Man Apart
Camp Murray, just outside of Shipborough, Sabika
The missile attack played back in grainy black-and-white on the the plasma screen bolted to the wall of the bunker. The cargo ship entered the harbor. A small tug approached. The brief discharge of the Katyusha, lighting up the deck of the small boat. Silent explosions ruptured the freighter, which quickly began to capsize in the harbor mouth. Speedboats pulled away from the tug pulled in the midst of the chaos. The tape ended, rewound, and replayed from the beginning.
“Well, at least it wasn't a CSR freighter”, one of the attendants commented, which earned her some chuckles.
'At least it's not a CSR target' was a running gag used whenever the Sons blew up something or shot someone, a reference to the heavy-handed manner in which that communist nation reacted to perceived slights.
“Laugh all you want, but as you know”, began the MIC major in charge of counter-insurgency in and around Shipborough, “this is the third major guerilla attack this month. That is, of course, if you don't count the numerous gun battles and other assorted 'lesser' attacks. Frankly, colonel, the Sons of Sabika are beginning to piss me off, and we've got these useless rules-of-engagement to thank for it.”
For some six months now the SDA's 2nd Airmobile Brigade had been stationed near Shipborough, liaising with the Sabikan government in both cleaning up the mess left by the Coilerburgian invasion and rooting out the insurgency movement that called itself the 'Sons of Sabika'. So far, they had made preciously little headway. The coastal regions of the country in the north and east were happy enough to cooperate with the government, with San Dorado and indeed with the FTO. But the innermost regions saw plenty resistance to modernization and fraternization, and that was where the Sons were strong. Their fighters infiltrated the coastal cities and engaged in a campaign of terror that threatened to bring the economy to a grinding halt. In short: stabilizing Sabika was proving to be a bitch and a half.
“The thing is”, Colonel Richard Eddington, the overall commander of SDA forces in-theater, responded, “this is Sabika, not the CFR. We can't just blow up everything that looks like the enemy. There is a central government to keep on our good side, and we're after hearts and minds here. If we did things your way major we'd be getting nowhere.”
“That may be so”, the intelligence officer shrugged. “But we're not getting anywhere here either. The harbor is blocked for at least a week, we haven't a clue where to look for the people responsible, and so the Sons continue to rampage unchecked. We're not getting the intel we need – half the country likes us but doesn't know anything, and the other half is ambivalent and scared out of their wits that they'll get offed as traitors by the Sons.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“You say we can't risk alienating the populace. You're right, of course. You also say we can't be seen to engage in heavy-handed operations against the locals. That's also right. But that's what we need to do all the same. So, I think it's time we bring in the Bureau.”
“The Bureau?” The Colonel frowned. “I admit, I don't really like the thought of that.”
“You know as well as I do that it's the best option we have right now.”
Colonel Eddington nodded. “Alright. Make the call.”
---
Ricardo Scaglione was a plant. He had infiltrated the Central Bureau of Investigations posing as a hopeful recruit whilst he was actually an operator for the Sirnothi mafia. Unfortunately the Bureau had only found out when Scaglione was already a decorated veteran lieutenant who had arranged a string of mob busts. Now it turned out that Scaglione had gotten the neccesary information for those raids from his Sirnothi contacts. All his raids had targeted the home-grown La Palma mob, and all of them had benefited his off-shore benefactors.
The Bureau had been played, and the Bureau didn't like to be played. But to arrest Scaglione in broad daylight would be painfully embarrassing. Questions would be asked. The integrity of the CBI would be in question. So another way was found. Messages were left to answering machines. Code-words were exchanged. And a division of the CBI that no-one would ever admit existed sprung into action.
In his garage, safely in the midst of a gated community on the outskirts of San Dorado City, Ricardo Scaglione got in his Universal Motors Towncar. A second later, the garage exploded in a ball of fire as the ten pounds of C4 strapped underneath the floor of the car detonated, tearing apart the vehicle, the garage, and the double-agent's body in a lethal wave of fire and shrapnel.
A subsequent inquiry by the Bureau would yield that the hero-cop had been assassinated by the Sirnothi mafia. He would receive a hero's funeral with all the pomp and circumstance required. And who knew, perhaps his death would spark a mob-war back in Sirnoth as the mafiosi wondered what had happened to their plant.
The man known as Van Zandt smiled faintly, tossed the detonator into a trash can, and turned away. Another job well done. Then his cell phone rang.
“Is the target dealt with?” a neutral voice on the other side asked.
“I got rid of the body” the assassin calmly replied.
“Excellent”, said the voice. “Your next job is in Sabika.”
Result: Van Zandt, San Dorado's most infamous 'cleaner' is contracted to neutralize (read: wipe out) the Sons of Sabika.
