NationStates Jolt Archive

"Hey, get up," he said as he nudged his buddy, who was deep asleep in his bed. He poked again. "Tom, get up, dude," he whsipered as loud as he could without waking anyone else whose rooms were up and down the hallway.

"Huh," the man in the bed turned over. "What?" he asked, in a tired stupor.

"Get up; we gotta go," his partner said.

"Go where?" the man in bed whispered as he allowed his head to fall back on his pillow.

"Ramsdell's got something for us. It's a big deal. We gotta go. It's just us. Now come on, man, let's go. We're supposed to be there five minutes ago," the man said, standing. He turned the lamp beside the bed on.

"Ramsdell?!" the other man in bed said aloud as he threw the covers back and sat up. He began getting his clothes on, while continuing the speak with his partner. "What's the Colonel got for us at... one thirty in the morning? I'm supposed to be up in two hours - you know that, right?"

"Yeah, dude, so do I. But I don't think that matters. Lee sounded pretty bugged out. I think we're going In-Country," he replied. He looked like any other soldier in the 22nd SOF-D Regiment. He was fully clothed in his In-Country attire, his backpack was packed to the brim, his LBE/PBA wa fitted perfectly, his pistol and tertiary sidearm, an H&K MP5K, were strapped to his legs, and his highly modified M4B1 assault rifle was slung over his chest. The only thing seemingly out of place for an In-Country mission was his baseball cap, which shone bright yellow in the light, proudly displaying his alma-mater, University of Southern Sniper Country, across the front. He took a sip from his HYDRAtion System pack and sat on the bed, waiting on his partner to get ready.

"Seriously?!" the other said with a sort of shocked excitement. He continued to hurriedly don his gear, and seemed to be doing so in record time. After just a minute or two, he too looked like his partner in arms. He donned his camouflaged cap, breaking a roll into the top, and slung his SOC16 over his chest. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth - there was no time for brushing teeth. The two made their way out to the SOF-D Briefing Room, which was just a few hundred yards from the quarters of the troops of the 22nd Regiment. Upon entering, the sat down at the standard table sitting toward the rear of the large room, alongside the other ten members of Acid Platoon. For being almost 1:45 in the morning, none of them seemed tired. There was an anxious sense about the room; none of them had been In-Country in close to a year.

Colonel Lee Ramsdell entered the room, with the usual straight face. He wore a pair of worn out khaki pants and a tank top, along with a Lehigh University cap, turned backwards on his head. He ran his fingers through his beard before turning the projector on. The men sat, watching him work, wondering exactly what was going on. Ramsdell turned around, sighed, and began.

"Sorry to wake you guys up so early. Or late, however you want to look at it. Anyway, I need you guys for an operation that's, well, not exactly, uh, legal." The men sat up, intrigued. "Yeah, I knew that would get your attention," Ramsdell said as he clicked the button on the remote to the projector. "This is an aerial recon image of Grace Island. As you know, Grace is where all exiles from the nation are sent instead of being imprisoned within the country or sentenced to death. This place has members of SAM, ALF, Liberal Underground, you name it. Suspected terrorists of all kinds reside on this island. Also, as you hopefully know, there is no military presence on this island. That was part of the agreement the Senate had to make in order to gain support for exiling people to Grace," he continued, clicking the remote once more. "This was looked down on by several, and was a hard decision for the Senate to make. Of course, they're politicians and will do what they have to in order to stay in power. This, this is Michael Khoeler. He was the head of SAM, Satan's Armed Minions, two years ago before he was wounded in a firefight with Ghillie police forces and taken into custody. Thereafter, he was sent into exile at Grace, where he has been ever since." The troops of Acid Platoon fervently took notes while watching the screen and listening to their commander. Colonel Ramsdell clicked the remote once more. "The actual population of Grace is unknown, but it is estimated to be about three to four thousand, spread across villages and small towns over the landscape of the island. That's a couple thousand known and suspected terrorists, who the Senate saw fit to live out their lives in exile rather than kill them on the spot. Makes no sense to me, but maybe that's why I'm not a national leader. Anyway, I'll get to the point," he clicked the remote again. "The IMF has gathered intelligence that a foreign terrorist group has learned of Grace Island, and has somehow made an unknown number of shipments of weapons and possibly vehicles to the island with the intent of supplying the island with enough force to either escape the island or launch an attack on the Sniper Country mainland. It is noted that Khoeler is the supposed leader of this whole deal on Grace. However, I do believe he is smarter than making an attempt to strike the mainland in force. Moreso, I don't believe he would try to have the people of the island escape to another nation. I do believe, though, he would have the people of the island sneak off the island by any means possible, while shipping the weapons and equipment back to the mainland. After this, I suspect they would attempt a regroup with any remaining terror cell members within the country, and once again attempt strikes within the nation as they did just a few years ago." Ramsdell took a breath. "Now, your mission is simple. You are to make it onto the island, first of all. Second, you have to find the supplies we have intel on, and destroy them to the best of your ability. Finally, you are to apprehend Khoeler and dispatch him by any means necessary. Make sure his body is never found." At this, the members of Acid looked around at each other. They looked, not worried or alarmed, but simply complacent about the situation. This should be a cakewalk. "Make no mistake about it, this is a total black mission. This is not authorized by any government official. There are no signatures. This operation is only under a green light because David Howe, the head of the IMF, contacted me personally about the situation. There are only four people besides you who know about this mission. Your mission folders are under your chairs. Review them before you leave, and leave them in here. I'll gather them up in a little bit. I've got a UH-60 pilot waiting on the field to the south. He thinks you're going on a training mission to the coast. After that, you'll have no support. Good luck, guys," Ramsdell said as he turned, emotionless, and left the room.

