Sniper Country
25-07-2008, 02:08
“Who all’s up here?” asked one of the tall, bearded men who swiftly walked toward a large, gymnasium-looking building in the distance. The sun was setting in the distance, casting bright rays of orange and yellow across the clouds.
“Us, SALT, and as far as I know, Sierra Hotel, but that’s it as far as I know,” replied a similar looking man within the group of about ten or fifteen. Each man wore a variety of jeans, khakis, t-shirts, tank-tops, sunglasses and ball caps. As far as people went, the area was rather empty, but it was dotted with various buildings and vehicles. The men were still recovering from a two-month trip into the mountains, but were psyched for what was going on.
“That’s it? Dude, this is freaking sweet, man,” another man piped up. The group of men reached the door to the large building, and all casually entered, following the long hallway to a moderately sized room on the left. As they entered and took their seats, they were followed by another tall, burly man who wore khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a black tank-top. He wore a dirty baseball cap, and as he entered, shifted his sunglasses to the top of his cap. He walked to the front of the room, behind a large table, as the others took their seats scattered throughout the room.
“Well, guys, congrats on a good mission through the Phillipedes; heard ya’ll took out a few drug camps – that right?” the man behind the table spoke up after a few minutes. Most of the men shuffled around, nodding their heads and looking around the room.
“Well whatever, let’s get this stuff started. The building you are in right now really doesn’t exist. The helicopter you flew in on doesn’t, and the buildings you saw on your walk up here sure as hell don’t exist. Welcome to Anberlin, gentlemen. You are sitting on roughly five hundred square miles of pristine middle-of-nowhere real estate that has been designated as the government’s next great wildlife refuge. It is valuable to the safety of endangered animals throughout the country – especially that fucking prairie dog – and hunting is not allowed. Actually, the animals are so precious nobody is even allowed on the property. In fact, they are so important it has been turned into a no-fly zone from the ground up to two hundred thousand feet. Wait… I think I forgot to mention that you guys are the animals here,” the man said, looking around at a few sheets of paper in front of him. “The SCAF and IMF have basically gone around the Senate on this one, and talked directly with the Speaker, and pulled all the SOF-D, SALT, and Sierra Hotel out of AO-101, putting them right here. Your clearances have now been moved from Secret to Top Secret. From here on out, you will be operating strictly out of this facility – again, this wonderful wildlife refuge – out of sight of the media, Senate, and even the rest of the SCAF. This is such a big move that SCAF and IMF have hired a PMC to replace you guys at AO-101 in order to make it seem like you guys are still there. Those guys will be there indefinitely. They’ll be training and doing basically everything you guys did – just without the actual In-Country missions. Those, you’ll be doing. You’ll now have clearances to enter foreign soil without all the bureaucratic bullshit you normally have to go through. If there’s a bad guy on the ground somewhere, you’re going to go in and take him out – no questions.” Many of the men looked around at each other, smiling. Others raised their hands to their cheeks, squinting at the thought of an unrestricted License To Kill. “However, if you’re out on unauthorized missions, there is plausible deniability, and we will use it without censure. You’ll be undergoing more rigorous, realistic, detailed, and intricate training here than you were allotted at the AO, which is one reason this place is so restricted. Also, the 113th Aviation Group has been attached to all operations here and therefore been transferred here with the rest of you. With all personnel on site, there will never be more than forty-five hundred people on this five hundred square mile piece of land.”
“Hey, Lee,” one of the men addressed the man giving the briefing, “this is cool and all, but my only real question is why. Why did we need to be moved out here and our clearances raised and all this? Doesn’t the IMF have their own guys that do this kind of stuff? Why do they need us out here?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure of that answer. I do think you guys will start going out on more missions than you have been, and you’ll have a lot more and a lot better training up here than you did down there. Not to mention that at the end of the day, the only person you’ll be answering to is me.” This comment stopped many of the men in their tracks.
“No more crap with Spitz or the Senate or anything? Nothing?” one of the men spoke up.
“Nothing. The top of the SCAF and the IMF are running this operation, but I’m the final authority on everything. They may send me fifty missions, but I’m the one that’s going to look at them and give them a go or not. If I don’t like it, you’re not going. That’s how this one is going to work. Another thing: your rank is gone. This facility will not recognize rank, period. From now on, each platoon will have a TL, and after that, there’s me. Everyone’s pay is equalized, right now at two hundred grand a year. Sound good?” the man asked. The men looked around, none voicing objections. They were speaking to the founder of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Lee Ramsdell, who knew each of them probably better than they knew themselves; he didn’t expect any objections.
“Training-wise, we have everything here. We have mountains, desert, jungle, glacier, urban, hot, cold, wet, dry, humid, and basically anything else you care to think of. You have all your weapons, and will have first pick whenever knew ones are out. Your spending limits are still inexhaustible. Now you may be called on to execute domestic missions. If you are, you execute your mission, quick and easy, and get out. If anyone sees you, intimidate; use force if necessary. You talk to no media or civilian populous when executing operations, and have full permission to destroy media equipment on sight if necessary. Again, guys, your missions from here on out are low-profile, high risk, no bullshit ops. This is what we pour our billions of dollars into you guys for; so do your jobs like you’re trained to do them. Any questions?”
The men looked around at each other.
“Yeah, I got just one,” one of the men replied with a smirk. “Where’s Packrat?”
Ramsdell smiled, running his fingers through his thin, bushy beard. “Well let me just say this: the briefing you guys just had, here and now – three of them just had it too; with you.”
