NationStates Jolt Archive

The Royal Intelligence Agency of Malkyer, specifically its eccentric chief director Riley Jacobs, was always looking to stay on the forefront of advanced technology. An entire branch of the Science and Technology Directorate was devoted to clandestine research, and had produced some impressive work, ranging from surveillance equipment to weapons to, as the rumor went, genetic enhancements. This research was funded partly by monies skimmed from the Operations Directorate, and partly by Jacobs' own personal fortune.

Indeed, much of the research conducted by this secretive branch of the RIA was illegal, and bordered on treasonous. If it was ever discovered, Jacobs would likely hang; he had, after all, created what amounted to a private army, right under the nose of the Emperor.

He didn't intend to be caught.

***

Guatemala, at the fringe of the Viceroyalty of the Carribean, was a comparatively rebellious province. Crime was pervasive, smuggling of drugs and weapons was commonplace, and some towns were independent in all but name, and law enforcement did not trouble them.

Guatemala was this way because, quite frankly, it wasn't important enough for the government to care. The Viceroyalty of the Carribean existed only to better secure the strategic Isthmus of Panama. The island colonies were reasonably well-off, with economies bolstered by tourism, sugar, and coffee. The mainland portion of the Viceroyalty, on the other hand, produced nothing aside from some fruit and coffee. The mestizos of the mainland knew that Malkyeri dominion had alleviated some economic destitution, but not enough, and like most people, they quickly forget the good and focus on the bad.

Along the Mexican border, many towns and villages seethed with rebellion.

***

31 October
Darkness had descended over the town of San Pedro, and the braceros had long since retired to their homes. Some had already gone to sleep, but most stayed awake, eating with their families or drinking with friends in the town bar, La Culebra Verde. Warm yellow lights issued from many windows, and the smell of food was present amidst laughter and conversation.

***

A mile from town, more serious matters were at hand. Nearly one hundred farmers had gathered near some ancient Olmec ruins, and discussed revolution, sharing cigarettes. Pale lantern light illuminated a few, but many remained veiled in shadow. Numerous rifles could be seen, mainly hunting weapons, but with a sprinkling of Kalashnikovs among the sentries.

In the old days, in would have been dangerous for a group of more than a dozen to meet, but these men had long since realized that His Majesty's Government did not really care what the farmers of a fringe province in the poorest of the Viceroyalties did with their spare time.

As the senior farmers talked, one of the sentries, a younger man by the name of Jaime, leaned against a tree about two hundred feet from the main group. He was far enough from the lanterns and campfires that his night vision was unaffected. As he lazily scanned the forest line, he heard a twig snap. Suddenly very awake, he nervously brought his AK-47 up, and squinted to see better. A moment passed, and nothing further happened. He relaxed, and crossed himself, hoping it wasn't a jaguar.

Another moment passed, and Jaime reached into his pocket, pulling out some paper and a small bag of tobacco. He rolled a cigarette, and held it in his mouth while he fumbled for a box of matches. Striking the match, he light his cigarette and temporarily killed his night vision. He never saw the clenched fist that smashed his head against the tree.

Jaime's body crumpled, his skull crushed by an unseen blow. A trail of blood on the tree glistened in the moonlight. Before the night was over, ants would pick up the trail of blood and begin to devour him.

***

The man most deferred to as the leader of these revolutionaries was a middle-aged man named Rodrigo. Rodrigo was the only man here who'd finished high school, and was also the only one to visit North America. He sat by a campfire near the middle of the large group, talking politics with several other leaders. He was startled to see a round object drop into the group. He had never seen one like it before, but quickly recognized it from books he had read. Grenade. He hurriedly threw himself back over the log he sat on, but not quickly enough to prevent fragments of white-hot metal embedding themselves in his right leg. He cried out in pain.

Simultaneously, more grenades went off through out the camp, killing many and wounding more. Dark shapes rushed through the confusion, kicking over lamps and stamping out fires. In a few seconds, the camp was dark. Then it was lit again, this time by gunfire, shooting down all who attempted to flee. As men running were quickly replaced by men lying on the ground, moaning in pain, the gunfire shifted, but maintained cold efficiency, one bullet for every survivor.

Suddenly, it was quiet. Nervously Rodrigo began to crawl away, using all of his willpower not to scream in pain. The metal shards hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before. He had made it perhaps a meter when he felt cold, gloved hands pull his head up, and before he could say anything, a swift twist broke his neck and ended his life.

"That's the last of them."

