NationStates Jolt Archive

Intro
This is an adaptation of a special forces mission Chimaea sent into Benedictia in the Syskeyian War (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=333941), the RP of which I never got to finish since everyone got bored and we escallated into the war proper. I have taken gross liberties in making an interesting story as opposed to an RP in this adaptation--so be warned, this isn't going to be extremely realistic special forces warfare, or extremely realistic depiction of Veganan military forces. Or the Syskeyian people, come to that, and it probably isn't a good rendition of a tropical Asian nation either. My answer to these criticisms is: meh.

***The checkpoint from the perspective of the Veganan soldiers was written by Vegana; I've reproduced it here verbatim.***

The story will be split into parts for easier consumption. I hope you enjoy it, but don't take it too seriously. Think action film rather than accurate depiction.

Story Synopsis: Reich forces have invaded and nuked the Syskeyian island of St. Peter Cavier. In response, Chimaea deployed the First Fleet to Syskeyia in aid of recovering the blasted island, the 3 million population of which is half dead. The Reich nation of Vegana, in turn, managed to invade and capture a state of the Syskeyian mainland, Benedictia. Activating the mutual defence clauses in the Chimaean-Syskeyian Alliance, Chimaea deploys 90, 000 troops to the Syskeyian mainland to repel the invaders.

This is the story of one of the first Chimaean missions into Benedictia.

So, to quote Eminem: without further ado, I bring to you...

http://chimaea.crforums.net/sola1.jpg

Part 1: Insertion


Portus Navalis, Syskeyian Naval Headquarters

"Sit down, people. I hope you got some rest on the way over, because we have one of the first Recon missions planned for you."

Major Sorelly watched as the six-member special forces team settled into their seats. They were part of Navy Spec Ops, flown inland around the Gulf to get to Portus Navalis, which was the second last state of Syskeyia until Bendecitia.

He booted up the mission briefing from his laptop computer, which projected it into the screen at the front of the room. A map of Benedictia zoomed in until one of the outer suburbs took up the entire screen.

"This is St. Augustine, an outer suburb of Benedictia. There's a school, a church and a small shopping complex. The terrain is mostly suburbia, with two small parks near the school. Our satellite imaging has shown a peak of activity in this suburb yesterday, concentrated around the school in particular, which gradually slowed down to an almost complete stop late afternoon. We aren't exactly sure what happened but this pattern was prevalent in many of the regions of Benedictia. Your mission is to go in there and find out what the Vegana forces are doing. You'll be inserted by land and driven via truck to within 8 k's of St. Augustine--we can't risk an airdrop because we believe they've got air defences up over the city, at least. When you're in, head for the school, find out what you can, then make a base of operations, if feasible, in either the school or the church. Your primary mission is to gather as much intel as possible; your secondary mission is to disrupt any enemy activity within and near St. Augustine. Pick-up is set to two days, when the truck returns from Benedictia."

"Who's in the truck, sir?"

"Syskeyian civilian friendlies. Don't put them at risk, they're taking a huge chance here. Now, you do have permission to shoot first but be careful, this is a residential suburb and civilians will be around." he activated another screen, which showed intel of Vegana forces.

"We think there may be as many as two platoons around St. Augustine and it's neighbouring suburbs, maybe more. They'll be well armed and they probably have light armour too. Only engage them if you must; otherwise just observe and gather intel. Your escape and evasion plan is to slog it back to the Nukajam border which is guarded by the Syskeyians. Take to the countryside and avoid the main highways. We can't guarantee you any air strikes but we can probably establish some long-range artillery by the time you get there. Any questions?"

There was a brief silence from the team.

"All right. You're Recon 1. The codes have been distributed to your personal computers. Good luck, and come back in one piece hear?"

***

Benedictia, near St. Augustine

The truck smelled of stale urine and animal dung. It was an ancient Syskeyian model, probably made in the fifties and pressed into operation by the local underground when all other vehicles had been destroyed or taken by the Vegana forces.

The front of the truck had been sectioned off by a false metal wall. If the truck was stopped on the way, this was where the team were supposed to hide. Master Chief Helen Underwood had inspected it and decided that they were probably better off shooting their way out.

