Chapters The Everfree Forest is a much more peaceful place than ponies give it credit for. Sure, it has much more than its fair share of predators, but even timberwolves have to sleep sometime. For the most part, the Everfree Forest is just as calm as the settled parts of Equestria, just much more intimidating to the ponies who aren't used to its wilds.
“Beowulf, in position. Recording equipment up, preparing to stream. Over.”
“Copy. Ready to receive. Over.”
Through a pair of powerful 40x variable magnification scopes, a peaceful village came into focus. Small red lights in the upper right corners of the rifle scopes indicated video was being recorded, and the small combat-hardened laptops connected to them showed the data was being transmitted. Also attached to each computer was a deceptively small audio-recorder. Though only the size of a frisbee, the advanced hardware could pick up a fly fart at a thousand yards, and was tuned to eavesdrop on the small village they were observing.
“Sending.”
“Data link established. We've got video and audio on this end. Over.”
“Copy, out.”
The Everfree Forest also conceals many things. Among them, four unusual forms, completely hidden by mesh suits. Their camouflage was perfect, to the point that even stepping on them might not reveal their presence.
“Get comfortable boys,” said Moose as he adjusted himself off a rock jabbing his ribs, “It's gonna be a long. Ass. Day.” As soon as Moose stopped squirming, Lowball adjusted himself, followed by Chainsaw and then Clumsy. They didn't move at the same time to reduce their risk of detection. Roving patches of movement could be written off to one of the many small creatures inhabiting the Forest, but a giant patch of bush that suddenly shook and stopped would have appeared suspicious.
“So, what's on the Mythology Channel today?” Lowball asked. Chainsaw and Clumsy, the junior men of the team, were stuck with spotting scopes while Moose and Lowball manned the long guns; a pair of camouflaged Barrett XM500 bullpup .50 caliber sniper rifles.
“Same old, same old. It'd be better if we could actually hear what's going on,” Clumsy replied. Though they were responsible for carrying EveDrop long range microphones along with them, the recorders didn't actually allow them to hear what was happening. The audio and video data went straight to intelligence analysts, biologists, physicists, and whoever the hell else the Department of Defense could think to throw at the insanely-classified discovery of non-Earth life, especially intelligent non-Earth life. The houses hadn't built themselves, after all.
“As if we'd even be able to understand whatever the hell they're saying,” Chainsaw retorted.
The silence left the four bored Delta Force operators to make up their own dramas to keep themselves amused. All the teams involved in Operation Shining Light had their own stories about characters, including Camelot. Camelot was the team that Beowulf shared observation responsibilities with for S-S-1, the code assigned to the village they spied on. It stood for Settlement-Small-1, meaning the first small village discovered. How the teams responsible for observing the large cities kept track of their 'cast' was a source of speculation on Beowulf.
“Looks like Harpy and Candy Ass are out on the town again,” Lowball said.
“For the last time, just because they hang out does not mean they're a couple!” Moose whisper-shouted. It was only as loud as a quiet gust of wind, but it was a veritable roar among the team's sound-discipline. Any creature farther than a yard away wouldn't have been able to tell there was any noise above wind rustling leaves.
“I'm telling you, they're dating. I've seen Harpy leave Candy Ass's house with bed-hair before.” Chainsaw rolled his eyes.
“Because obviously she couldn't have just fallen asleep on the couch,” Clumsy shot back. Lowball's romantic pairings were a constant source of entertainment. Among his many pairings; Bouncy-Baker and Gay Pride, Cowboy Farmer and Curly Diva, and Giant Dark Star-Hair 'Horn-asus' and Librarian.
“What about all the blushing?” Lowball returned.
“Fine, y'know what? Fifty bucks says you're wrong,” challenged Moose. The odds of them ever being able to settle the bet were astronomical, but it helped pass the time.
“X in top right corner,” Clumsy whispered
“O in middle right,” whispered Lowball back.
“X in bottom center.”
