NationStates Jolt Archive

John Philips looked at his watch. Just six minutes until he delivered his first speech in over two years. After declaring his intent to leave office, Sniper Country held elections for the next Senate Speaker. As the people voted, Salema Masekela came out on top, the first black Speaker in the history of Sniper Country. That's when things started to go terribly wrong for the country he held so dear...

After turning over his chair in the Senate to Masekela, Philips retired to the Backwood, in a small village known as Weet, home to none other than the legendary David Lewis, the greatest sniper ever to come from Sniper Country. After just seven months, the news hit the channels like wildfire: an attack on the Senate Building. This was no ordinary attack, either. Philips had seen nearly a hundred attacks on the Senate Building in his eight years as Senate Speaker. However, none aside from the attempted Civil Revolt, had made any real impact. This, on the other hand, was something else. This was big.

After three days and nights of intense fighting, the capital, Remington City, had been taken by rebels, claiming to be part of the Liberal Revolution Front, the largest In-Country opposition to the standing government known. Being in the middle of an intense war with Omz222, there was not much Masekela could do aside from call up reinforcements from the Backwood Militias. Masekela began recalling troops from Omz222, and requested cease-fire with the Omzian forces.

The Omzians practically laughed in Masekela's face, and began a major frontal assault on the city of Honjaksgrad, the heart of of the Sniper Country and Allied Forces. The 2nd IW Fleet, the largest fleet of ships in the Naval Forces, was decimated during the attack, with only two battleships and one helicopter carrier left unsunk. Even the Intimidator, one of two RedDragon SuperCarriers, had been sunk due to hundreds of side-impact blows from modified Omzian Harpoon Anti-Ship Missiles. The destruction of this fleet left no escape for the troops of Sniper Country and Omni Conglomerates, who desperately fought for the city. Facing four-to-one odds, roughly 400,000 Sniper Country and Omni Conglomerates forces bravely held the city for sixty days against one of the fiercest offensives ever to take place in modern warfare. In the last days of the offensive, small transport planes made runs to and from an artificial runway set up by the Sniper Country Tactical ATC Operators, controllers who were later crowned the name "Moses Men," since they helped lead many disheveled troops from the wilderness of Honjaksgrad. Omni Conglomerates forces, ultimately trained as some of the best in close-quarters and urban combat, held the Northern Sector of Honjaksgrad, the hardest hit portion of the city, whilst Sniper Country troops, primarily trained for open-ended (jungle, desert, forested) combat, retreated into the city. The few pilots left mustered the courage to fly their final rounds throughout the city, firing everything they had on the enemy forces before being taken out of the skies themselves; those surviving the crashes not knowing whether or not they faced death or a prison camp upon capture. However, Omzian and Clan Smoke Jaguar forces closed in quickly, sealing any way out for the doomed troops. The Omni Conglomerates forces all fought to the death as they were trained, and for that, the SCAF was always thankful. Airlift Operations finally ceased, and some 3,000 Sniper Country troops were left to fend for themselves. Of those 3,000 men, none ever made it back to Sniper Country. All that was known was what was broadcast over international television- combat reporters capturing the horrifying moments of that final, great battle. Pictures of GRUNTs laying atop their wounded comrades to protect them from further wounds, only to be killed themselves by flying debris from mortar rounds impacting just yards away. The final moments, in silence, in which Omzian and CSJ troops ceased fire, as two Sniper Country GRUNTs lowered the Sniper Country flag, surrounded by a squad-sized element of mixed, mangled troops, and retired it to one of many burning fires nearby. The images broadcast were only a small testament of the sacrifices they paid to their country, and everlasting freedom. Official numbers were never released on the death tolls and POW counts, but throughout the Airlift and Evacuation operation, some six hundred Sniper Country soldiers were escorted to Western Asia, where they spent the duration until the civil "unrest" was over.

John Philips suddenly snapped back to reality. Or at least he tried. Three minutes until he had to walk out onto the platform and deliver his speech.