The room was filled with silence as the troops reached under their chairs and pulled out the small folders. Cameras posted throughout the island, possible foreign terrorists, a dedicated enemy, no support, this was unlike any other mission any of the men in the 22nd had ever encountered. Normally, this would have been handed to some organization like PackRat "Sierra Hotel" Platoon or Force Haze, which was under direct command from the IMF itself. It didn't make a whole lot of sense to them, but they knew their mission, and knew what it was going to take. They placed the folders down on the table in front of them, and all stood up, heading out the door. They jogged to the Blackhawk which was ready and waiting in a small cotton field about a mile south of the 22nd Regiment's designated base location on AO-101. They each checked over their weapons and equipment again, and commenced to board the helicopter, which lifted and sped off toward the coast. Grace Island was only about eight miles from the coast, outside of Buchanan Inlet, which led to the largest city in Sniper Country, Stalk Lane. The leader of Acid Platoon, Specialist Richard Couch, had been told by Colonel Ramsdell to make sure and grab a portable dinghy with collapsable oars to make the trek to the island by sunrise.

It was going to be a long night, and an even longer couple of days.

The more harder they paddled, the slower they seemed to go. It was a particularly windy night, which in turn caused the waves, however small, to whitecap and splash against the men of Acid platoon, along with crashing against their small boat with which they traversed. Grace Island wasn’t too far away by now, and one could estimate they were only a few hundred yards from the shoreline. Their weapons and equipment were stowed in the center of the raft, covered as to protect from imminent water damage.

Finally, after what seemed like two or three years of paddling, the men arrived at the shore of Grace Island. They did not pull up to a nice, sandy beach, but only a small cove, which rested on the very edge of an extremely dense forest. The troops piled out of the dinghy, pulled it onto the land, and immediately covered it with nearby foliage, as to camouflage it from any random Grace “citizens” who may come across the area. The men would remember this spot, not because of some GPS technology, and not because they thought moss grew on the north side of the tree, but simply because it was engrained in their minds to know a certain area, and remember how to get there from wherever it may be they ended up. It was attention to details, that’s all. Something the SCAF had that other militaries only thought they had.

The men all donned their gear, checking over their weapons to assure proper function. Each had his own, personal weapon, customized to his own liking. For this mission, though, all had their silencers/suppressors on, even if they didn’t particularly like it. This mission called for it. Stealth was the key, which was precisely why the machine gunners would endure the mission with their weapons strapped to their backs; instead, utilizing their MP5K and pistols as their primary weaponry.

The sun had been up for about half an hour when the men convened on Specialist Couch to have a look at the map and see exactly what they were up for.

“Alrighty, guys, here we are,” Couch started, pointing to a locale on the map. “Now, the closest village to this place is a small congregation of terrorists about six miles north - looks like it’s probably only about three or four huts and a little farm. We’re gonna trek it up there, and snatch one or two,” he continued, conjuring the looks of a few of the troops. “I know we’re supposed to keep a low profile, but this is something we have to do, and you guys know it. We have no intel regarding where this stuff is, much less Khoeler.”

“You do realize we’ll have to kill them once we’re done interrogating or whatever, right, dude?” questioned Sergeant First Class Alec Wills. “Plus this place is laced with cameras and surveillance equipment. We can’t just go around slaughtering the island.”

“I know, Alec. I know,” Couch replied, staring his comrade in the eye, giving the obvious “no crap” expression. “We’ll dispose of the bodies when that time comes. But until then, let’s just have ourselves a jolly old time. Keep on the watch for that surveillance equipment, like Alec said, and for any residents of the Island. Dud, you take lead, say, forty to a hundred yards out. Keep plugged three minutes calm, ten seconds contact. Howard?”

“Howard,” Sergeant Second Class Dudley Kimball replied as he slung his M4B1 across his back and pulled out his pistol. He gave a slight, two-fingered salute the rest of the guys, who nodded, smiled, and laughed as he jogged out of sight.