"None of them made it out?"

"Negative."

Amidst a hundred dead bodies, eight men stood in the pale moonlight. The entire operation had lasted under sixty seconds. Project LACONIA was, tentatively, a success.

OOC:Mind if I RP some Red Tide Mafia Thugs who were supposed to meet Rodrigos group in early in the next morning(well after your Speacial Forces guys left)?

OOC: Sure, go ahead.

OOC:Thanks...
IC:The ride was bumpy... to say the least. Sergei Nerotovich was at the wheel, Andropov Keronik was next to him, staring out the window. They were driving a delivery truck down the jungle road. They could see the sun rising in the East. In the back of the truck were a bunch of boxes filled with fruit... which disquised the crates full of M4A1 Assault Rifles and 5.56mm ammunition.

The two mens very well made Fake IDs made them out to be part of a fruit shipping company, in actuality they were Red Tide Mafia Officers. Their ski masks and own Assault Rifles were in suitcases hidden in a fake compartment underneath their seat.

Keronik was bored, "When are we getting there?" he groaned in Russian.

"Soon... soon." Nerotovich replied.

"You said that an hour ago Sergei."

Sergei ignored the comment, and peered at what appeared to be an opening in the jungle.

"I think this was it..." He said, they drove up to the opening, "You would think they would have sentries pos-" he drove fully into the clearing, "ted."

Andropovs eyes widened, "Nichevo!"

There were some ruins, probably Olmec ones, but there were also a number smoldering campfires, millions of flies and musquitos, and approximately a hundred corpses.

"What the hell happened here?" Sergei wondered.

Andropov took a bottle of bug spray out and began spraying himself, Sergei turned to him.

"What are you doing?"

"Look, this place obviously got creamed by Special Forces? Right? And there were over a hundred men at the meeting, right? So that means that one of these bodies has got to be one of the men who killed them. I mean, could you imagine a Special Forces team being able to take out all of them?"

Sergei nodded at that point and asked, "Can I have some."

"When I am done."

So they finished spraying the bug spray and got out to sort among the bodies.

Several hours later...

"Find anything Sergei?"

"Unless one of them were Hispanic and wore the exact same clothes... Nyet."

Andropov looked around at the carnage, "We better get back to the safehouse. We can always find more customers for the weapons, and besides... this needs to be reported."

So they got back in their truck and drove off.

"We've got a possible intrustion into the operartions zone. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Neutralize it?"

"Negative. We'll see how this plays out."

"Roger that."

***

Two miles in the other direction from San Pedro was an old textile mill, where many of the women of the town worked. It was temporarily closed, pending a government inspection of the compliance with the building codes. That, at least, was the reason given by the two officials who'd informed the factory's head foreman. Men who were indeed employed by the Ministry of the Interior, which oversaw such things, but who also received a paycheck from the RIA.

In one of the larger storerooms, near the read Loading Dock #2, several large crates were sitting in the center of the room. A crowbar lay on the floor, and one of the boxes had been opened. Inside were dozens of brand new G2A2 5.56mm assault rifles, the standard armament of RIA special forces. In an office on the second floor, a fat man with a baseball cap sat on the edge of the desk, talking to a tall man in body armor and combat dress.

"Did you get a positive I.D.?"

"No. The markings on the truck identified them as belonging to a fruit shipping company, but..."

"But what would a fruit company be doing bringing bananas to a bunch of revolutionaries?"

"Exactly my thoughts, sir." The fat man nodded at this remark, and then looked down to a thick folder laying on the desk.

"I see the debriefing was very detailed." The soldier did not speak. "Care to add any off-the-record remarks?"

"With permission, sir, I'd like to withold any commentary until we've had contact with something other than middle-aged farmers."

"So you're no as confident with the unit as the Project Coordinators seem to be?"

"I wouldn't say that, sir. But a hundred Guatemalan farmers are not the same thing as a hundred Royal Marines." The soldier's face remained completely expressionless.

The fat man shook his head. "You know even Jacobs can't arrange that. Though, there may be something else we can try for." He looked at the soldier, looking for any sign of interest. There was none. It was starting to get creepy, and the fat man didn't like being alone with this man. "You guys just aren't the average human beings, you know that?"

"No sir, we aren't."