It was around eleven at night; they'd been travelling for an hour and a half. The driver and his passenger in the cab had been nervous. They hadn't volunteered their names and she hadn't asked.

The truck changed gears noisily. Helen winced. If the entire occupation force didn't hear that, then it would be a miracle.

She looked around at the other members of her team. They were sitting down on the warm metal floor, having an impromptu meal of the long-lasting protein bars. Their weapons were on their laps, ready to reach at a moment's notice. Mark Greaves, her second in command, was toying with the bolt of his rifle as he ate, a distracted look in his eyes. Isoka Kemal, the sniper, leaned against the side of the truck, seeming completely at ease with the prospect of operating behind enemy lines. Corpsman Joseph Mandell sat beside him, his long, thin fingers seeming almost fragile as he opened the silver wrapper of his protein bar. On the other side of the truck, Sergeant Hallowell and Sergeant Steven Chiang were conversing in muted tones in what sounded suspiciously like one of their incessant and light-hearted arguments. Helen had operated with this team for three years now and they’d grown into a sort of military family. Perhaps more important in their line of work, they’d gotten to the point where they were almost perfectly synchronised with each other. It was almost as if—

The truck juddered violently and began to slow.

Helen was up and peering out at the gloom through a crack in the metal wall. There were lights outside. A patrol? A checkpoint? Cursing silently, she pulled open the false wall and the six of them entered the cramped space, along with their equipment and backpacks.

The truck juddered to a stop and Helen heard muted voices out in front of it. She gripped her CR60 tightly and pulled down her visor from her helmet. The world became green as the night-vision enabled. Trying not to make any noises, Helen hoped to whatever deity was nearby that they wouldn't be discovered...

***

They watched the approaching truck suspiciously, it was a wreck of a vehicle with two drivers. Hundförare Feltzig walked up to it with Fritzi as the rest of his patrol kept their weapons trained on the truck. Light enhancers making their almost silent buzz like mosquitoes in the night, small dots dancing over the truck only seen through the goggles of the soldiers.

C’mon boy, Seek!! Feltzig patted Fritzi's big head once more and then started to walk around the truck that now had been halted by security forces. Fritzi nosed happily on the car, smelling urine and a few more two-legs inside the truck. But there were no scent of the pointy eared two-legs he was trained to look for and no smell of explosives. Fritizi happily trotted around the truck.

One man checked the door of the truck for booby traps and then opened it up, looking in wearily. The smell of urine was disgusting so he quickly backed out again.

”Clear!” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, these Syskeyians were really nothing but smelly animals. Just before he closed the door his eye caught the paper of a powerbar. Typically! They can afford candy like that but still cant keep clean.. They use the same car for garbage as for transports! He thought. We will have to teach them about hygiene when we educate them. He waved to the truck to carry on.

***

Helen softly let her breath out and removed the rifle barrel from the flimsy partition. The rouse had worked! Against all odds, too, and with sniffer dogs present. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve and the turned to glare at Sergeant Hallowell.

The Sergeant was swearing under his breath, and turned to look at her. "Shit, I'm sorry Chief. I'm better than that. I'm really better than that."

Helen nodded briefly. "All right, never mind. Look guys, standard rules apply. No evidence. We were lucky that time. Buck up and keep alert, we're elite remember?"

They slid the partition aside and went back into the main area of the truck, which had resumed its jolting journey. They spent the next forty minutes in a tense and expectant silence.


The truck eventually halted again on a narrow road in an industrial suburb of Benedictia, eight kilometres from St. Augustine. The team got out and formed a lose perimeter while Helen talked to the two Syskeyians.

The driver, an older man with a heavily lined face and accented English, was business-like and brisk, whilst the younger one, who Helen guessed was around 17, simply took the opportunity to ogle Helen's body in combat fatigues. Helen ignored him.

"This is where we must leave you," the driver was saying, "The patrols and checkpoints get more thorough closer to the City."

"This is fine. You'll be back here in two days time?"

"Yes that's right. But if you are not here, you must understand that we cannot wait for long."

Helen nodded. "Understood. Thank you for your help, sir."