“Cat game,” they said simultaneously. Verbal tic-tack-toe was a time honored tradition on Beowulf, dating back more than a decade to the time when Moose was the junior man on the team as opposed to its leader.
“Hold,” Moose ordered. Immediately all movement and sound stopped. When somebody sounded 'hold', you goddamn held, no questions asked.
A few seconds passed before Moose tapped Clumsy on the shoulder. Clumsy tapped Chainsaw, who in turn tapped Lowball. It was their signal to only communicate in your quietest whisper to the person next to you. Messages would be passed man to man down the line if necessary.
“Three fillies; Hair-bow Farmer, Baby Wings, and Tail-Duster. Moving in this direction, 10 o'clock, six hundred yards.” Six hundred yards was past the minimum 300 yard distance all observation teams were ordered to hold, but it was still closer than they were comfortable with. Previously their closest contact had been just over 650 yards.
The message was passed down the line, and the three others each slowly turned their sights to find the three small horses. They watched silently as the three fillies approached the treeline of the Forest and stopped. Fear was in their eyes, but after a short conversation they pressed on. It was a somewhat surprising move as the villagers rarely, if ever, ventured beyond the treeline. If they did, it would usually be no more than a few feet before they turned tail and sprinted out, but the fillies continued onwards.
500 yards.
Beowulf watched and waited, hoping the fillies would turn around, but also curious about where they were headed.
400 yards.
“Orders?” Clumsy whispered to Moose.
“Hold. If we move now we risk giving away our location.” Clumsy nodded and passed the word.
300 yards.
Beowulf team was now officially in the shit. They knew they weren't actually in any danger; they were carrying enough firepower to win a small war and they were facing three unarmed horse children. They just knew that when they returned they'd be in for an ass chewing from the higher-ups.
But they remained in position. Their camouflage almost guaranteed they wouldn't be spotted, especially the way the fillies were darting their eyes around, searching for hidden terrors.
“What the hell are they doing out here?” Moose whispered to himself.
The fillies huddled together as they walked, each step rushed but not actually propelling them any faster. It was clear they didn't want to be there.
200 yards.
A wolf howl pierced the air. The fillies froze in place. The terror in their eyes grew to panic, then beyond. They were scared out of their minds, too scared to move. The howls increased in volume and intensity. They were coming from everywhere and getting closer to the fillies.
Beowulf team started to sweat. Their orders stated they were to, under no conditions, intervene in anything they might see. But, at the same time, they wondered if they could stand by and let a trio of children be torn to pieces and devoured. They were familiar with the Forest's predators, especially the ones nicknamed 'timberwolves', and there was no way the fillies would be able to outrun them.
“Come on, run. Run! ” Lowball whispered, silently begging the fillies to flee while they still had a fraction of a chance. Lowball had children of his own, two teenage girls, and knew he wouldn't be able to watch. Chainsaw thought the same, his newborn son on his mind. Moose and Clumsy, despite not having children, had seen, and even had to clean up, enough dead children for a lifetime.
The situation became infinitely worse when the wolves stepped out of the shadows and surrounded the fillies, and not just because they were so close. In situations where a group is being hunted, it's likely the wolves would only pick off the slowest member. A tragic outcome for the unlucky victim, but fortuitous for the others. The situation the soldiers were watching indicated the wolves intended to leave no survivors.
“Are we seriously just gonna fucking watch this?” Chainsaw barked. The team turned their heads turned to Moose, silently begging him to give them a green light. Seconds ticked by with Moose's eye glued to his high-powered scope as he tracked what he determined to be the Alpha with his reticle.
The wolf tensed and circled, unknowingly being shadowed by hidden death. After a few laps the wolf appeared satisfied and prepared to lunge. The fillies huddled together and closed their eyes, unwilling to watch their own fates. The wolf lunged.
Two loud booms resounded through the Everfree Forest as the Alpha Timber wolf exploded into splinters. The fillies screamed and ducked, only to stop their cries short when, instead of being torn to shreds, they were showered with a hailstorm of wood chips. The three young ponies looked up to see the remaining wolves just as confused as they were.
