?" His arabic wasn't great, but it was enough. One of the militiamen nodded. "Its all there. Thank the Imam for his patience and hospitality." The cost of doing business was measured in bundles of hard-currency here. Greenbacks preferably, but the Euro was increasingly popular. Still, he'd spent a little under three thousand in order to establish the perfect OP and exfil location. And he was doing a little good while he was here. But, the Red Cross would probably be out on their arse in about an hours time. Too bad. The Saudi's were sinking money in here as fast as they could drill for it. On the sly of course. It didn't look good to fund a fundamentalist militia publically, but at least some of that money went to humanitarian causes. Three thousand dollars which he'd be recovering from a bank account in Canada under the guise of an oil and mineral exploration company. The Russians might have a run down economy, but they were still willing to pay when they wanted someone disappeared and couldn't get their own hands dirty.
He could see the dust from the convoy now. One of his spotters could get the precise view at the moment. "White SUV is fourth in convoy now. One kilometre out." He tensed. Under a minute to game time. Probably closer to sixty seconds. He signalled to another of the aid workers. They entered the cab of the truck. The first of the people would be arriving from morning prayers soon. Keen on collecting their rations to sell on the black market. Fucking arsehole of the world. Starve themselves to get the money to buy themselves a gun to go and kill and rob their fucking neighbours. That wasn't really a fair assessment, but it made him feel better about what he was about to do. He pulled away one of the end of one of the bags near the cab of the truck and reached in. The USP with its silencer was there. Ready.
He could see the convoy slowing as they approached the corner. The sniper team were perfectly placed for doing this today. They'd get a shot with almost no deflection on it. The convoy hit the corner. He eyed the remaining militiamen. Three of them still here and the two heading towards town with the tribute for the Imam. He saw the blast. Spot on - the convoy had been perfectly straddling the killzone. A moment passed. The sound arrived. With it, the three militiamen in the aid centre quickly died as the aid workers fired on them with silenced pistols. No need to deal with the ones down the road, they were legging it for the city, not even looking back. "MOUNT UP! WE'RE ROLLING!" The aid workers piled into the Land Rover which sped towards the coastline. They were quickly joined by another Land Rover and then two dirt bikes. The convoy left the road and headed towards a strip of sandy beach. "Look at that timing!" One of the aid workers remarked as two RHIB craft reached the beach just as the convoy was unloading.
By the time the first militia vehicle had reached the blast site, every member of his team was on the RHIBs which were more than a kilometre off shore and racing further away every minute. "The shot get him?"
"Dead on the money. I don't even think that the vehicle was hardened." The sniper looks raggard. Then again, this mission had been fairly cushy for him, it had only be 14 hours in a hole in the dirt. He'd spent far longer in the weeds before. "So Sir," the sniper asks, "any idea which lovely place we are off to next?"
"I was thinking Madagascar to rest up for a while for you guys. I've got a meeting in Jo'berg on Friday and then Marseilles on Monday."
0715Local
Several members of his team had been here before. That's why he'd chosen them for this mission. The earpiece crackled and he heard the familiar chitter of the encryption being confirmed.
"Target is rolling. Currently third in convoy. White SUV. Target is in left rear seat."
He looked around. He hated East Africa. If he was a religious sort he might have said it was clearly a part of the world forsaken by god. But he wasn't religious. He just knew fucked up when he saw it. A white face in Somalia was still somewhat unusual, but the Red Cross/Red Crescent vest helped a lot. They'd been unloading rice for about half an hour now, at a small aid station at the outskirts of Mogadishu. Two kilometres away the main highway gently curved away from the sea and headed in towards Mogadishu. It was on this curve that they'd planted the bombs. Two large charges of Czech plastic explosive set to bracket the vehicle. It was 500m from this curve that two more members of his team lay in a shallow sniper hide, with a V-94 anti-material rifle. They'd been following Khalid Al-Suwaii for two weeks. He'd seemed unpredictable at first, but after a few days a logic emerged. His guards seemed to position him in the vehicle and then that vehicle in the convoy in a recognisable pattern. It repeated every 15 trips. It showed that someone, somewhere had given them at least some basic training in VIP details.
He turned to one of the other aid workers. "Any sign of those MOIS or VEVAK guys?"
"None Sir, they went to ground two days ago. Haven't popped their heads up since."
"OK. Keep unloading here. Make sure that we keep on our toes though, we know how erratic Mr K's drivers are." He turned and walked away towards a Red Cross marked Land Rover. Two militiamen who had been overseeing the unloading wandering over.
"Good morning. You are after the dues for the Imam?" His arabic wasn't great, but it was enough. One of the militiamen nodded. "Its all there. Thank the Imam for his patience and hospitality." The cost of doing business was measured in bundles of hard-currency here. Greenbacks preferably, but the Euro was increasingly popular. Still, he'd spent a little under three thousand in order to establish the perfect OP and exfil location. And he was doing a little good while he was here. But, the Red Cross would probably be out on their arse in about an hours time. Too bad. The Saudi's were sinking money in here as fast as they could drill for it. On the sly of course. It didn't look good to fund a fundamentalist militia publically, but at least some of that money went to humanitarian causes. Three thousand dollars which he'd be recovering from a bank account in Canada under the guise of an oil and mineral exploration company. The Russians might have a run down economy, but they were still willing to pay when they wanted someone disappeared and couldn't get their own hands dirty.
He could see the dust from the convoy now. One of his spotters could get the precise view at the moment. "White SUV is fourth in convoy now. One kilometre out." He tensed. Under a minute to game time. Probably closer to sixty seconds. He signalled to another of the aid workers. They entered the cab of the truck. The first of the people would be arriving from morning prayers soon. Keen on collecting their rations to sell on the black market. Fucking arsehole of the world. Starve themselves to get the money to buy themselves a gun to go and kill and rob their fucking neighbours. That wasn't really a fair assessment, but it made him feel better about what he was about to do. He pulled away one of the end of one of the bags near the cab of the truck and reached in. The USP with its silencer was there. Ready.
He could see the convoy slowing as they approached the corner. The sniper team were perfectly placed for doing this today. They'd get a shot with almost no deflection on it. The convoy hit the corner. He eyed the remaining militiamen. Three of them still here and the two heading towards town with the tribute for the Imam. He saw the blast. Spot on - the convoy had been perfectly straddling the killzone. A moment passed. The sound arrived. With it, the three militiamen in the aid centre quickly died as the aid workers fired on them with silenced pistols. No need to deal with the ones down the road, they were legging it for the city, not even looking back. "MOUNT UP! WE'RE ROLLING!" The aid workers piled into the Land Rover which sped towards the coastline. They were quickly joined by another Land Rover and then two dirt bikes. The convoy left the road and headed towards a strip of sandy beach. "Look at that timing!" One of the aid workers remarked as two RHIB craft reached the beach just as the convoy was unloading.
By the time the first militia vehicle had reached the blast site, every member of his team was on the RHIBs which were more than a kilometre off shore and racing further away every minute. "The shot get him?"
"Dead on the money. I don't even think that the vehicle was hardened." The sniper looks raggard. Then again, this mission had been fairly cushy for him, it had only be 14 hours in a hole in the dirt. He'd spent far longer in the weeds before. "So Sir," the sniper asks, "any idea which lovely place we are off to next?"
"I was thinking Madagascar to rest up for a while for you guys. I've got a meeting in Jo'berg on Friday and then Marseilles on Monday."