Jorge swore to himself as he ran down the dark path. He was out of shape, and breathing heavily. The humid air did not help either. He was several feet behind the next man in the group, and he was afraid. The nearly dozen men, revolutionaries all, had stumbled across the bodies of their massacred comrades near the old Olmec ruins, and after finding no bodies of any attacker, they had panicked and fled into the forest. That had been near dusk, and now it was past nine, and getting dark fast. They did not know for sure if anything was following them, but one of the men had sworn he'd heard movement in the forest, and another said he'd heard a radio, and none of the group wanted to stay behind and see what came. Many of the men were very superstitious, and Jorge had seen one of the men cross himself and mutter, "Demon..."

Gasping for air as he ran, Jorge did not hear to gunshot, nor did he feel the impact. His comrades, startled, turned to see Jorge hanging from a tree by the path, his head fixed to the trunk by a projectile spike nearly four inches long and two centimeters thick. A dark figure, wearing body armor and combat fatigues, bolted out of the woods on the side of path and turned to face the group of men. The rear man panicked and fired a burst from his AK-47, cutting down the figure.

Another burst of fire drew the group's attention, in time to see three men fall before another dark figure. Some men screamed and ran into the woods, but the man directly in front of the new figure raised his pistol, a large .45 caliber, and fired at the figure's chest. The figure jolted as if punched, but quickly shrugged off the blast and fired another burst directly into the rebel's face.

By this time, only one guerrilla remained on the path, and he was too paralyzed with fear to act, or to do anything. He waited for the man (demon?) in front of him to kill him, but the thing did not move. Behind the revolutionary, the first figure slowly turned onto its side, and pushed itself up to a standing position. It moved its head to crack to joints, and bleeding profusely from its chest, raised the nailgun to the back of the rebel's head. He fired point-blank, killing the man instantly and propelling his body forward nearly a meter.

The second figure touched the side of its head, keying the built-in radio helment. "We're done here."

"Roger. Wait for my signal, then return to base."

"Affirmative. Out." Looking to his comrade, who clutched at his chest to try and stop the bleeding, he asked, "Do you need help?"

"No. I'll be fine." With that, the two soldiers waited on the path for some time, until the signal came to head to the pickup zone.

It had been a long drive for the two Red Tide Mafia Of-Capos as they drove up to the safe house, which was a purchased fruit processing plant in the provincial capitol. The two parked the truck in the Loading/Unloading area, the garage-like door opened to reveal 4 Red Tide Mafia Thugs wearing their ski masks, but their M4s slung over their backs. Another Of-Capo, named Narmonov Kaprince, a rank higher then the two walked out.

"Your back ahead of schedule... good. How did it go?" he asked.

"We should talk inside..." Andropov said.

Narmonov considered this, then gave a nod to the 4 thugs who opened the back of the truck and began unloading, first the fruit crates, then the ammo boxes, then the boxes with the Assault Rifles.

The 3 Of-Capos walked inside, in the main processing room there was a ton of space. But not all of it was taken up by processing machinery. Over in the corner was a parked BTR-90 Armored Personnel Carrier. It was hidden under a large tarp that made it look like just another piece of machinery to the untrained eye.

Sergei turned and said(in Russian), "Someone killed our clients. Either it was a rival rebel group or a goverment special forces team. Whoever it was, they were good. They slaughtered the place better then a sqaud of Consortium G-Men."

The G-Men were the elite, Sam Fisher-like Agents of the Red Tidean Intellegince Consortium(simply called 'The Consortium'). They were sent out after the most dangerous of the Red Tidean Goverments opponents and were the best men Red Tide had to offer. But to say someone did something BETTER then a SQAUD(that is, 10 men) of G-Men... that was saying something.

Narmonov considered this, then said, "I will speak about it with my superiors."

"Madre de Dios...Who the hell did this?" Several police had clustered around a tree on the edge of the rebel camp. The badly decomposed body of a young man lay where it had fallen, against the trunk. More police were walking among the bodies, snapping photographs and making notes.

One of the lead investigators, a detective Miguel Sanchez, crouched down to get a closer look at the body. The face was smashed, as if someone had hit the man with a baseball bat. Ants crawled over it, making the face appear to move with a sickening ebb and flow.

The police had arrived early this morning, when the wives of the rebels finally got worried enough about their missing husbands that the concern outweighed the fear of being discovered as revolutionaries. The first police to arrive, two uniformed officers, had immediately realized that something was not right, and had called for backup. Now a team of twenty detectives and uniforms were working on the case, consuming much of the provincial investigatory power.

Sanchez walked over to his car, and grabbed his cell phone. He made a couple of quick calls, and then drove away, leaving his partner Manuel Vasquez in charge.