The Omzian War had been a disaster, and Sniper Country was in turmoil. The Liberal Revolution Front, led by David Foronda, an ex-Senator, had taken over the entire nation; ironically enough, by use of force. Remington City was in ruins, and neither Ghillie nor Stalk Lane was looking much better. It would be eleven months before the battered Backwood Militias gathered enough men and supplies to challenge Foronda's forces. In the ensuing four months of battle, thousands of men from each side, and countless more civilians were slaughtered in the streets where they all once roamed freely. Women, children, it didn't matter. Grown men became ill as they walked the streets after the battle for Stalk Lane, seeing four and five-year-old boys and girls' bullet-torn clothing and fire-scorched bodies lying near a pile of bricks, holding onto the feet of their mothers, shot dead as they ran for cover from the terror. Men would later tell horror stories of seeing teenage boys shoot their younger siblings in the head, then turning the weapon on themselves, ending the pain and misery right there. However, the Backwood Militias drove on, finally engaging what was left of the Senate Building, where Foronda was holed up. The battle came to a sudden, abrupt end when a single shot rang out from a church steeple. Soon after, nearly three hundred LRF forces come from within the Senate Building, claiming Foronda was dead. The Sniper Country Civil War was brought to an end.

No one ever really knew who fired that shot, the one that killed Foronda. Many rumors abounded that it was Philips himself. But Philips knew who fired the shot. After fighting for so long to reach that one position in the church steeple, acclaimed sniper David Lewis, bleeding heavily from the side, took aim, finding his target sitting at the Speaker's desk. With his most trusted weapon, a Remington 700M Series, he fired that fateful shot, and breathed his last. Philips had been in the church at the time of the shot, and ran upstairs to see what had been. Upon finding Lewis dead, he took his last white phosphorus grenade, and destroyed the body. It's the way David would have wanted to go.

Several more months of Reconstruction would lead to this moment. The Sniper Country soldier from the Omzian War had returned, and were now setting things back to normal at AO-101, the SCAF's Operating Base. Now, the people wanted a leader. They needed someone who would take them into the future. And here was John Philips. Thirty seconds away from the single most important speech he'll ever make. He began to walk out onto the platform overlooking the Senate Hall, newly furbished and rebuilt. He looked out over the Hall, at the Senators, the spectators, the television cameras. God help me... he thought to himself as he took a deep breath.

"Citizens of Sniper Country. I, John Philips, come to you today, a humbled man. Not the Speaker of the Senate. Not an important figure in society today. I come today, as a Citizen of this great nation. Over the last thirty months, our nation has endured some of the most heartache and turmoil ever felt by any one nation. I do not stand before you all today, to deliver a speech, speaking of enduring hope and everlasting freedom. Today, I speak to you, of a nation, fearing of an Almighty God, and knowledgable of things come and gone. I speak of death and tragedy, of which I have seen my share- as have we all. We are never promised tomorrow. We only make plans and pray for the best. Never are we absolutely certain. We are only assured today. What we do with today may define our tomorrow. As I speak, the Sniper Country Armed Forces are regrouping from the tragedy known as the Omzian War. We have nearly six hundred troops who participated in all that occured in Omz222, who have returned to the SCAF, not willing to give up on our nation. Look around you today. See the nation, that just a year ago, was torn into pieces, murdering its own kind in the streets, ravaging through the cities and the Backwood. See the nation that has rebuilt once again, and survived. Day by day, and night by night, we have fought. We have fought for a better tomorrow. But I declare to you, no longer will we strive for a better tomorrow. We shall strive for a greater today! Because the past is no longer, and the future may never arrive. And all we have, is now. We rebuild, and we continue, praying for tomorrow. But as many of us who have lost loved ones in this debacle, we know, that tomorrow may not often come easily. We, the Confederacy of Sniper Country, return to the International Scene with confidence, our heads held high above the best. Because we have survived. And now, as we look back on those loved, and those lost, and press on with the thought of tomorrow and the knowledge of today, let us be thankful for that which we have before us, in an Almighty Creator, who has brought us and delivered us. And now, let us, return to the Country."

John Philips stepped off the podium, and began walking back into his office. The Senate Hall was in silence, and for all it sounded, the entire country might as well have been. It wasn't the traditional speech, but it was what the people needed to hear. So what if it was short? He got his point across. Now all he needed was a response. It was time to return to the Country.



-John Philips
John Philips, Speaker
Confederacy of Sniper Country

OOC: For everyone reading this thread, know that you are in the presence of one of NS's true legends. He is one of my early inspirations and still widely remembered by those who enjoyed his wonderful RPs.

Welcome back Sniper Country!