One wolf snarled at them, a newfound hatred in its eyes. The creature assumed that the fillies had been the one to kill its pack leader. The moment it took a step forward to attack, another twin cacophony echoed and it too disintegrated.
The surviving wolves had no idea what was happening, and chose to flee rather than stay and risk annihilation. The fillies sat in the dirt for several moments as they tried to come to terms with what had transpired. A few silent pointed hooves and shakes of the head confirmed that it hadn't been any of them.
Before the children could figure out what to do next, a cyan blur crashed into the dirt path beside them and threw up a dust cloud. By the time it cleared, a half dozen ponies were standing around the fillies. Beowulf recognized them all; Gay Pride, Cowboy Farmer, Librarian, Curly Diva, Bouncy-Baker, and John Belushi(because “he was in Animal House , and the horde of animals crowding around the flying horse's house all the time and fuck you guys it's clever,” in the ever-so-eloquent words of Clumsy).
“Ah shit,” Moose whispered. He had been worried about this; three fillies presented essentially zero threat to detection, but six fully grown beings, combined with all the freaky stuff they'd been seen doing, definitely put Beowulf in the danger zone. Not only that, but they were definitely too close to reposition themselves in case a search party came along. They'd have to rely on their camouflage.
The group covered the fillies protectively while each of the children attached themselves to a different member of the group. After a few minutes of crying, the adult ponies managed to calm the young ones down enough to tell them what happened.
Though Beowulf team couldn't hear what was being said, they were remarkably able observers. A short way into the explanation Cowboy Farmer barked out what was most likely a reprimand for journeying into the Forest, and appeared to be scolded by Curly Diva.
A gesture from Librarian encouraged the fillies to resume their story. Doubt and confusion painted themselves on the faces of the adult ponies. Librarian soundlessly questioned them, and Tail-Duster pointed at the wrecked remains of the timberwolves.
Librarian walked over and examined the wood piles, her horn aglow. For a few seconds nothing happened, before four roughly finger-sized metal slugs rocketed out of the forest and stopped a few inches in front of her face.
“What the fuck?” Chainsaw whispered.
“Oh shit. Are those what I think they are?” Lowball asked, worry creeping into his voice.
The mare rotated the objects in front of her, giving the soldiers a perfect look at the pointed slugs. “Yep.” Somehow the pony had retrieved the bullets that had destroyed the timberwolves, though how was a mystery; a .12.7mm full metal jacket round has enough penetrating power to slice through almost an inch of hardened steel armor at a hundred yards. The half-rotted wood might was well have been air for all the resistance it offered. The rounds had probably traveled hundreds of yards before shedding their energy and stopping.
“Fuck. If she can do that, she might be able to locate our shooting position,” Moose warned. “Be ready to bug out.”
Sure enough, after a few seconds the projectiles began to float towards Beowulf. The moment for leaving had most certainly passed as the ponies approached Beowulf's hidden position. There was no chance they wouldn't be spotted, and Moose was almost regretting saving those fillies.
It took the ponies almost a full minute to cross the 100 yard distance between them and Beowulf team. The suspense was palpable to the soldiers, who used every technique they had ever been taught to appear as part of the forest. They slowed their breathing down to almost nothing to minimize movement when they inhaled and exhaled. They dropped their chins into the dirt so their camouflaged, wide brimmed hats would leave less of a gap for the ponies to see their painted faces. They lowered their rifles agonizingly slowly so the barrels would be completely enshrouded in brush.
And they waited.
By the time the ponies reached them, signified by the rounds spinning rapidly, all four team members desperately had to piss, but none moved for fear of being given away.
The ponies looked around for a few moments and scanned the area around themselves, looking for the source of the rounds. They looked to the confused purple unicorn.
Cowboy Farmer uttered what sounded like nonsense sprinkled with horse-sounds, which Beowulf guessed to be a question. Intelligence analysts had confirmed their vocal patterns were definitely an actual language, not just crude animal grunts, but it was still strange to actually hear a horse talk, even if they couldn't understand it.