Several of the men, including Ramsdell, shook their heads and laughed. “Crazy,” a few mumbled under their breath. The men stood, and slowly made their way out of the door and down the hall. So this was it. Welcome to Anberlin.
“Us, SALT, and as far as I know, Sierra Hotel, but that’s it as far as I know,” replied a similar looking man within the group of about ten or fifteen. Each man wore a variety of jeans, khakis, t-shirts, tank-tops, sunglasses and ball caps. As far as people went, the area was rather empty, but it was dotted with various buildings and vehicles. The men were still recovering from a two-month trip into the mountains, but were psyched for what was going on.
“That’s it? Dude, this is freaking sweet, man,” another man piped up. The group of men reached the door to the large building, and all casually entered, following the long hallway to a moderately sized room on the left. As they entered and took their seats, they were followed by another tall, burly man who wore khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a black tank-top. He wore a dirty baseball cap, and as he entered, shifted his sunglasses to the top of his cap. He walked to the front of the room, behind a large table, as the others took their seats scattered throughout the room.
“Well, guys, congrats on a good mission through the Phillipedes; heard ya’ll took out a few drug camps – that right?” the man behind the table spoke up after a few minutes. Most of the men shuffled around, nodding their heads and looking around the room.
“Well whatever, let’s get this stuff started. The building you are in right now really doesn’t exist. The helicopter you flew in on doesn’t, and the buildings you saw on your walk up here sure as hell don’t exist. Welcome to Anberlin, gentlemen. You are sitting on roughly five hundred square miles of pristine middle-of-nowhere real estate that has been designated as the government’s next great wildlife refuge. It is valuable to the safety of endangered animals throughout the country – especially that fucking prairie dog – and hunting is not allowed. Actually, the animals are so precious nobody is even allowed on the property. In fact, they are so important it has been turned into a no-fly zone from the ground up to two hundred thousand feet. Wait… I think I forgot to mention that you guys are the animals here,” the man said, looking around at a few sheets of paper in front of him. “The SCAF and IMF have basically gone around the Senate on this one, and talked directly with the Speaker, and pulled all the SOF-D, SALT, and Sierra Hotel out of AO-101, putting them right here. Your clearances have now been moved from Secret to Top Secret. From here on out, you will be operating strictly out of this facility – again, this wonderful wildlife refuge – out of sight of the media, Senate, and even the rest of the SCAF. This is such a big move that SCAF and IMF have hired a PMC to replace you guys at AO-101 in order to make it seem like you guys are still there. Those guys will be there indefinitely. They’ll be training and doing basically everything you guys did – just without the actual In-Country missions. Those, you’ll be doing. You’ll now have clearances to enter foreign soil without all the bureaucratic bullshit you normally have to go through. If there’s a bad guy on the ground somewhere, you’re going to go in and take him out – no questions.” Many of the men looked around at each other, smiling. Others raised their hands to their cheeks, squinting at the thought of an unrestricted License To Kill. “However, if you’re out on unauthorized missions, there is plausible deniability, and we will use it without censure. You’ll be undergoing more rigorous, realistic, detailed, and intricate training here than you were allotted at the AO, which is one reason this place is so restricted. Also, the 113th Aviation Group has been attached to all operations here and therefore been transferred here with the rest of you. With all personnel on site, there will never be more than forty-five hundred people on this five hundred square mile piece of land.”
“Hey, Lee,” one of the men addressed the man giving the briefing, “this is cool and all, but my only real question is why. Why did we need to be moved out here and our clearances raised and all this? Doesn’t the IMF have their own guys that do this kind of stuff? Why do they need us out here?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure of that answer. I do think you guys will start going out on more missions than you have been, and you’ll have a lot more and a lot better training up here than you did down there. Not to mention that at the end of the day, the only person you’ll be answering to is me.” This comment stopped many of the men in their tracks.
“No more crap with Spitz or the Senate or anything? Nothing?” one of the men spoke up.
“Nothing. The top of the SCAF and the IMF are running this operation, but I’m the final authority on everything. They may send me fifty missions, but I’m the one that’s going to look at them and give them a go or not. If I don’t like it, you’re not going. That’s how this one is going to work. Another thing: your rank is gone. This facility will not recognize rank, period. From now on, each platoon will have a TL, and after that, there’s me. Everyone’s pay is equalized, right now at two hundred grand a year. Sound good?” the man asked. The men looked around, none voicing objections. They were speaking to the founder of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment, Lee Ramsdell, who knew each of them probably better than they knew themselves; he didn’t expect any objections.
“Training-wise, we have everything here. We have mountains, desert, jungle, glacier, urban, hot, cold, wet, dry, humid, and basically anything else you care to think of. You have all your weapons, and will have first pick whenever knew ones are out. Your spending limits are still inexhaustible. Now you may be called on to execute domestic missions. If you are, you execute your mission, quick and easy, and get out. If anyone sees you, intimidate; use force if necessary. You talk to no media or civilian populous when executing operations, and have full permission to destroy media equipment on sight if necessary. Again, guys, your missions from here on out are low-profile, high risk, no bullshit ops. This is what we pour our billions of dollars into you guys for; so do your jobs like you’re trained to do them. Any questions?”
The men looked around at each other.
“Yeah, I got just one,” one of the men replied with a smirk. “Where’s Packrat?”
Ramsdell smiled, running his fingers through his thin, bushy beard. “Well let me just say this: the briefing you guys just had, here and now – three of them just had it too; with you.”
Several of the men, including Ramsdell, shook their heads and laughed. “Crazy,” a few mumbled under their breath. The men stood, and slowly made their way out of the door and down the hall. So this was it. Welcome to Anberlin.