******************

A faint glimmer of light caught Dreadfire's eye as he attempted to get sleep for the first time in days. Turning over in his bed he noticed that the source was his computer, which had a blue light that always blinked any time something of importance emerged within the world. Normally Damien would shrug it off and deal with it in the morning, but his curiosity got the better of him.

He threw back the sheets on his bed and walked barefoot across the black stone floor, his toes curling back from the cold that stung his feet. He turned the screen of his computer on and went through the usual security checks, scanning as best he could as his pupils closed due to the bright light generated by his monitor. He skimmed over the titles of various events that he had been watching, when he came across an unopened data file. Statement from John Philips- Confederacy of Sniper Country.

Damien did a double take as he read the title aloud once more, his hands instantly clasped over his mouth as he read in awe. Holy shit....It cannot be... Many thought Sniper Country as a nation had ceased to exist following the extreme turmoil they had been subjected to...but this was indeed proven to be untrue.

Damien rushed to the lightswitch and flicked it on, recoiling slightly as the rows of lights began to fill the room with a warm glow. He could not believe his eyes, for one of Automagfreek's early allies had returned to the international scene once more. He wasted no time in drafting up a global response to this shocking turn of events, and a smile crossed his face with every keystroke.

~From the desk of Lord Damien the Destroyer, Supreme Warlord of the Excessively Armed Empire of Automagfreek~

Automagfreek is most shocked to hear that Sniper Country has once again alive and well. After the horrors your nation was put through we are surprised that the Confederacy managed to survive....a testament perhaps to the iron will of Sniper Country.

I come here today to reaffirm our commitment to our long term friend, and to offer an apology. An apology for not fulfilling our promise to assist in the Omzian war, which took a heavy toll on your nation, and for that AMF apologizes deeply. We will never again leave Sniper Country to fend for itself when our assistance is called upon, a mistake that many of us who were around still regret.

But perhaps we should start looking towards the future and not dwell on the past. Automagfreek is most glad to see Sniper Country back on its feet, and we personally pledge our services should you need our help Mr. Philips. Today is a glorious day, for a New Dawn has arisen.

Welcome home Sniper Country.

http://img418.imageshack.us/img418/3269/dreadfireclose7ue.jpg
---Damien the Destroyer---
-Supreme Warlord of AMF-

Within hours of the transmission, covert diplomatic discussions began to take place between AMF and SC authority. As the night turned into day, Sniper Country was soon admitted into the illustrious ranks of Gholgoth...alongside many nations that yearned for its homecoming.

OOC: So this is the legendary Sniper Country. I never thought that he would return. And according to the halls of memory, he is supposed to have some of the best special forces in the world and fought too many wars to count. Time to ask him to review my armed forces.

"Mister Coleman? I think you better read this." a light an airy female voice said, from seemingly no where.

"On my screen, Lyra." Coleman said, leaning forward in his chair. He didn't dislike the AI, but didn't like it either. No one could skim so much information so fast though.

He read the message nearly five times, before closing the message and reading a report that Sniper Country was indeed a part of Gholgoth now. "I picked one hell of a year to come out of retirement." He said, chuckling.

----

Sniper Country. Where the best commandos in the world came from. Soldiers that went undefeated in operations so many times they became legends among friend and foe, as did the nation that spawned them.

I remember a time long ago, I held a tournament to see who had the best ops teams. You won. My team nearly reached the objective, but you were allready there and eliminated the last member as he attempted to get to it. I also remember the Midnight Civil War. Where a team from Sniper Country took out an Apache helicopter with a shotgun. I could go on, but why bother?

You have returned, as allways a bit battered, ready to rebuild that legend. The Destroyer remembers that legend and has pledged his support. I remember it as well and pledge the support of my nation. Though I am no longer High Commander, I can still make such a pledge and make sure it is carried out.

Welcome home indeed.

http://usera.imagecave.com/Alpha-Zero/HighCommander.jpg
Andrew Coleman IV
Minister of Defense

Murmers went around the room as the man at the front of the room switched some papers around, and occasionally answered his cell phone. The room was almost packed with men, dressed like ordinary civilians. However, these were the remaining men of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment, once considered one of the greatest Special Forces units in the world. To any other nation, these men would have been considered "cowboys," cocky soldiers who had never really tasted the blood of war. Yet these were the most experienced men in all of Sniper Country. These men had been in the combat zone longer than some men had been alive. Though their combat experiences varied, from the Royal Palms Conflict to the Midnight Civil War to the Omzian War, they all shared a brotherhood like none other. They were the best. And they dared anybody to challenge that.