The driver gave her a sad, weary look. "It is no problem. Benedictia has seen much suffering... but it is a sad time when young men and women such as yourselves must put their lives in danger."

Helen frowned slightly, but only nodded. Soon the truck moved its noisy way up the street.

Recon 1 drew closer together while Helen examined a map. Sergeant Greaves crouched beside her. "Most of the buildings here are construction yards, plants and warehouses, Chief. If we stick to the buildings and avoid the street we should be fine."

"Ok. We need to head due South East of here... These streets are a maze, but I think I figured it out."

"So we cool?"

"Yep." Helen looked up at the team. "Steve, take point. We have 8 k's to hike, we gotta do it fast and silent. Let's move out."

The journey through the industrial suburb was tricky at best. Several times they had to take quick evasive action to avoid getting spotted by the more eager patrols. Once or twice they hid from the spotlights of APCs which drove slowly along the roads.

The massive buildings were silent and still, all the workers having been confined to their homes, killed or arrested. The machinery stood where it was stopped, some tasks half done. There were dried bloodstains on some walls and floors. The team took it in but were hardened enough to continue without pause.

It was early morning when they reached the outskirts of St. Augustine. The grey-blue light of dawn was filtering through the horizon as the team stopped for a moment in the back yard of a deserted house. A pair of swings stood to the side, eerily empty but moving in the breeze.

Helen studied the map of the suburb which was on the HUD of her visor thoughtfully. they were a few streets from the school, and most of the terrain was what could be called middle-class suburbia. The homes were well-kept, the cars were old but not too old and the yards were neatly mown but going slightly wild. The streets were wide, which was a tactical disadvantage, but Helen decided to keep cutting across yards and behind houses, parallel to the street. She communicated this to the rest of her team and they moved up the winding streets towards the school.

Part 2: Re-Education


St. Augustine, Benedictia--St. Augustine Primary School

Daylight crept across Syskeyia, turning the shadows into a murky blue. The sun rose from its nightly abode, burning the horizon with an orange-yellow fire. Usually, this would be the time when the first few cars would take to the streets to deliver their early-rising occupants to their jobs. The birds would be delivering their morning chorus, marking out territory and seeking food.

Not that morning, though. The tense atmosphere pervaded the suburbs of Benedictia and the violence of the night before found the birds gone and the humans in hiding. Sergeant Greaves noticed all of this in the back of his mind while peering through shaded binoculars, designed to prevent reflection. He was lying on his stomach in long grass, his gun by his side, looking at the school across the street. It was a small school by any standards, just two buildings – one main one and what looked like indoor sports court – and a small yard with a play-set and sandpit in one corner. There was an overturned chair near the sandpit.

He studied the scene a bit longer, then crawled back around the side of the house. Once he was sure he was out of sight of the road, he crouched and moved to the cellar of the house, which had a door on the outside. Recon 1 was waiting inside, sitting tensely on the dirty concrete floor of the cellar.

He nodded to Helen. “It looks deserted, Chief. Couldn’t spot anything moving around, in the yard or in the building. We’ll have to cross that road though, and we gotta hurry up if we’re to avoid more daylight.”

Helen nodded. “All right. Let’s move out.”

The team gathered near the corner of the house while Greaves and Helen studied the situation again, then one by one they slipped across the road, over the small chain link fence and to the building closest to them. The two buildings were parallel to each other and perpendicular to the road, marked with A and B in big letters on the end. They were both sturdy brick and concrete buildings with two floors and a stairs leading to large glass double-doors in the middle of its length.

One of the double doors were halfway open, the automatic closing mechanism hanging broken. The glass façade was cracked. Helen glanced at it grimly as she followed Hallowell through into the hall. Both checked along the length of the hall; this floor contained offices, reception and a sickbay at the end. Helen held her CR60 at the ready and advanced towards the road end of the hall while Hallowell advanced to the opposite end. They peered into the empty offices, noticing that most were left in a mess, tables and chairs overturned. There were bullet holes in the walls, though not many.