“Dud, freak check, how you hear?” Couch said into his COBRA headset, allowing for a check on the SECNET frequency. For this mission, it was set to a privatized IMF frequency, unmonitored by any person, much less an agency, other than David Howe himself.

“Loud and clear, how me, Dick,” Kimball replied. The troops laughed in a soft whisper as Couch was obviously annoyed. “I’ll stick to Money. Loud and clear,” he replied.

Couch gave several consecutive hand motions, and watched as the men picked their weapons up and began walking northbound, spread out over a distance. Of course, it was not a great distance, and in fact was a sort formation which toggled between the wedge and the inverted wedge, while maintaining a spread of only a few meters. The two snipers of the team, Sergeant Second Class Gary Leeland and First Sergeant Louis Nelson hung to the back, about fifteen to twenty yards, and kept an eye on the rear of their marching compatriots. They were adorned in their standard ghillie suits, and for the most part walked backwards. It was odd, watching them work. It was almost as if they had a keen sense of what exactly was behind them; as if their senses were adept for just their job and the required task at hand. It would seem as if they were about to run into a tree behind them, when just at that instant they would take a sidestep and miss it. However it was done, no one asked questions. SCAF sniper training was, quite possibly, the best in the world, and with that in mind, nobody really asked questions at any rate.

The sun was shining brightly and the day was in full swing. The twelve men of Acid platoon were tired, wet, and on the brink of miserable, but it was something they were used to, and had learned long ago to fight through. You don’t become a member of the SOF-D by sleeping in five star hotels and eating lobster three meals a day. At least, those were the first words they heard when they signed up for the course. These twelve men, as they would come to find out soon enough, were facing more than just a few terrorists and some illegally imported weapons. But for now, they marched. They marched through thickets, swamps, forest, streams, ponds, animal dung and carcasses. They continued to march, climbing closer and closer to their first stop – Village 438, or, more appropriately, Satan’s Beachside Resort (as the locals were pleased to name it).

[Still looking for somebody to RP the terrorists/terror suspects on the island, as well as a foreign terror cell, although the latter doesn't matter as much to me as the former.]

"Money, contact, one o'clock, three zero meters, inbound" Dud said rapdily into his COBRA as he dodged down into a small dip in the earth. He trained his pistol on the head of the person he was talking about. It was a man, probably forty years old, as far as Dud could tell. He walked with a slight limp, which could have been due to the fact that he was barefoot. Dud instinctively looked his body up and down, scanning for weapons, bodily features, possible injuries, and intent. The man had one a tattered, white, linen, button-up shirt, and grey shorts. It looked just like he'd been the only one on the island, left stranded after a horrific plane crash. However, he had no hair on his head, and for the most part looked clean shaven. This was the surefire indication he lived here, alright, as Dud kept an eye on him and every step he took.

The nine troops walking in formation immediately got down in the midst of the brush and foliage, with the snipers keeping still.

"Is he armed," Specialist Couch, who went by "Money," questioned through his COBRA.

"Negative. Nothing. Still inbound, twelve o'clock, two zero meters," Dud responded.

"Take him, bring him back here," Money responded. The others in the platoon had formed a small perimeter, only a few yards in diameter, protecting their location.

Dud watched as the man crept closer, unaware he was being watched, much less what was about to happen. As he walked, he hummed, oddly enough, the Sniper Country national anthem. Dud took note, but only utilized this to his advantage. With his humming, he wasn't paying attention to any noise around him, which allowed Dud to quickly cover himself in nearby foliage. The man continued to walk. Dud lied in silence, covered in various leaves, dirt, insects, and flowers. Several flowers, in fact. The man crept closer and closer, when suddenly, only a few inches from Dud, he stopped. The highly trained soldier kept his eye on the pathetic looking man, through a tear in the leaf which lied over his face. The man bent over, and stretched out his hand toward the ground.

"I, I don't know anything... I, I swear to you..." the man, now identified as Dominic, said as he breathed heavily and rapidly.

"Shut up," Money said, leaning down in front of Dominic. "Listen, Dom, I'm going to talk to my buddy back here for a minute. You know, the one who made you pee your pants? Yeah, him. So, you just sit here with my other buddies, don't talk, try not to cry, and everything will be okay. Just, shush," he continued, patting Dominic on the cheek. The Specialist got up and walked back with Dud.

"How'd you take him?" Couch asked.

"He stopped just a few inches from me, and leaned over. I just reached up and grabbed his head and drug him down to me. Then just drug him back to here. Not that big a deal," SSC Kimball said nonchalantly.

"What was he leaning over for?"

Kimball shrugged. "I didn't bother to ask. After he peed in his pants, I didn't really bother to intimidate him any more than that."

The two laughed and walked back to Dominic.

"Okay, Dom, here's the deal. I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer me. I'm sure you've seen these types of movies before, so I won't bother going through the whole spill. Now, first off, what were you reaching for when you leaned over my friend back there?"