***

The two men from the Ministry of the Interior were staying in the Brazos Abiertos motel in San Pedro, and as a matter of course they would be interviewed by the police.

Detective Sanchez leaned against the wall while he wrapped up the discussion. "Neither of you heard anything? What was the building you are inspecting, it is the textile mill, no? You don't mind if I check there? Maybe one of the night staff knew something." His English was heavily accented, but understandable.

The two men exchanged a quick glance. "No, please do. I hope you find out what happened to those men." After a few more moments of talk, Sanchez thanked the men and left. A minute later, one of them looked to the other. "Poor bastard. I hope they don't kill him."

His partner nodded. "He's only doing his job, after all."

***

Later that night, Sanchez drove to the mill, accompanied by two uniformed officers. He knocked on the door that led to the office, but no one answered. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He knocked again, harder this time. Finally, someone answered. It was a fat man, wearing a baseball cap. He was an Anglo, not someone Sanchez had expected to see working the night shift. The detective flashed his badge, which was a redundant gesture, and asked to come in for a chat. The fat man nodded, and held the door for the police.

"How can I help you gentlemen?"

"I imagine you heard about the killings outside of town?"

"Ah, yes. Terrible news. Are you here because of that?" Sanchez nodded.

"I am wondering if you heard anything, from rumors to actual gunshots."

"No, I'm afraid not. I was away the night of the 31st. Maybe one of the janitors will be more helpful. If you'll follow me?" The fat man gestured toward a hall, and began walking. Sanchez followed, and motioned for one of the uniforms to follow him as well. The third cop stayed behind. As the other three men turned the corner, the cop idly read the stencilled label on a crate nearby. LACONIA. The cop arched an eyebrow. He wasn't the most educated man, to be diplomatic, but he'd never heard of any place called Laconia. Maybe it was some type of--

He never finished the thought. A strong fist pinned his head, and a swift blow with a forearm broke his neck. He crumpled to the ground like a doll.

In the hallway, Sanchez and the other cop were a few feet behind the fat man. The man turned a corner, and in a couple of seconds they turned as well, to see two soldiers standing in full combat dress and body armor, faces hidden by helmets. The two soldiers each had an assault rifle pointed at the policemen. The fat man stood off to the side, out of the line of fire.

Sanchez reached for his pistol as a gut reaction, but was stopped when he heard a sound to his left. In the direction he'd just come, three more soldiers had appeared, rifles leveled. Sanchez and the beat cop slowly dropped their guns, and raised their hands into the air.

The fat man grinned. "Now, Sr. Sanchez, I'm sure you won't cause us problems, will you? Promise to behave?" Sanchez was about to say something spiteful when a rifle butt quickly removed him from consciousness.

WELCOME TO THE ROYAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY CENTRAL SERVER...
PLEASE INPUT DESIRED DESTINATION>> Projects.
SELECTED>> PROJECTS...
PLEASE CLARIFY>> Laconia
SEARCHING...
SEARCHING...
NO SUCH FILE EXISTS
RETRY>> Y/N?
INPUT PASSWORD>> Carnelion
VERIFYING PASSWORD...
CONFIRMED...
ONE FILE FOUND: PROJECT LACONIA

Project 'Laconia' is a military project undertaken by the Science & Technology Directorate's Clandestine Research Department on orders from the Chief Director. The purpose of the project is to create enhanced soldiers, using a combination of adapted training regimes, genetic enhancements, and experimental medical augmentations.

Project 'Laconia' began officially December 24th, 1980. The first test subject were born a year later, and the project further developed over the next decade. Currently Project Laconia has yielded the equivalent of one Royal Army Battalion [800 soldiers].

The goal of the project is to create a soldier capable of fighting any enemy that could foreseeably arise. Given modern science's limitations in the field of genetic enhancement, and due to the clandestine nature of the project, these first-generation test subjects are enhanced only moderately, their physiologies augmented to include faster reflexes, increased physical strength, greater tolerance of pain and blood loss, and increased stamina.

During initial tests against guerrillas in Central America, the soldiers of Project 'Laconia' have proven to be efficient in their purpose, though of course more tests against a diverse array of opponents are necessary in order to gain a better end result.