The rest of the team followed them in, doing a more thorough check of the rooms. Helen got to the end and was faced with a concrete stairwell heading to the top floor. She glanced up the stairs, saw nothing, and signalled her clear. Down the hall, Greaves came out of the Reception’s open room with its counter, and gestured to her. One of the team replaced her position as she made her way to Greaves, who stood aside and nodded down at the floor. There was a congealed and partly dried pool of blood; Helen leaned around the corner of the counter, knowing what she’d see. A woman’s body, three bullet holes in the torso, her face a grimace of pain. And the smell was almost overpowering as the corpse was decomposing fast in the warm, tropical climate. Helen guessed that the climate control in the building had long been shut down. Dead people didn’t need air-conditioning.

The ground floor cleared, she signalled for the team to proceed up the stairs. As they left, Helen paused to close the eyes of the dead woman, before joining Greaves and Hallowell at the stairs. Greaves took point, creeping up the stairs slowly, with Helen bringing up the rear. When they reached the top of the staircase, Greaves checked the hall which ran between the classrooms on either side. It was going to be tough clearing them out simultaneously. At the other end of the hall, the three other members of the team were preparing to check the first two classrooms on their side.

Helen took the right class room while Greaves took the left; Hallowell stayed in the hall, crouching against a wall, in case there was activity in the unchecked rooms. Apart from the soft footfalls of the soldiers and the occasional sound of the building settling, it was quiet.

The first classroom was a mess, like the rooms below. Desks were scattered around out of order, chairs flung against the wall. There were a bunch of colourful backpacks in one corner, some ripped open, the contents spilling out. The room stank a little of spoiled food. It was empty, though, so Helen crept out, signalled the clear and moved onto the room next door while Greaves did the same. Room after room was checked and the results were the same. All the classes looked as if a small and concentrated hurricane had swept through them.

The team met in the middle, ducking into one of the larger classrooms—one with the wall in between taken out to provide a larger space. The desks and chairs had been showed against the walls, posters were torn down and pieces of paper were scattered on the floor. There was a row of lockers in the room, most of them with doors hanging off their hinges.

Greaves nodded to Helen. “Nothing, just mess. Something happened here—we found a few bloodstains, no bodies though. It’s almost as if—”

There was a small, faint click. As one, the team swung around, guns levelled at the lockers. They fanned out and advanced cautiously towards them. There were only two left intact; Greaves flung open one, which turned out to be empty. They formed a lose ring around the other, which Hallowell tried to open; the lock was jammed. Helen unclipped her 9mm, fiddled with it, took aim at the lock and was about to fire when the locker door hurriedly opened and a voice said, “No!”

A small boy emerged, dressed in sweat-stained school uniform, cowering in terror before their guns. The team slowly lowered their weapons, apart from Helen who squeezed her trigger. There was a loud click and the boy flinched. Helen smiled, reloaded the weapon and put it back into her holster.

“Who are you?” she demanded. When the child stared at her, she knelt down in front of him and said in gentler tones, “What’s your name?”

“Chai Darawan.” He replied in a faint voice.

Helen paused awkwardly. She could take down an armed man in combat with only her hands but children were unexplored territory. She reached down into one of her pockets and pulled out a silver-foil wrapped protein bar, which she peeled and handed to him. He guzzled it down with frightening speed, almost choking, before stopping suddenly and staring right into her eyes.

“Please don’t shoot me.” He said.

***

There were twelve of them, heaped almost casually in the middle of the sports court. Liquids still oozed from the gruesome pile and there was a swarm of flies buzzing around it. The entire sports court smelled obscene.

Helen, Greaves and Isoka Kemal, the team sniper, stood looking at it for a moment, their faces grim. Eventually Greaves cleared his throat. “I’ve checked the staff list, Chief. There’s three adults missing, and all the children apart from Chai. Thirteen bodies including the receptionist. Some I couldn’t identify because of advanced decomposition, but I’ve pinned down the missing three to the grade three and six teachers, and the groundsman.”

Helen nodded, unable to take her eyes off the pile of corpses.

“These people were rounded up and brought in here. Then they were tied together, upright, and about six people with assault rifles formed a semi circle and started shooting. Not automatic either, these were semi-shots. They didn’t bother to aim, they just squeezed the trigger until they were satisfied, then I presume they left.”