"...a flower," Dominic replied, his voice shaking.

"A flower. And why the crap were you going to pick up a flower? What are you, a faggot or something?" SPC Couch said as the other men from Acid Platoon laughed to themselves.

"Yeah, maybe I am. Maybe that's what I'm doing here. The reason those people who call themselves civilized back on the mainland said I was a terrorist and threw me on this horror of an island," Dominic replied, his voice slightly more firm.

"Wait, you're really... Crap, guys, we got a freaking homo here!" Couch taunted to the hilarity of a response by his team members. "Well, listen, fagboy, you made a mistake by trying to pick my friend's flower. And now you're here. So, just stay calm, answer my questions, and you'll be okay. Now, you're from Village 438, right?"

"Yeah..." Dominic replied, obviously confused.

"How many people live in the village?"

"Twelve, including me."

"How many huts?"

"Three. I live by myself, there's five women and six other men. Why do you need to know this stuff, anyway?"

Couch pulled his pistol from its holster and held it, not aimed at Dominic, put simply in front of him. "I'm asking the questions," he said. "Michael Khoeler, you know him?"

"No, never heard of him."

"You're here because you're a member of SAM, right?"

"No, I was supposedly part of the Liberal Underground, but they could never prove it. They decided since I was gay I should be sent here anyway, those homophobes. I'm atheist, not a satanist or Christian or anything else. Of course, they're going to give the gay guy the village of the satanists," Dominic explained.

"Right, are any of the people you live with armed. Any weapons at all? Knives, guns, anything."

Dominic hesitated to reply. SPC Couch pointed the pistol at Dominic's left eye, scraping his eyelashes. "This is where things get important, Dom. Now you can either tell me, or I will kill you, right here, right now."

Dominic shed a tear, as he tried to compose himself enough to speak. "They... They have a few guns..."

"What kind of guns, Dom," Couch questioned further.

"I don't know, I'm not an expert. They look kinda like yours..."

"How many, Dom. I need to know how many."

"Six. For the men of the village. I couldn't have one because I was a 'woman' in their eyes. I don't know where they came from. They just brought them out one day and said things were going to get better for us all," Dominic said as he broke into tears. It was easy to tell Dominic hadn't had the easiest of lives. Couch could almost feel the pain inside this man as it permeated the air. But this was no time for compassion.

"Things are better," the Specialist said.

"Can you do me one favor?" Dominic asked.

"What's that?" Couch responded with a question.

"Just let me use your gun. I want to end it myself," Dominic said, wiping the tears from his eyes. Couch knew what he meant, as did all the troops standing around them. He spun his pistol around, and handed it over to Dominic. The other soldiers trained their weapons on Dominic, just in case.

He took a few deep breaths, probably trying to remember anything he had ever had good in this life. In the blink of an eye, he raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. Dominics lifeless body fell limp to the ground as the whisper from the silencer seemed to resound throughout the forest. The hole was small, from his jaw up through his cranium. SPC Couch grabbed his pistol from the lifeless hand, and quickly hostered it again. He motioned for two of his teammates to take care of the body, who commenced to pick what used to be Dominic up, and proceed to the shore, which was only a few hundred yards away, where they would dump his body. Couch leaned down, as the rest of the members of the platoon gathered around him.

"So we are going up against armed militants, from SAM. I guess it's our luck, huh," he said, attempting a joke after the intense scene they'd all just witnessed. No one laughed. It wasn't the time. "Alright, no lead man. We're all going up, and we'll do our best to snatch one. We can't have this turning to a bloodbath," he said, folding up his map and standing up. He took a few steps forward, ready to continue in the search. His comrades stood also, and commenced to follow him.

"It already has," whispered one of the troops, under his breath.

[OOC: Good job so far Sniper Country. Keep it up! I'm interested in this...do you need any peacekeepers?]

“Gold team, contact, nine o’clock, one five meters tracking left to right over present position,” Master Sergeant Cole Walker said into his COBRA headset, observing one of the men of Village 438, armed with an old M16A2.

“Blue team, howard Gold team, in sight, weapons hold,” SPC Couch replied as he also observed the man from a different location.

“Wilco, additional traffic nine o’clock, two zero meters in trail of him, same heading,” Walker replied.

“Howard, weapons hold, report additional traffic as sighted,” Couch replied.

The two men walked along a small trail from the jungle into the village, looking around as if they knew somebody was around the area. Each carried an M16A2, which, aside from a very few militias within Sniper Country, was all but extinct in the military and nation. The footsteps got louder and louder the closer they came to MSG Walker, also commonly known as EZ, his operating initials from his days as an air traffic controller in the SCAF. Walker was the leader of Gold team, which consisted of three men of Acid Platoon, being himself, Sergeant First Class Karl Springer, and Sergeant First Class Wes Gilbert. The three men lay quietly in the midst of thickets and brush as they watched the two men pass by, en route toward the first of the three huts.