"Okay, which one of you pricks supposedly took out an Apache with a shotgun?" asked Col. Lee Ramsdell, commander and founder of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment, in his slow, Southern accent. To the question, the roomful of men, mostly looking to be around the age of thirty, looked around at each other. In the rear of the large, almost auditorium sized room, a hand slowly went up.

"You shot an Apache out of the sky with a shotgun, Mike?" asked Ramsdell.

Sergeant Second Class Mike Monroe smiled, "Well sir, I think so. It was back in the Midnight Civil War- our unit was pinned down by that sucker, and I went around to the rear. It was hovering pretty low, and I took my shotgun, blew my five rounds into the rear rotorblade. It pulled out and left us alone; I don't really think it actually went down, though."

"How high was it?" another voice asked.

"Low, hovering at around fifty, sixty feet. Strafing left to right trying to spray our position with machine gun fire."

"Yeah, I'll believe that when I get an official report," Col. Ramsdell replied. "Anyway, I called all you here to discuss the future of the Twenty-Second. As you know, since it's founding, just over a thousand SOF-D soldiers have come and gone, and now there's just eighty-four of you, sitting right here in this room. Exactly eight units. Right now the SCAF is trying to rebuild the entire Armed Forces, almost from scratch. They're building up a pretty big pocketbook for purchases from foreign nations. They're going to try to get a vote passed by the Senate for increased funding on training, to get it back up to standard. Guys, Sniper Country is nothing right now. Absolutely nothing. Luckily, we got some allies in some good places that won't let nothing happen to us. But we're going to be on our feet here in just a little while, and you guys are going to be leading the way. Once the SCAF gets back on its feet, the SOF-D will start recruiting again, but you guys are the originals. Nobody can touch you. You've seen more than anyone else in this nation. You're the best this country has to offer. I just ask you go out and do what I trained you to do."

"Lee, that's a great pep-talk and everything, but, you know we're the best," spoke up Sergeant Second Class John Woodward. "Can't nobody touch us."

"Yeah, used to. Now there's a whole lot more competition out there. The world's gotten a lot bigger. No doubt you guys are good, but the best... we'll have to see."

The room got quiet, as all the men in the room resented the words Ramsdell just spoke. SSC Woodward spoke up again, "Lee, you go on and issue a challenge to any nation in the world. One unit against any SpecOps unit they have to offer. I guarantee we come out on top." The room filled with smirks, agreeing with Woodward.

"Alright, guys. What unit?"

Without hesitation, several around the room erupted, "Mountain Dew! Mountain Dew!"

Ramsdell laughed as the twelve men from Whiskey Unit stood. "You guys up for it?" He asked.

As a whole, the entire room of troops shouted in a loud and thunderous voice, "Awe hell yeah!" This was followed by several whoops and hollers from various parts of the large room.

"Alright guys, that's it for now. Just take it easy. Up at the track tomorrow morning at four, got it?" Ramsdell said, making his way for the door. The men said nothing, too busy with their cheers for their teammates, but Lee knew they'd be there. He walked down the long corridor, being painted by civilian contractors, to his office, almost barren aside from his desk, computer, and metal folding chair, plus several large boxes with his personal items. He had been either too busy or too lazy to put it all out. He made his way to his computer, and began typing away.

---

*OUTGOING MESSAGE*

To: All Available Recipients
From: Col. Lee Ramsdell, 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Commanding
Subject: Challenge Event

To whom it may concern:

The 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Sniper Country's premier Special Forces unit, is issuing a challenge to any taker in the world, concerning Special Forces Operations. One SOF-D unit, consisting of twelve men, each with their own expert specialties, have issued challenge to any nation's own Special Forces Unit. I, Colonel Lee Ramsdell, Commander of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment, do hereby recognize this as an official SCAF event, and hereby sanction the event to be legal in all rights regarding the SCAF and the Confederacy of Sniper Country. Stipulations are as follows:

+Event will be held on "first come, first serve" basis, but reserves the right to dismiss any nation's request for entry without reason.

+Neither the SCAF nor the Confederacy of Sniper Country is liable for injury during or related to said event.