Helen shook her head sharply, then shrugged. “We can’t waste time attending to them. We’ll just shut the doors tight when we leave, it’s the only thing we can do. I hope Hallowell’s gotten something out of that boy…”

***

Chai had two best friends; both of them believed in God. Chai didn’t believe in God—like most of his immigrant family, he was a Thai Buddhist. He was born in Syskeyia so he didn’t remember the flight over the Synora mountains to their new home, but his older brother told him about it sometimes. The family had saved for years to get economy-class tickets. From the air, the Synora mountains which had kept so many foreign invaders out looking small and manageable. Welcoming, almost.

They had landed in Syskeyiapolis first; his father was a doctor and the family thought they could get a job there. But they were rough days where they learned that his father would have to re-do his exams to prove to the Syskeyian medical board that he was qualified. The exams were costly, though, so they went from one casual job to the other.

The shortage of doctors in Benedictia was a sudden, welcome change. The Benedictian medical board offered to pay for the exams and expenses if they settled there and they leapt at the chance.

Benedictia was beautiful, like a wonderland. The house that had been provided for them in St. Augustine was a fairly regular brick house but to them looked like overwhelming luxury. His father passed the exams and was working in the main public hospital in the City, drawing more money than they had ever seen. His school offered Chai more opportunities than his whole existence so far put together. Life was good.

Then the war began. They had watched the news on TV, watched the leaders call for peace, then action, then peace again. They watched the mobilisation of Syskeyia’s armed forces, the battle for St. Peter Island. It seemed far away, disconnected from their pleasant suburban surroundings and their relatively small, seaside City. Chai felt safe, as if what was happening was a world away from him and those he cared about.

Then the monsters came.

***

“…He’s too young to realise everything that’s happened,” Explained Hallowell, “The war took a while to reach them and when it did, it was a surprise. First the Veganan troops were restrained, professional—I’d guess these were the regular soldiers. Then they were replaced by the irregulars, possibly conscripts. There were a lot of beatings and assaults. The people tried to carry on as normal… classic case of Street Island Syndrome… and by and large the troops let them.”

Helen nodded. Street Island Syndrome was the term the Chimaean newspapers used to describe the images that were in the headlines during the worst of the Street Island crises—a man walking a dog through a pitched fire-fight, a queue at a fast food store while Chimaean Marines tried to prevent looters from destroying a shop behind them. People so used to normality tended to seek it out whatever the cost.

“Then something changed. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but suddenly the troops were breaking down doors and dragging people away in the night. Most of the people never returned. Beatings turned to killings when there was the slightest hint of resistance. It was all quick, though, and Chai was at school when the troops came.”

They both looked at Chai through the window of a classroom in the hall. He was sitting drinking water from Greave’s canteen, occasionally talking to him about something. Greaves was smiling. Helen had never seen Greaves that happy, it was an odd sight.

“From what he described there were about fifteen of them,” Hallowell continued, “They came in a large flatbed truck with a fifty cal on top. They were armed with assault rifles and automatic pistols; they broke the door down and started emptying the classroom. Chai managed to hide in the locker—they weren’t all that thorough and left those two lockers intact. There was shooting, at intervals, and Chai was going to go out and see what was happening when there was a prolonged burst of fire.”

Helen nodded grimly. “The teachers in the sports court.”

“Yep. Chai was terrified so he just sat there. Eventually he heard the truck start up and roar off out of the school and down the street. He’s been hiding here ever since. Chief… that was two days ago. The kid’s been surviving by eating some of the lunches that hadn’t gone off in his friends’ packs. No-one’s come for him.”

Helen scowled. “Is there a concentration camp we should know about…?”

“Apparently not, in Benedictia at least. Syskeyian sats should have picked it up, if there was.”

Helen took off her helmet and ran her hand through her short, swept back hair. It felt greasy. “So we have… killings, assaults and kidnapping. They’ve taken all the kids, and the Devil alone knows what they intend to do with them… they’ve taken some of the adults. They tied up and shot a bunch of defenceless school teachers. We haven’t seen any sign of life since entering this suburb.”

Hallowell nodded, face grim. “It might be just a curfew. We need to find out, Chief. I volunteer to go on a recce and scout some houses. There’s also the Church, it’s three streets behind us.”