“All traffic entered first hut toward entrance, no longer in sight,” EZ whispered over his COBRA.

“Howard, hold position, I’ll call your inbound move,” Money replied.

SPC Couch was head of Blue team, which consisted of four troops, being Couch himself, Sergeant Second Class Jack Johnson, Sergeant Second Class John Johnson, and Sergeant First Class Mark Denson. The four men were in position toward the other side of the village, though further in the wood line than Gold team. Blue team was designated as the support team, in case a move was made on the village, able to give supporting fire and visual cover to the attack teams.

“Red team, still have visual inside the hut, traffic moving back and forth, unknown intentions,” Sergeant First Class Alec Wills said into his COBRA, indicating he could still see the men inside the hut, although he couldn’t make out exactly what was going on inside.

“Red team, howard, report additional information as attained,” Money replied.

SFC Wills was the lead of Red team, which also consisted of three members: himself, Sergeant Second Class Dudley Kimball, and Sergeant Second Class Kevin Eggler. Red team was in position on another side of the village, which allowed the three teams to have a sort triangle perimeter around Village 438.

The final two members of Acid Platoon were the two snipers, Sergeant Second Class Gary Leeland and First Sergeant Louis Nelson set themselves in position on opposing sides of the village. SSC Leeland maintained his position about forty yards north of Gold team, and simply surveyed the village for activity, as well as his surrounding area. 1SG Nelson found himself about midway up a small tree, watching over the entire perimeter for any hostile forces that may be inbound on the village. He’d seen and taken note of the two men incoming long before MSG Walker had established visual contact, but there was no use in calling it, as EZ couldn’t have made contact any sooner due to Gold team’s surroundings. It was odd how snipers in the SCAF knew these sort things, but, as always, it was never questioned. These guys were just that good.

Suddenly, to the surprise of all men of Acid Platoon, there was a horrid, shrill scream of terror which erupted from the hut which the two men had entered. It was easy to distinguish the scream as a woman.

“Alec, you still got visual,” SPC Couch whispered over the COBRA quickly.

“Negative, standby,” SFC Wills replied, obviously frustrated by the situation. “Red team, contact,” he spoke up within seconds, “previously called traffic exiting hut with two females. Note, using extreme force. Additional traffic, exiting hut to the east three males, unarmed-” before he could finish his transmission the continued silence was broken by gunfire from the two men who had exited the hut with the two women. The three men who had left the other hut, apparently rushing to see what the shrill yell was, fell to the ground as their bodies began to shake and jerk from multiple chest shots from the M16A2s.

“Watchdog, contact, multiple inbounds, seven zero meters west-northwest tracking direct. Counting, up to two zero in sight,” 1SG Nelson whispered quickly over his COBRA headset.

“Gold team, no joy, bugging out to the south,” MSG Walker responded with no hesitation. There was no way he was going to risk his three men against twenty or more terrorists at this point. Not that he was worried about his team being able to defend themselves against a numerically superior opponent, but simply for the fact that if they remained in position, it was about to get real hairy real fast. The three men jumped up from their positions and quickly darted to the south, out of sight of the rest of Acid Platoon. They proceeded south of the village, where they stopped a good ways in the tree line and took positions.

The supposed terrorists entered the village from the northwest, just shy of SFC Wills and Red team. The actual count of forces entering the village was twenty four, who were all dressed in relatively good combat gear, to the surprise of SPC Couch and the others. What was more shocking was the fact that these men didn’t carry M16A2s like their compatriots, but very nice weapons such as the M4B1 and M249 SAW. It was quite unnerving, because if the men from Acid hadn’t known any better, they’d really suspect these guys were part of the SCAF, even the SOF-D for that matter.

The men broke off into smaller groups, and proceeded to investigate each hut. The men seemed not to care about making much noise as they rampaged through each small hut. Four more men were thrown out of the huts, as well as three more women. Nearly all the occupants were crying, spitting blasphemes from their mouths and cursing their captors. The newly arrived terrorists, as it seemed, laughed as a few brought out chairs and random items such as a dresser. The men were lined up at gunpoint, in front of one of the huts, as the women were taken, all five of them, toward the hut. The captors proceeded to rip the clothes from the women, and, utilizing the chairs, dressers, and other such amenities, rape them in front of the men. It was quite frustrating to the men of Acid Platoon, who were all devout Christians, to watch this event unfold. Rape within the borders of Sniper Country was punishable by the death penalty, but out here, there was no official jurisdiction. The dark screams from the women pierced the ears of each man who lied in the jungle, watching the event, helpless to do anything.