Librarian furrowed her brow and another layer of purple light appeared around her horn. The projectiles stopped spinning and pointed straight at Moose.
Librarian reached out with her hoof and accidentally knocked off his camouflaged hat, revealing his dark brown hair and painted face.
The ponies screamed, then the world exploded into white.
Author's Note
The idea for this story hit me after reading some soldier/knight in Equestria stories. I thought that, if instead of being transported to Equestria via unexplained magic, if the Human presence in Equestria was deliberate. I wanted to paint a situation where Humans are drawn into Equestria against their will by circumstances out of anyone's control. This is the baby of that idea. And to anyone reading this who are also following my other story Angel in Equestria, don't worry that is still my primary focus right now.
Beowulf team sprinted through the underbrush of the Everfree Forest as fast as their feet could carry their equipment-laden bodies. Running was made even more difficult as they awkwardly juggled their rifles and surveillance equipment, which they'd been forced to grab in their haste to run from the ponies that they were definitely not supposed to have been in contact with.
Providing motivation for their escape were a half dozen golden-armored ponies running and flying after them. The armored horses had apparently been just behind the six that had discovered them.
“Nice idea with the flashbang,” Moose commented without breaking stride as he hurdled over a fallen tree and continued running.
“Thanks, boss,” Lowball replied as he juggled the heavy sniper rifle and the EveDrop recorder. Clumsy fired a burst into the air to delay their pursuers, but the horses had apparently realized they weren't in danger after a half dozen bursts and no longer stopped at gunfire.
“Looks like they found some balls!” Clumsy yelled.
“Then stop shooting! If it's not scaring them it's just wasting ammo!” Moose shouted.
After nearly two miles of all out sprinting, Moose realized they weren't going to loose their pursuers in a foot chase. They might have been the some of the most physically fit soldiers in the world, or their own world at any rate, but they couldn't beat horses in a footrace.
“Clumsy, Chainsaw, in a hundred meters I want you both to pop smoke. Twenty yards after that everyone stops and empties their magazines in the air. Hopefully our pair of fifties will scare them enough to give us time to shag ass out of here.”
A few seconds later both Chainsaw and Clumsy pulled smoke grenades from their vests, yanked the pins and hurled them as far forward as their arms could throw. Two twin clouds of smoke burst from the grenades and grew to encompass a large section of woods. Beowulf team bounded through the smoke and ran another ten steps before stopping, turning, and raising their weapons.
Deep booming reports of the fifty caliber rifles combined with the furious staccato of automatic assault rifles to fill the forest with a terrifying symphony. When their pursuers didn't come charging through the smoke screen, Beowulf bolted again.
“Riptide Riptide Riptide, this is Beowulf! Come in, over!” Moose struggled to maintain a calm voice in the radio as he continued to run on burning legs.
“Beowulf, this is Riptide. I copy. Send your traffic. Over.”
“Riptide, Beowulf! I send 'Columbus.' Over!” Columbus was the emergency code for all the teams involved in observation of the aliens' cities. It meant a team had been compromised and was in danger of imminent capture.
A long pause on the radio told Beowulf the C2 team was scrambling to overcome their surprise and formulate a response.
“....Copy that, Beowulf. Have you been forced to engage? Over.”
“Negative. Be advised we have fired warning shots to facilitate egress, no casualties. Over.”
“Copy, Beowulf. Under no circumstances are you to engage alien forces. Break contact and proceed to RV Butterscotch. Support will be waiting. How copy?”
Moose resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A moment later he scolded himself. The C2 team couldn't actually do anything for him; they were almost thirty miles away. He shouldn't have expected much help in the first place.
“Copy, out.” Moose's mind scrambled for a plan. They couldn't simply keep running. They might have lost their pursuers for the moment, but it wouldn't take them long to catch up. After that, it wouldn't be another mile or two before they ran them to ground and Beowulf would be forced to either fight or surrender. Neither option held much appeal.
