Sniper Country
23-12-2005, 00:57
The buzz from the propellers was all the men could hear as they made one final check on their equipment. The crew chief of the C-130 Hercules walked by each of the twenty-four men, holding his hands up as he walked. As he passes, each man would give him a high-five, signifying he was ready. The crew chief stepped onto the ramp of the plane, and waved the group onboard. They took their seats as the ramp lifted, the noises of the propellers growing in their ears.
These men knew their mission, and knew it well. They'd been waiting since the beginning of the Restoration of Sniper Country for this mission. The twenty-four men were all the members of Packrat Platoon, more often known as "Sierra Hotel," the single greatest Special Forces unit in Sniper Country. Of course this led the men who knew of the unit to claim that this was the greatest single Special Forces unit in the world. But you'd never hear a member of the actual team make such a claim. They'd learned long ago not to claim anything. Because as soon as you claim something, you get shot and killed, and all your claims go right out the window. All the men of Sierra Hotel claimed was the lives they took; only because it was the only thing they didn't have a choice of whether to claim or not.
The crew of the C-130 was obviously from the 113th TOAD, or Tactical Operations Aviation Detachment, which was attached to the Special Forces branch of the SCAF, and performed a majority of its operations with the SOF-D. The crew of this plane must have shown exceptional capability, as only those above the best had the honor of flying such a mission as this. The pilot waited on the end of the runway for his clearance. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he received his clearance.
"Talon One Six, men and equipment right of runway midfield, wind two-four-zero at one zero, gusts two-five, runway two-four cleared for takeoff," the pilot heard through his headphones as the local controller spilled his clearance. The pilot began his takeoff, and after retracting his landing gear, made a sharp left turn. "Talon One Six, contact departure, good luck," the controller said again. The pilot switched to the departure control frequency, where he received his first heading and airspace clearance. It would be a good ten hour flight.
Many of the operators in the rear of the plane tried their best to sleep, while others went over the mission in their head over and again. Still others continued checking their equipment. One, Rodney Jones, an assaultsman for Sierra Hotel, silently read his Bible, reading quietly to himself. His best friend, Paul Cyrus, leaned over to him to hear what he was reading.
"You still reading that thing, man?" Paul asked.
"Yeah, always," replied Rodney.
"I don't see how... I lost my faith in Samustan..."
The buzz of the aircraft was that of a constant, droning bee inside the heads of the men onboard. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the crew chief who had checked them onto the plane, walked by and tapped each man on the head, giving them a thumbs up. At this, each man stood and turned to face the ramp. Not a word was spoken. They were closing in on their objective, and fast, by the way the crew chiefs were working. Of course, for the operators, this was the easy part. They'd slipped into countless countries unnoticed, and this wouldn't be any different. Once they hit the ground, though, it was a different story.
Their mission was simple. They were to HALO jump approximately fifteen kilometers southeast of Pretoria, South Africa. Once on the ground, regroup, and begin their movement to the city itself. Once near the city, they were to make their way to the capital building, capture President Mbeki, along with any top aids who happened to be present, and extract out to their original drop zone. At this point, they would contact headquarters back at AO-101, and either receive immediate extraction, or further orders, depending on the running situation. It was textbook.
The ramp of the C-130 began to lower, the hurling winds rushing through the plane, as the men stepped to the edge. The light turned red, as the men tapped each others on the shoulder, letting each other know there was nothing wrong and they were all good to go. The light turned green, and without hesitation, they began to pour out of the plane, into the nothingness of night. It was 2319 hours.
[This is the beginning of Sniper Country's invasion of South Africa, Earth I. If you have a claim here, get ready to defend.]
These men knew their mission, and knew it well. They'd been waiting since the beginning of the Restoration of Sniper Country for this mission. The twenty-four men were all the members of Packrat Platoon, more often known as "Sierra Hotel," the single greatest Special Forces unit in Sniper Country. Of course this led the men who knew of the unit to claim that this was the greatest single Special Forces unit in the world. But you'd never hear a member of the actual team make such a claim. They'd learned long ago not to claim anything. Because as soon as you claim something, you get shot and killed, and all your claims go right out the window. All the men of Sierra Hotel claimed was the lives they took; only because it was the only thing they didn't have a choice of whether to claim or not.
The crew of the C-130 was obviously from the 113th TOAD, or Tactical Operations Aviation Detachment, which was attached to the Special Forces branch of the SCAF, and performed a majority of its operations with the SOF-D. The crew of this plane must have shown exceptional capability, as only those above the best had the honor of flying such a mission as this. The pilot waited on the end of the runway for his clearance. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he received his clearance.
"Talon One Six, men and equipment right of runway midfield, wind two-four-zero at one zero, gusts two-five, runway two-four cleared for takeoff," the pilot heard through his headphones as the local controller spilled his clearance. The pilot began his takeoff, and after retracting his landing gear, made a sharp left turn. "Talon One Six, contact departure, good luck," the controller said again. The pilot switched to the departure control frequency, where he received his first heading and airspace clearance. It would be a good ten hour flight.
Many of the operators in the rear of the plane tried their best to sleep, while others went over the mission in their head over and again. Still others continued checking their equipment. One, Rodney Jones, an assaultsman for Sierra Hotel, silently read his Bible, reading quietly to himself. His best friend, Paul Cyrus, leaned over to him to hear what he was reading.
"You still reading that thing, man?" Paul asked.
"Yeah, always," replied Rodney.
"I don't see how... I lost my faith in Samustan..."
The buzz of the aircraft was that of a constant, droning bee inside the heads of the men onboard. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the crew chief who had checked them onto the plane, walked by and tapped each man on the head, giving them a thumbs up. At this, each man stood and turned to face the ramp. Not a word was spoken. They were closing in on their objective, and fast, by the way the crew chiefs were working. Of course, for the operators, this was the easy part. They'd slipped into countless countries unnoticed, and this wouldn't be any different. Once they hit the ground, though, it was a different story.
Their mission was simple. They were to HALO jump approximately fifteen kilometers southeast of Pretoria, South Africa. Once on the ground, regroup, and begin their movement to the city itself. Once near the city, they were to make their way to the capital building, capture President Mbeki, along with any top aids who happened to be present, and extract out to their original drop zone. At this point, they would contact headquarters back at AO-101, and either receive immediate extraction, or further orders, depending on the running situation. It was textbook.
The ramp of the C-130 began to lower, the hurling winds rushing through the plane, as the men stepped to the edge. The light turned red, as the men tapped each others on the shoulder, letting each other know there was nothing wrong and they were all good to go. The light turned green, and without hesitation, they began to pour out of the plane, into the nothingness of night. It was 2319 hours.
[This is the beginning of Sniper Country's invasion of South Africa, Earth I. If you have a claim here, get ready to defend.]