Minutes passed like hours. After nearly an hour, each man from the terrorist group had raped at least one woman, some more than that. All this happened as the men of the village were forced to watch, bound by flex cuffs and at gunpoint. The men of Acid Platoon simply lay silent, waiting for the next atrocious event to rear its ugly head. The terrorists spoke to themselves, whoever inaudible to SPC Couch and his men. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nothing was going down like it was supposed to. One of the terrorists had knocked one of the women out using the stock of his weapon to her head, but as the men of Acid Platoon could clearly see, she was dead. Yet they continued. Who were these men? They came in professionally, but this was not professional. There was no way they were from the SCAF, however well equipped and trained they were. The silence and thinking was broken by a parade of rapid gunfire, which struck down each man and woman of the village. The terrorists looked around, ensuring there was nothing they’d forgotten, and proceeded to leave the area in the manner they had come. They moved tactically, which was obvious to anyone who saw them move.

“Blue team, all targets absent, all teams converge on southern hut,” Couch whispered silently through his headset. The troops moved in, and all met just behind the hut from which the two women were pulled just about an hour ago.

“I don’t know what just happened. Those guys weren’t ordinary terrorists. They were good - real freaking good,” Couch said as he turned around. “We’ll check for any survivors,” he continued.

“Money, dude, you know none of them are alive. And we can’t be going out in there like this. There are cameras, you know,” Dud replied abruptly.

“I don’t care about cameras anymore,” Couch said back as he continued walking. He rounded the corner and saw the carnage. Multiple gunshot wounds to each person, from the head to the legs. The others came around to him and looked around. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. What’s going on?” Couch asked his men.

“It’s kind of ironic, I guess,” 1SG Nelson began. It was odd, as Nelson rarely spoke aside from his COBRA headset. “It looks like the people we initially came her to stop, we’re now here to save.”

Pringles for the late night crew.

"Is there any way they could have been from somewhere else? We were told another nation is probably funding and supplying this whole shindig," SSC Jack Johnson, nicknamed Whisper, mostly due to his very soft voice.

"I don't think so," replied SFC Wills. "You saw how they moved, not to mention their weapons. To my knowledge, we're the only ones that use the M4B1 and SOC16. There's no way some low-down, terrorist backing government would send a unit like that in to do some dirty work. I think it's another Team," Wills continued, insinuating the possibility of another SOF-D team being on the island.

"No, I don't think so. No Team would do something like this. I'd say it might have been some IMF guys, but they don't operate like this. This is too messy for them," responded SPC Couch. "There's no explanation. We have no clue who they are, what they're doing here, or why, for that matter," he stopped in mid-sentence and paused. The pounding rain outside the small hut was fierce. The men had dodged into the hut for the storm, in order to catch up on some much needed sleep and a small meal. Several were sleeping during this conversation, but the three involved were wide awake, and oddly enough, not tired. In the corner, SFC Mark Denson typed away on his small laptop, with which he linked to an overhead satellite, attempting to gain knowledge on the whereabouts of the team of men who had massacred the entirety of the village in which they now resided.

Death was still in the air. It was funny, in a weird, sort of archaic way. Death was the complete absence of life, and yet, even now, the smell of this absence permeated the air which entered the nostrils of each man in Acid Platoon.

“What about contractors?” SFC Wills suggested. “There’s no reason they wouldn’t do something like this.”

“You’re getting a little farfetched now,” Couch replied. Even the suggestion of contractors made him cringe. “Why would contractors even be sought for a mission of torture and murder like this? And why would they be sent here? What would their mission be? Furthermore, who would hire them, and why?” The questions kept piling up.

“I don’t think it’s as crazy as it may sound,” SFC Denson piped up. “No unit we know of carries the weapons they were carrying except those in the SCAF. But contractors often get their pick of government equipment, usually when they’re recruited to go on government sponsored missions. That would explain who hired them and why they were carrying our stuff. As far as their mission, though, that’s another story.”

The other wake men listened intently, suddenly intrigued by the thought that contractors were on the island.

“Maybe they’re on the same mission we are… But that wouldn’t make sense, since we’re out here too. Got me, man. I don’t know what they’re doing here,” SSC Johnson replied, resigned.

“Guys, I, uh…” Denson spoke up urgently. SPC Couch rose and walked hurriedly to the other end of the hut, noticing the sun finally coming out from behind the clouds as it began to set in the distance. “According to my system,” Denson continued, typing away at his laptop, “we’ve been cut off. I’m not getting a feed from the satellite anymore, and Howe’s apparently not monitoring us anymore. I have no link to any of our systems. This is the third time I’ve tried to hail Howe on the computer’s SECNET, and I have no response. This thing is a piece of junk now,” he said, closing the laptop and sliding it onto the floor of the hut. “No satellite uplink, no monitoring by Howe,” Denson continued, “we’re out here alone. And if -” Denson was cut off by Couch.

“Let’s go outside,” Couch said, motioning for Denson to step out into the village. The rest of the men remained inside, either sleeping or eating. The two men stepped out into the humid air, and watched the sun in its final descent before nightfall. The ocean waves crashed against the rocky shore just a few hundred feet away.