+Event shall be held to any area, platform, or location within the borders / claimed territorial waters of either Sniper Country or opponent nation.

+If opponent nation's unit wins said event, they may request their prize; SOF-D unit requests the prize be the unit leader's weapon and unit/organizational patch.

+Event will utilize rubber ammunition, and full battle gear must be worn at all times during said event.

If there is any one nation that will take this challenge, please get back to me in reply message. Thank you.

Col. Lee Ramsdell
Colonel Lee Ramsdell
22nd SOF-D, Commanding

---

Col. Ramsdell watched the message as it sent. Upon completion, he stood, grabbed his jacket, and walked out of his office, heading for his car. This would get interesting.

OOC: I don't normally roleplay in II, so I won't, but I jut want to extend welcome back to SC as well.

"You understand your orders, Sergeant?" Coleman asked a black uniformed Marine, wondering what the man had been through. No one but the Commandos knew for sure what the augmentation, bone strengthening, reflex and circulatory boosts and a dozen other modifications had done to them.

"Yes sir, General." the Gunnery Sergeant answered, though Coleman had medicaly retired over twenty years before. "My team is to insert into Sniper COuntry at the recieved LZ, compete and win."

"At any costs. They say rubber ammunition. But nothing about rubber knives. If you get in close... You are to try your damndest to incapcitate or kill the opposing teams."

"Sir! May I ask why you are ordering me to do this?"

"Because this is obviously a teast to see if they still are the best. I want to know as well. You throw everything you have at them. And if you can't win, make sure your opponents can't either. Dismissed."

The Sergeant saluted and Coleman returned it, watching the younger man go. He brought up Lyra's basline code and typed in a series of commands and erased the conversation from 'her' memory.

"I wonder if Damien will send those special forces Sentinals..."

-------

From: GySgt. Lucius Lawrence, Crimmond Imperial Commando Squad 1
To: Col. Lee Ramsdell, 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Commanding
Subject: Re: Challenge Event

Colonel, the Imperial Commandos accept your challenge. We shall be sending whatever number of Marines are appropriate for the challenge. Until I have details, I cannot give you a number. We would be honored to compete against your best and the best of whoever else accepts.

GySgt Lawrence
Commando Squad 1 (http://usera.imagecave.com/Alpha-Zero/Marine.jpg)
"We're not freaks. We're prototypes." -Squad motto.

OOC: While I apologize for not being able to make an IC post as of right now in response of this, it is certainly overwhelming delightful to see you come back to NS. II will certainly not be the same anymore with your presence.

OOC: I can't say I'm familiar with your work since I wasn't around for your first go-around, but I've heard great things about your storytelling skills. I look forward to seeing you create a new chapter in your resurrected RP career.

OOC: Wow...holy crap...welcome back.

IC:

3:56 A.M.
The Emperor was roused from his bed by the clutter coming from outside his room. He quickly put on a robe and entered the expansive chambers outside of his apartments. To his suprise a large number of intelligence, military, and foreign affairs officers were present, all of which bowed to their Emperor upon his entry.

The Emperor nodded and said "What is all this about, gentlemen?"

A Dragoon major handed the Emperor the note, not only did it explain the news of Sniper Country's rebirth but the challenge. The Emperor grinned, almost in disbelief but also in the undiscribable joy of hearing how Sniper Country has reemerged from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. He ordered an official communique be sent to John Philips.

~Official Message to Sniper Country, its Senate, and John Philips~

His Royal Highness, Emperor Newt XX, is most pleased to hear of the resurgence of Sniper Country following the undesribable horrors of war. The Empire will offer any services needed by Sniper Country in its efforts of rebuilding. We hope that you and your people prosper in a new epoch in your history.
Sincerely,
Emperor Newt XX

OOC: I remember you!...vaguely. Welcome back!

The Palace
New Wasteland, SAVX

Der Führer was at his large oak desk, slumped backwards in his large black leather chair. His mouth was hanging open, while slow snores echoed their way around the office, giving awkward sound to the sun’s rise outside. It had been another all-nighter, a frequent occurrence in his life. His nap was cut short, however, when his cellular phone began to ring.

Awakening with a snort, Hans Müller sat up straight and rubbed his weary eyes, groaning. His doctors told him that he should get more sleep, but that was a luxury denied to leaders of his stature. Perhaps when he finally retired…

“Erm…hello?”