View Attachments?
Chronological Details
Enhancement Process
Initial Test Results [Lab]
Initial Test Results [Field]
Projected Program Changes

INPUT>> Close File
CLOSING FILE...
INPUT ACTION>> Erase
ERASE FILE>> Y/N?
ARE YOU SURE>> Y/N?
INITIALIZING...
FILE DELETED
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THANK YOU
HAVE A NICE DAY

After three police officers had gone missing, the the Guatemalan provincial police department realized that something was not right, and had asked for assistance from the Viceroyal capital, Kingston. The Viceroy's response was to send a SWAT team to the last known location of the missing three officers. Once SWAT had secured the textile factory and eliminated or neutralized any threats, the provincials would move in and sweep for clues and information.

Five six-man teams would enter the factory from various areas, in order to achieve the maximum effectiveness of the thirty SWAT officers. Armed with a variety of weapons ranging from MP5Ks to M4 Carbines to combat shotguns, the various teams felt that they had more than enough firepower to bring down any opponents.

***

Alpha Team took up positions in front of the security gate. Fidgeting with a pair of wire-cutters, one of the SWAT men severed the control mechanism and another man pried the gate open. The team hurried through, looking in all directions for possible enemies. Taking cover behind several large crates, the team waited for their leader to assess the situation and decide a course of action. A light fixture illuminated what looked to be the only door into the factory on this side, about fifty yards away. Several loading docks were also present, but they were closed and most likely locked.

A quick hand signal informed the team to move ahead, and the men followed the order, moving in a tight formation to the door. Once they had gone about a quarter of the way to the door, it burst off its hinges and flew into the loading yard. Several soldiers issued forth, and quickly opened fire on the SWAT team. Caught off guard, the team tried to fall back to the cover of the crates. One man fired a burst of rounds with his MP5K, hitting one of the soldiers, who hit the wall with a wet shlump and fell. The SWAT fighter shouted in exhiliration, only to see the soldier push himself back to his feet and fire directly at the fighter, embedding a ten-centimeter steel spike in his head.

The team leader and his secondary dove behind the cover of two crates, and each looked to make sure the other was alright. The leader leaned out from his crate and fired a burst at the soldiers, and ducked back behind in time to see a soldier jump up onto his secondary's crate, jump down, and slash the man's throat with a knife. The leader quickly brought his gun to bear, and fired the shotgun attachment at point-blank range, causing the soldier's head to explode in a fine red mist, his body slumping down.

"Shit, you're exposed!"

"I got him!" The leader turned to see another soldier standing up, gun pointed directly at him. The leader had no time to react before being killed.

***

Golf Team moved quickly through the maintenance tunnels, to their insertion point in the center of the factory. Climbing up the ladder to the vent, the point man forced open the trap door and brought his gun up, looking through the vent cover to make sure everything was clear. "Holy shit..." his teammates heard him mutter.

"What is it?" The team leader heard him force open the vent cover, and move into the room. The rest of the team followed.

"Jesus Christ..." They had found Echo Team, who'd they been supposed to meet in the main production facility. Six corpses lay strewn about almost randomly, quite literally torn to shreds by gunfire. Blood soaked the walls and lay in pools on the floor. The air was filled with the coppery smell of blood, and the iron-shit stink of death. One of the SWAT men vomited.

Another man nervously looked up, pointing his rifle at the walkway on the second floor. Nothing moved. The SWAT team was pacing fitfully, moving toward one of the exits. In their initial horror, they didn't see the tripwires rigged to explosives on the floor...

***

The UH60 Black Hawk hovered around the rooftop extraction point. "Command, this is Sierra Eight Seven. We've lost all contact with the teams."

"What in hell are you talking about, Mickey?"

"What does it sound like? They aren't fucking there."

At that moment, a new signal interrupted the exchange. A breathless voice, interrupted by occasional bursts of gunfire, shouted into the raido. "Command, this is Bravo Two...we're being pursued. Need immediate...evacutation..."

"Roger that, Bravo Two. There's a chopper waiting on the roof. Hurry your ass up."

The helicopter lowered itself to just a few feet off the rooftop, waiting. Across the roof, a door burst open and a figure ran towards the chopper, loping as if his leg was hurt. He paused to turn and throw a grenade into the door, and then began running again. After the explosion, three more figures surged from the door and began chasing the lone man, quickly catching up to him. Bravo Two jumped as best he could onto the waiting chopper, which immediately began to climb as the airchief struggled to pull the SWAT man onboard. However, one of the figures below grabbed onto the wounded man, and quickly shimmied up, kicking the man off as he boarded. A swift punch dislocated the airchief's jaw, and a burst of SMG fire killed the pilot and co-pilot, sending the chopper crashing down into the roof.

The entire assault and attempted escape had taken less than half an hour