“So,” Couch spoke up, “if we have no more contact with Howe, and we’ve been totally cut off from the satellite uplink, plus we’re dealing with government contractors on this island… Are you seeing the same trend I’m seeing?”

“I think so. SCAF hires some mercs from Centrifuge or Trilateral or some other company to do some dirty work on the island – specifically, our job. Then they send us out here on a ‘secret’ mission. The mercs terrorize the island, complete our mission, make a ruckus while they do it by killing tens or hundreds, and get a nice government reward. The government gets the video, makes some smudges here and there, and pin the blame on a ‘rogue special forces unit’ from the SCAF. Call me a conspiracy theorist,” Denson replied with his thoughts about the situation.

“Yeah, only, we’re missing one piece of the puzzle. What about us?” Couch said. The two men stood for a moment in wonder. Suddenly, the two looked at each other in desperation. Both ran into the hut, waking the men and urgently pushing them to gather their equipment and get ready to move in less than two minutes. As the men of Acid Platoon began packing their gear, each wondering what exactly was going on, SPC Couch debated on the next move. The easiest would be to go back to their raft and paddle back to the mainland. The problem, however, was knowing that as soon as they got back, they’d be on a Most Wanted list throughout the nation. The second option was actually completing the mission, but this didn’t necessarily provide a sure way of getting back to the mainland intact. The only truly feasible option was to remain on the island and confront the contractors themselves, and, if necessary, complete the mission of obtaining Michael Khoeler. It was the most dangerous option, but danger was essentially what these men lived for. Therefore, option three was the plan.

It didn't happen often, but when it did, one didn't forget it. The sound, however soft, muffled, or quick, penetrated the inner of the soul and resonated through every bone in the body. Most of the time, a quick turn of the head broke the neck with nearly no sound, but there were the times where the sound of the neck cracking resounded at what seemed like such a high decible level that one may actually think firing an assault rifle at point blank range would be quieter. This was one of those times.

The lifeless body fell to the ground, aided silently by MSG Walker, EZ. "One down, southwest corner, in the brush," he whispered into his COBRA as he watched his partner, SFC Springer, sneak up to the guard at the southeast corner of the large hut. Springer was crouched low, and as he came into range, raised up and slid his knife into the side of the guard's neck. Not necessarily clean or the best style, but it was quick and efficient. Springer slowly lowered the body to the ground, whispering his kill confirmation into his headset.

Suddenly, a disturbed yet angry shout was let out from around the building. EZ watched as Springer raised his pistol in an instant. The draw was not quick enough, however, as Springer jerked back, blood splattering from the back of his head onto the ground behind him. MSG Walker blinked in the commotion, and immediately turned to see the other observed guard, who held his position at the northwest corner of the hut. The guard quickly turned around, noticing his fallen comrade. Walker, however, had pulled back into the treeline a few feet back, and now had his M4B1 steadied on the guard, who was running to check his fallen associate. EZ had a cool head about these types of scenarios; even so, he wasn't exactly eager to be in his situation. He'd told his other Gold team partner, SFC Gilbert, to remain with the rest of the platoon about five hundred meters back from the hut. Men were now pouring from the hut, and even though these weren't the same men as the platoon had come into contact a few hours prior, one against fourteen are never good odds out in the brush. EZ knew the consequences of trying to be a hero, and furthermore knew the odds of becoming a hero in his situation.

"Money, Springer's down. Got fourteen total observed outside now. Need assist, now," EZ demanded over his COBRA. He was about twenty to thirty feet away from the closest guard, and whispered low enough so that he wasn't heard.

"Howard, group is en route. Hold two minutes," SPC Couch replied. All ten members of Acid Platoon were now en route to Walker's position, where they would either fall back as a team or engage all targets in the vicinity. Walker waited anxiously, his rifle beaded on the nearest guard. He was anxious, but not scared, as anyone in the SCAF would admit, and moreso in the SOF-D. It was common for any SOF-D veteran to state that if any soldier in the world said he didn't get anxious in a combat situation, they were either filthy liars or they had never seen true combat. Anxious as he was, though, Walker's rifle never dropped or faded down, as the dot on his scope remained on the heart of his target.

"EZ, you're in sight, twenty meters to your rear. Got you covered with fourteen bad guys in sight. Can you get back?" Walker heard over his COBRA.

"Negative man, if I move an inch they'll junebug," he replied. "Junebug" was a word used commonly throughout the SCAF, deriving from the old saying, "Be on it like a duck on a junebug," and was utilized to indicate that troops would "be on" something instantaneously. This could be anything from a forward rush to a snatch operation. In this instance, however, EZ knew if he tried to move, the guards would take notice quickly and promptly open fire. He was stuck.