Helen considered a moment. “Nah… we need your CR50 here. Mark will go; we’ll move to the Church and meet him there.”

“Right you are, Chief.”

Helen looked back through the window at Greaves and Chai. “Where the hell did they take them…” she muttered, almost to herself.

Part 3: Casualties of War

St. Augustine, Benedictia—Residential

Greaves was dressed casually and had divested himself of his most obvious equipment. He had a knife in his concealed upper-arm sheath and a silenced 9mm pistol inside his specially sewn pants pocket. The lack of heavier weapons made him feel naked.

Still, he kept to as many small side-streets and back-roads as possible, keeping carefully out of the way of the occasional Veganan patrol. There were professional soldiers as well as irregulars, now, which was good and bad. It meant he had to keep on his toes and hit the ground more than once. A part of him wished Helen had chosen someone else for this, though he was the best in the team at stealth—which was quite a feat in a special forces team. It was still a challenge for him to avoid detection by the patrols in the semi-open terrain of St. Augustine.

He reached a less active part of the suburb; the streets here looked more rutted and the houses were wooden and a little rundown. The poorer part of the area, he guessed, taking a quick look around from the cover of an industrial bin. He selected a house at random then moved rapidly towards it, leaping over the fence and ducking from cover to cover. He moved around to the back of the house; there was an old staircase leading to the wooden back door. He tested the first step and it creaked alarmingly. He paused for a moment, took out his pistol, then crept up the stairs as quietly as he could.

The door was locked, but it was the work of moments to pick the simple lock. He gave one final tug and the door clicked open an inch. He took a deep breath, got a good grip on his weapon and eased the door open and went rapidly into the house, checking his corners. Seeing no danger he allowed himself to relax slightly and stopped moving, listening carefully.

There was a small noise to the front of the house. The sound of someone trying to be extremely quiet. Damn.

He moved again, this time carefully and slowly. The back door had opened onto the kitchen; there were pots hanging on nails, vegetables hanging on nets, a kettle on the unlit stove and cupboards with glass doors containing cutlery and more cooking utensils. There was a saloon style door leading from the kitchen into the gloomy living room. He moved one half of the door and thankfully the hinges didn’t creak. Again he moved inside, checking his corners – there was a door to his left, half open – and then ahead to the living room. There was just enough light for him to see that the living room was empty so he turned his attention to the door.

Half opened doors were annoying and could be bad news. He suddenly wished he had his assault rifle with him, or at least a flashbang. Suddenly he felt very sorry for policemen. He took out a small and powerful torch from inside his shirt; it was bigger than a pen-light and cast a sepia glow that didn’t rob the user of night-vision.

He eased the door open. A short hallway with three doors, one on either side and one at the end. He tried the first one, it was a bathroom and toilet combined, and empty. He tried the next one. A child’s bedroom, toys strewn across the floor, also empty. He eyed the last one, picked up a toy car, ducked out of the way and threw it at the closed door’s lock.

The result would have been comical if the situation wasn’t so dangerous. The door flew open and would have given anyone opening it a face full of wood. The door was followed by a woman, enraged by terror, swinging what looked very much like a frying pan at the air.

The frying pan went to the end of its swing and Greaves was already grabbing her wrist and pulling backwards, causing the woman to drop the frying pan. He put his gun arm under her arm and around, while pushing her back into the wall and pinning her other wrist against it, above her, with the pistol to her head.

There was one of those odd moments that sometimes happen in combat, where everything involved suddenly takes a pause to digest what was happening. Greaves and the woman were face to face, his lips almost brushing her’s in an almost romantic manner had it not been for the 9mm pistol at the side of her head. Her eyes looked at his in anger, pain and fear.

“This can go two ways,” Greaves said casually, “You can either accept I don’t mean you any harm, or I can end up putting a bullet in your head. Either way is fine by me. Your choice.”

The woman gulped and nodded. Greaves took that to mean some sort of affirmation, and he swiftly released the woman and stepped out of range of any threat. She just collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

He took the opportunity to study her as he picked up his torch and pocketed it. She was in her early thirties or late twenties, wearing faded jeans and a jacket top that had definitely seen better days. Her hair was brushed back from her forehead; her features were European, so she was either an immigrant or a descendant of the Williamshire part of Syskeyian history. The fight seemed to have gone out of her, she just looked up at him, seeming to expect to be shot any minute.