Listening for a second, Müller’s bloodshot eyes opened with surprise.

“You’re kidding me. I thought…Oh. I see. Uh huh. Well, that’s great to hear. Let them know that we’re happy about it.”

With the next portion of the report on the other end of the phone, Müller scrunched his forehead.

“They are, are they? Well, I dunno. I’ll have to think about it…maybe talk with some people. Take care of the first matter and I’ll get back to you on this one. Alright. Bye.”

Folding the phone and dropping it onto the desk, Der Führer leaned back once more. “The Shadows are good,” he thought, “But I don’t think they’re that good. And I’m not going to send the Shock Troopers…No, I don’t think we’ll be joining.”

Content with his decision for the time-being, he closed his eyes once more in an attempt for a little more sleep before the day really began.


--Transmission Begin--
To: Sniper Country and its Leaders
From: Der Führer Hans Müller von SAVX

It is a great pleasure to hear that your nation and its people have, ultimately, survived such a tremendous and horrible conflict. We look forward to your rebirth, and we are willing to assist you in any way needed.

Good luck with the present and the future! May the wind be at your backs.

--Transmission End--

The following morning, Col. Ramsdell pulled up to AO-101’s main running track, and immediately got to work. His men, all eighty-six of them, were stretching and goofing off on the grassy portion in the middle of the track field. Ramsdell called up the first roster of twenty-four up to the starting line of the track. The men knew what was going on. This was their bi-monthly 1-Mile run, to check their cardio-vascular strength. If they didn’t make it under four minutes, they were automatically booted from the SOF-D, and in order to retain their SOF-D status, had to go through the SOF-D training period all over again. It was specifically horrid for the soldiers who ran their runs in a time missing four minutes by just hundredths or even thousandths of a second. No matter what, if a four showed up in the minute’s place on the stopwatch, you were booted from the Regiment and sent back to a regular GRUNT. The men all stood around the starting line on the track, clad in whatever they chose to run in that morning. It was almost a brisk morning; 84 degrees at 4am was getting on down there for Sniper Country, especially around AO-101, where temperatures were infamous for not getting under 100 degrees for months at a time. “Go,” Ramsdell yelled, as the men took off. He turned and watched his men as they rounded the turns and darted down the straightaways. They made him proud. Lee never doubted in his mind his profession; he always came back for his men. At his age, 52, he was barred from going into combat, and could have already retired, but the SCAF begged him to stay, if only as a contractor. He stayed, and would have willingly- he just enjoyed seeing others beg. As the minutes past, the men began coming in. The first place finisher finished in a time of 3:44.37. A horde of others ensued, the final finisher coming at a time of 3:55.34. Ramsdell called out the second roster of twenty-four, and the same ensued. He followed the process with the rest of his men, and checked his roster for the times. The fastest time was the very first finisher, in 3:44.37; the slowest time turned out to be a 3:57.36. He called out the times to his men, told them to get something to eat and drink from the bench a few yards away and return ASAP.

“Well guys, ya’ll did good today, again, as usual. Now listen, we got a taker on our challenge already. Yeah, I checked my e-mail last night before I hit the sack. Credonia’s Imperial Commandos, apparently being led up by one Gunny Sardn’t Lucius Lawrence. Now, the IMF isn’t back up and running yet, so we’re not able to get any info on them, so we don’t really know what to expect. But you can bet they’re sending their best out here. They know you guys are good. Everybody does. They won’t be coming out here with some little team of Girl Scouts. Whiskey, I’ll give ya’ll more details in a little bit. In fact, you guys need to go right now and get your gear, equipment, weapons; all that stuff and get to Hangar 128 over at Cairns as fast as you can. The rest of you- Captain Grey is taking over for me today. Ya’ll be working a lot on encountering an urban scenario while in the sticks. I may get back with ya’ll later on, but if not, be ready for Helicopter Infil tomorrow. Alright guys, you know what to do, get outa’ here.”

And with that, the twelve men from Whiskey Unit proceeded on to gather their equipment and weapons, and make their way to the designated Hangar. The rest of the men headed out to change into their training uniforms- most would probably wear a tank top and jeans with tennis shoes- and get ready for the day’s training. Lee Ramsdell headed back to his office, to change his clothes, reply to Lawrence’s e-mail, and get to the Hangar as soon as possible. He drove just a few blocks away, and walked to his office, seemingly not a care in the world. He sat at his computer, and began typing away at his response.