"Eh, howard, we're coming to you, belly-down," Couch replied, obviously miffed at the situation and Walker's response. Screw you, Walker thought to himself.

The ten troops began a slow low crawl toward Walker's position, hardly disturbing the nearby foliage. Within moments, the platoon was in position, all lined up to Walker's left. Each was in the prone position, their weapons, mostly highly modified M4B1s, M4B2s, and a couple of SOC16s, beaded on the nearby guards. Walker was the only one on a knee, but he was well-covered by brush and foliage.

"We're taking 'em," SPC Couch said silently into his COBRA as the men readied themselves. "Spike One left, Rush Four right, establish rear control and recover inside - thirty seconds. All up on my mark - three, two, go," he said again moments later, as the platoon opened fire. The supressed rounds flew through the air as each member of Acid Platoon placed precision shots through the hearts and heads of the fourteen guards standing around outside the hut. Four of the troops raised up and tactically covered the left side of the hut, while four others did the same thing on the right. The four on the right, led by SFC Denson, rounded the corner of the building, on their way inside the hut in order to clear it. The remaining troops, including EZ, ran up to the rear of the hut, providing rear security for the other elements. Couch leaned over and checked Springer's lifeless body. A pool of blood had formed and was quickly drying in the humid weather of the island. Couch pulled the pistol from Springer's dead hand, while, under his breath, mumbling, "No dead atheists..."

A few rounds went off inside the hut. There were no other huts in the vicinity, simply a small fire and a large ditch which obviously served as the local latrine. Thirty seconds passed quickly, as the side and rear elements slung their weapons and proceeded inside the hut. SSC Eggler came out, waving for Couch to come quickly.

"Hey Money I think you're gonna want to see this," he said openly.

Couch rushed inside, to find SFC Denson and SSC Kimball holding a well-built, bearded man at gunpoint. He was on his stomach, obviously having been taken down by the rush element. He didn't look like the guard men outside. He actually looked like he could very easily fit in with Acid Platoon, which disturbed Couch. He motioned for Kimball to bring the man to his knees, which was done promptly. The man grunted as he was raised up, and looked Couch in the eyes. Couch crouched down to the man's eye level, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered the man one. The man accepted, and Couch lit it for him. Coucch didn't necessarily smoke himself, but it was always a good idea to carry them as an icebreaker if there was ever a tense situation.

"What's your name?" Couch asked.

"Rex Kincade," the man replied, letting out a puff of smoke.

"Okay, I'm going to go ahead and assume that was a lie," SPC Couch replied, obvsiously perturbed.

"I ain't lying, man. Check the laptop," the man replied nonchalantly.

Couch nodded to Denson, who eagerly sat down at a laptop on a nearby table. The hut was empty, for the most part. There was a table, which held up a laptop, duffle bag, an extremely nice M4B1, two bottles of whiskey, and several magazines of ammunition. There were also about six small lawn chairs scattered throughout the room, along with three racks of M16A2s and several duffle bags full of ammunition.

Denson smirked. "Hey Money, check this out, man." Couch got up and strolled over toward Denson, motioning for Kimball to keep his weapon on the man.

"Property of Trilateral Corporation. This thing's got orders, mission layouts, contracts, payouts, everything. It's even linked into SECNET, man. This guy really is a 'Rex Kincade.'"

"Alright," SPC Couch said as he turned around, "so why'd you just tell me the truth? And who are you, exactly, and where are the rest of you?"

"I've got nothing to lose," Kincade replied. "I've already got paid for this Op, and if I don't talk you'd just kill me. What do I care if our mission gets scrubbed? Means nothing to me. All I care about is getting off this rock and grabbing a plane ticket. Maybe settle down in one of those nice, small, island countries out in the Pacific, you know?"

"Yeah," Couch smiled as he let out a little laugh. "Now my other questions."

"Man, I told you who I was, and I think you just killed my other guys," Kincade said, smugly.

"Listen, dickweed. One of my men is laying dead outside, and I know for a fact those aren't your men laying dead outside. Now you're going to tell me what I want to know right now, or I'll put one through both your kneecaps, one through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out while we hunt down the rest of you," Couch said, agrily removing the cigarette from Kincade's mouth and tossing it aside.

"You SOF-D guys are all the same, you know? You think you're so big and bad; you're so well trained, and you think that's going to save you in a combat zone. You come out here, and pride yourself on the 'Three C's' - calm, cool, and collected. And you do a good job til one of your little butt-buddies takes one in the head and is laying in a huge puddle of his own blood outside. Then you freak out and don't know what to do because suddenly you realize you're not invincible. You realize you actually can die out here, just like anybody else," Kincade replied, attempting to stand before Kimball pushed him back down to his knees.

Couch pulled his pistol from his holster and shot once into Kincade's right knee. Kincade winced, but for the most part seemed unaffected.

"Artificial knee, dickweed," Kincade smirked.