“I need you to answer this truthfully. Is there anyone else in the house right now?”

She shook her head. Greaves leaned to the side and looked into the room she had come out of; it was a bedroom, and deserted. He crouched down in front of the woman and said, “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a Chimaean soldier.”

The woman’s eyes suddenly showed a glimmer of hope for the first time. “Chimaean… Are there more of you? Have you come to save Benedictia?”

Greaves wondered how best to answer that. “There… will be more Allied soldiers coming,” he told her, “We’re pretty deeply in enemy territory here.”

The woman looked suspicious. “Coming when?”

“I don’t know.” He admitted.

The hope died in her eyes. Greaves suddenly felt at a loss as to what to say next, though when he opened his mouth to begin, the woman started talking. “They took my little girl…” she said in a small voice.

Greaves suddenly realised that he was talking to someone who was on the edge of sanity. He had to tread carefully here. “Who took her? The soldiers?”

She laughed in a shrilly sort of way. “Soldiers? Monsters! They took her and they…” then she was crying.

Greaves didn’t need her to complete the sentence to know what had happened. He’d been in enough war zones to know how the story went and he knew he was in no position to offer her the counselling she probably needed. He needed information, relatively quickly, and he had to get it out of this woman. Risking an entry into another house was out of the question.

“What’s your name?” he asked gently.

“My… Carol. It’s Carol.” She attempted to wipe away her tears and gave him a slightly mad smile. “Would you like some tea?”


Greaves gingerly sipped the scalding tea. There was no milk and no sugar. It tasted odd but then he’d tasted worse. It was a truly surreal moment; Greaves, a special forces operative who’d scored more kills than an entire platoon, was sitting in a dilapidated house in enemy occupied territory drinking tea from a china cup and saucer with a woman who’d been through living hell. In fact, he mused, it was a day in the life of a Chimaean soldier. Earn skills for the real world indeed.

“The cup’s part of a set,” the woman said suddenly. She was drinking from a old chipped mug. “It was a wedding gift from my mother-in-law.”

Greaves smiled awkwardly. “It’s very nice.” He tried.

“My husband was a soldier too… Syskeyian Light Infantry, in St. Peter Island.”

Greaves froze. “I’m… sorry.”

The woman smiled distractedly, her eyes were everywhere. “Just before the occupation, they gave him a medal.” Her eyes focused on his. “I threw it away. They shoot people with any military effects. They don’t come this way often though, we’re safe enough.”

Greaves nodded uncertainly, knowing better than to take that at face value. “What happened?” he asked.

The subject was unspoken, but they both knew what he was talking about. “It was the day when the new soldiers came. The others were all right, but they went out to fight somewhere else, I think.”

Greaves nodded encouragingly.

“It was… such a bright day. Sunny. This neighbourhood has… had a lot of children. They came and searched all the houses and they rounded up all the kids and put them into a truck and…” her voice tailed off, her eyes glazed.

Greaves reached out and held her hand, not knowing what to say. To his surprise, she gripped it tightly. “I tried to hide Emily in the bathroom… but they tore at everything and searched everywhere. When they found her, they were angry. She was taken away but two of them remained…”

She was crying again. Greaves suddenly wanted his hand back, but kept it where it was. He didn’t usually have this sort of encounter with people living in a war and it made him feel uncomfortable. To his guilty relief, she didn’t go into any more details.

“Do you know where they took her? Ma’am?”

She shook her head.

“You’ve been here ever since?”

“Where else can I go?” she demanded, but her voice was tired and choked, taking the venom out of the question. There was an awkward silence. Then Greaves took another sip of his tea and extricated his hand from her’s, looking at her contemplatively. In other circumstances, if he met her at a bar or something, he’d be tempted to try to chat her up. It was an odd thought, though. Street Island Syndrome again, he mused. That, or I need some leave.

“I have to go now, Carol.” He said gently. The look of brittle control in her face immediately dissolved into a kind of dulled terror. He cursed the fact that he had to do this. He had brought false hope to her and when he left things would be just that bit worse.