---

*OUTGOING MESSAGE*

To: GySgt. Lucius Lawrence, Crimmond Imperial Commando Squad 1
From: Col. Lee Ramsdell, 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Commanding
Subject: Re: Re: Challenge

Gunny, it’s good to see someone so eager to jump on a challenge! However, I will skip to the meat and potatoes. The event will be held on P421, a mountain in the MidSouth Region of the Philipedes Mountain Range. P421 stands for Peak-421, “Peak” obviously denoting it’s status as a mountain; the last three numbers representing the tail designator number of the aircraft which located the mountain. P421 is approximately 9,748ft MSL, and is covered with very lush vegetation all the way to the summit. P421 was recently added to AO-101 as a Field Training Ground; this will be the first exercise conducted on location. Enclosed, I am sending you the coordinates of your Drop Zone, roughly seven thousand feet MSL. I will be sending my men to the mountain within the next six hours. There will be no introduction. When you meet my men, you will probably be firing at each other. Note that as soon as you and your men hit the ground on P421, you are weapons free. Again, we are using rubber bullets, which should properly submit the effect of a real round. Usually, we would use the AIMES equipment, but we always use rubbers on a first date. Oh, allow me to submit the requirements for winning this exercise:

+Complete elimination (Kill/Capture) of all opposing forces.
+Make it to Pickup Zone designated PZ “Yankee.” (Coordinates also enclosed.)

Again, if you do indeed win the challenge, you may name your prize. Please note that the SOF-D will require the weapon and Unit Patch of the team leader if we so win. A UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter will pick up the remaining members of the victorious team at PZ Yankee. The defeated team will be picked up by UH-60 Blackhawk at PZ Rebel (Coordinates enclosed), and any killed/captured members of the victorious team will be picked up by UH-60 Blackhawk at PZ Border. You are free to enter the FTG by any route, although you are at no time permitted to enter any location in Sniper Country occupied by civilians, and may not come onto AO-101’s main site. Upon entering Sniper Country airspace, please contact Stalk Lane Center and identify yourself. Once confirmed by Center, you will be free to make your way to the FTG as you wish. As already said, all men will be required to take their full battle load into the field with them, as if they were going into actual combat. This is a twelve-on-twelve deathmatch, Gunny. We expect only your best. Again, we thank you for taking us up on this challenge, and are honored to host your unit. If you have any more questions, please, feel free to contact me at this address again.

Col. Lee Ramsdell
Colonel Lee Ramsdell
22nd SOF-D Regiment, Commanding

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Ramsdell made sure the message sent, and immediately changed clothes, then making his way back to his bright yellow Nissan Xterra, driving in the direction of Cairns Airport, AO-101’s main airport. After nearly fifteen minutes of driving, he arrived at the Cairns’ gate, presented his ID, and entered. He pulled up in front of Hangar 128, an abandoned Airborne hangar, now used by the SOF-D for PCI and PCP before loading up and being deployed. Ramsdell walked into the hangar to the sight of his men lounged back in recliners, their equipment sitting in front of them, tossed around like nothing. One of the men popped up, gave Ramsdell a two-fingered salute, with the greeting of, “Sup, Lee?” Ramsdell smiled. In any other nation’s military, that would have been disrespect to an officer. Of course, in any other nation, there would probably be a dress code, and a lot of emphasis placed on what, in the eyes of the SCAF’s leaders, was pointless crap. Parades, formations, just tons of stuff the SCAF saw as pointless. The SCAF created warriors- some of the most capable in the world, at that- who were trained to do their job, not look good.

“You guys ready?” Lee asked, as the men began to rouse, picking up their equipment and putting it on. “Alright, listen up. You’re going to be airlifted by UH-60 to P421. It’s a new FTG; this’ll be the first exercise on it. You guys should be able to handle yourselves pretty good. It offers great concealment from all the vegetation. It’s a twelve-on-twelve deathmatch. Like I said earlier, we don’t know anything about these guys. But you can bet your bottom dollar they’re going to be good. Crimmond ain’t gonna’ send us their crap-pile. This is the best they have to offer. No joke here. As soon as you hit the ground, you’re weapons free. They may or may not be on the ground already when you get there. Stay sharp, whatever you do.”