She was looking up at him, her eyes suddenly intense. “Emily’s dead, isn’t she?”

He couldn’t lie. “Yes, probably. If she isn’t, then she will be. I’m sorry.” The words sounded cold and hollow in his mouth.

She looked away for a moment, then took a deep sip of her tea. “Take me with you.” She said quietly.

It was Greave’s turn to look away. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Where I’m going is even more dangerous than here.”

“Please.” Her voice was tight, unnatural.

He hesitated a moment then found himself saying, “I can’t… but I’ll come back to you, I promise.”

The hope that flashed in her eyes chilled him to the bone. Then she was hugging him tightly, her head on his chest and he could feel the heat of her—

He gently pulled her away from him. “I… have to go. Right now. I’m sorry. Stay quiet, keep a low profile…” he hesitated, then handed her his gun. “Safety catch,” he said, pointing, “Pull this part back to cock it. Aim, pull the trigger. It’s silenced.”

She took it gingerly. “What about you?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ll be right. Take care.” He leaned over, kissed her cheek, then he was gone. He didn’t look back.


Godfuckingdammit! Greaves cursed silently as he left the house. What the fuck are you playing at, Mark? You can’t come back for her, it’ll jeopardise the entire mission!

Then again, it was a difficult thing to leave her defenceless. He should have just asked her all that at gunpoint, then left. He cursed again, hefting his knife. It was made of matt-painted black metal so it wouldn’t glint; a monstrous, sharp thing that was both a weapon and a tool.

He jumped the side fence and was making his way towards the point where he could safely cross the road when he heard voices. Greaves froze, then ducked behind an overgrown hedge. It sounded like two men walking along the footpath. He ducked and crouch-ran his way towards the footpath, taking care to keep within the cover of the hedge. He shifted a few leaves aside, then looked through them.

There were two Veganan soldiers walking along, making a beeline for the house he had just come from. He stared, and cursed. He was sure he hadn’t been spotted, and the two soldiers, while armed, weren’t in any hurry or taking any caution in their approach. He wondered if these were the two men who had hurt the woman. They were certainly irregulars, by the way they wore their uniforms and held their weapons.

He had to let them go. He had to. The mission couldn’t be compromised. The mission was why he was here, everything else was of secondary importance.

Well. Shit.

He made his way back along the hedge and slipped around to the side of the house. If he guessed correctly, both soldiers would also go around the back—they weren’t being cautious, but they wouldn’t want to risk being caught by an irate officer. He ducked around the corner he guessed they would be coming from, then held his knife at the ready.

The first soldier rounded the corner and the knife sank solidly into his throat. Greaves didn’t bother to try and retrieve it, instead launching himself at the second man, who gawped in shock in the split second he should have been trying to bring his gun around, or at least ducking. The man did neither and Greaves slammed him into the ground, hands around the man’s throat.

He took a while to die. Thankfully it was relatively noiseless. Greaves guessed that these two were off duty and looking for some fun. He quickly stripped the corpses of identification and weaponry. Swearing under his breath, he hefted one on his shoulder and dragged it into the cover of the hedge, then took the other one and grimly headed towards the way he was going initially.

He had to make two nightmarish journeys through the streets, now in broad daylight. Three times he had to take cover as an APC rumbled by, the gunner on top looking bored, swinging the machine gun to and fro. It was hideously difficult to carry a corpse through the streets, but Greaves kept to the backyards of the houses as much as possible, grateful that they were overgrown. His destination each time was a large park he had seen nearby, away from most houses. He ditched each body in a shallow area and covered it as well as he could, taking care to tear at the wounds to make them seem a lot more amateur than they were. Greaves doubted it’d really fool anyone, especially as he had very conspicuously helped himself to one of the men’s pistols, but he had to try.

On his second journey, he had cleaned the blood from the knife wound that was on the grass and ground nearby. Hopefully, nothing would be traced back to Carol. He wondered if she had been watching what had happened, as he stole away from the park, headed in the direction of the Church. He hadn’t seen her though. He pushed her out of his mind and got on with the mission.

*Applause*

Whenever you need a sequel on that gimme a shout