The men listened without saying a word as they donned their equipment. Normally, on any other training day, you’d probably see them wearing a polo shirt, plaid shorts, and flip flops. But not today. Today, they wore full “Battle Rattle,” or all the gear they’d actually take with them on a deployment. Their equipment consisted of: a large, black/green backpack, green baseball cap, black “hockey” Kevlar helmet, Load Bearing Equipment (LBE) / Protective Ballistic Armor (PBA) Vest, Basic (Woodland “Treefrog”) Combat Uniform (BCU) (including Versatile Combat Boots), Oakley® goggles, COBRA (Combat Operations Broadcast and Retrieval Asset) Headset, and kneepads/elbowpads. A majority of their actual equipment resided in the backpack and LBE, such as extra ammunition, first aid, N/TVGs, ProMasks, HYDRAtion (SCAF Camelback Equivalent), grenades, sensors, and various other SOF-D deployment equipment. Once each man had all his equipment on, still amazingly versatile despite their load, they strapped their sidearms to their hips and grabbed their distinctive weapons from various locations around the hangar. Their weapons, fully customized to the soldier’s likings, were some of the most durable, capable killing machines in the SCAF. Each of the weapons costed upwards of $50,000, usually in the $70,000 range. Each man had his weapon specifically tailored to his mission orientation and needs/wants. Whiskey Unit consisted of three snipers, two machine-gunners, one CQB/demolitions, and six assault. Whiskey Unit, nicknamed “Mountian Dew” for their extensive training in mountainous regions, was probably the most veteranized unit of all those left in the SOF-D. Having seen most of the combat in Samustan, extensive rescue missions in the Royal Palms Conflict, and spending a majority of their tour in Omz222 with the Omni Conglomerates Special Forces Unit “Wombat,” who taught them almost all they knew about urban combat, Whiskey Unit, in the eyes of Ramsdell, was the 22nd’s premier Unit. He just hoped the IMF didn’t come to do recruiting any time soon; Whiskey’d be the first to go.

“Alrighty, guys. Your Blackhawk’s out on Pad Two. They’ll drop you off, and you’re on your own from then on out. Look forward to seeing you back here with a new weapon and patch. Good luck, boys,” Ramsdell said, as the men proceeded to the door of the hangar, into the bright sunlight of a splendid Sniper Country morning. Most of them laughed, patting him on the back, and skipping along their merry way, confident in every aspect they would come away with a victory. They were out to prove the SOF-D was the best, but hey, why not have fun with it?

After several minutes of walking, the men of Mountain Dew finally reached their UH-60, loaded up, and waited, as the pilot got his takeoff clearance. This would be fun. Their first “combat” mission since the Omzian War. Hopefully, this one would turn out better than the last. The Blackhawk pulled into the sky, beating the air into submission with its rotorblades, and veered to the left, heading off into the great Philipedes Mountains. From his position on the ground, Col. Ramsdell could see P421 in the distance. “Good luck, guys,” he mumbled under his breath, “Godspeed.”

"Hey, uh, Talon One Six, Cairns Tower here. We're giving you an SVFR Clearance for this mission," said one of the Air Traffic Controllers in the tower on Cairns Airfield.

"Tower, Talon One Six, roger, give it to me."

"Talon One Six cleared out of Delta surface area to the north, maintain Special VFR Conditions at or below one thousand five hundred while in the surface area, departure frequency two three seven point five, squak zero one zero zero."

"Talon One Six, roger. Tower, why do I need that clearance for this mission?"

"Because we're bored up here. Oh, and that fifteen hundred's MSL. Let's see you try to get up that mountain with that restriction!"

"...Tower, you guys suck."

"Just kidding, man. AGL. Will that work?"

"Yeah, considering P421 isn't even in your freaking surface area, moron."

"Yeah it is, our surface area is a ten square mile radius. P421 is eight."

"...seriously, ya'll suck."

"Haha, take it easy."

"Roger. Transfer me to GCA?"

"Nope, not today. Center's got you on their scopes, but you're under our control."

"That's retarded."

"Shut up and fly. Let us know when you're Five Mile Final. We're going to put you back on Pad Two. We've got traffic to control."

"Talon One Six, roger."

[The best dang bump you ever did see.]

*bump*