After going through every scenario, his mind settled on one possibility. He didn't like it, but it was their only option; Beowulf was going to have to split up.
“Lowball!” he shouted. In a flash Lowball was running by his side. “Take Chainsaw and head east until you come to the river, then cross and head another mile or until you're comfortable you're not being followed. I'll take Clumsy and head west until we hit the ridge that leads around the northern edge of the forest. Meet back up at RV Butterscotch in six hours, got it?” he asked, almost rhetorically.
“Got it. Chain! With me!” He shouted and veered off into a dense patch of brush, Chainsaw close on his heels. Clumsy likewise followed Moose when he darted to the left, towards the west.
After another two miles of running in the new direction, Moose held up a hand for them to stop. Both soldiers slowed to a walk and took sips from their CamelBaks. Their legs throbbed from the exertion and their lugs screamed for air, but they had lost the horse soldiers.
After a short rest, Moose stood up from the tree he had been sitting against and resumed the long walk west. The ridge line they were headed towards loomed in the distance and promised an agonizing climb. Moose and Clumsy's poor leg muscles whimpered at the prospect.
“Bravo 1-2, this is 1-1. Come in. Over.” Moose and Clumsy laid hidden in the dense scrub around the clearing that was Rendezvous Point Butterscotch. They had been there for nearly an hour and there was still no sign of Lowball or Chainsaw. Also running late was the team that was supposed to meet them, but at least they had been able to make radio contact with that team, callsign Richmond. One of the guys on Richmond had fallen and broken his leg on the way and the team had been forced to turn back. How the soldier in question had managed to fuck up so badly on what amounted to a nature hike hadn't been passed along.
However, Lowball and Chainsaw weren't answering their radios. That could mean one of three things; they had been forced to travel even farther to avoid capture which might have put them out of radio range, their radios were malfunctioning, or they had made hostile contact with the locals.
Without radios, Moose and Clumsy had no choice but to wait. The failing light meant that it would become more and more difficult for Lowball and Chainsaw to find their way back to Butterscotch. On the positive side, if they were still being hunted their NODs, or Night Optical Devices, would give them an edge over the horses. At least, that's what Moose told himself.
“Bravo 1-2, this is 1-1. Come in. Over.” Silence. Moose sighed. “This has turned into one big clusterfuck.”
Clumsy nodded and glanced at his watch. “They're ninety minutes overdue. What do you wanna do?” he asked.
“We wait. If they're on their way and just lost comms, they might show up while we're out looking for them. Without Richmond here, we wouldn't know if they walked in thirty seconds after we left. So....we wait.”
Clumsy took a sip from his CamelBak and summed the situation up nicely.
“Fuck.”
Author's Note
I have to say I was really surprised at the response this story got. It was the first fic I've written on this site that actually got in the popular stories list. Not featured, but still, damn. And I know it took forever, but I really didn't know how to end this. This is about the tenth draft of this chapter.
By the way, for anyone who was confused, C2 means Command and Control.
The forest was dead quiet, giving away not a single hint that a pair of lethal warriors stalked its shadows. Two deadly predators clad in body armor and camouflage uniforms moved at a rapid but careful pace.
Twelve hours. That’s how long Moose and Clumsy had sat at RVP Butterscotch. During the night, they had taken turns sleeping and keeping watch. Every hour, whoever was on watch would send out a radio call for Lowball and Chainsaw. No response. For half a day they had lain in wait, baking in their heat-retaining ghillie suits.
Eventually, after some persuasion, Riptide had authorized them to work their way back to where Beowulf had split up and search for their missing teammates. It had taken them two hours to ditch and stash their hide suits and long guns and cover the distance. They could have done it in twenty minutes or less, but their caution slowed them greatly.
With barely a sound, Moose and Clumsy stopped in the shadow of an ancient oak just off the barely-worn footpath where they had last seen Lowball and Chainsaw. While Clumsy scanned behind him, Moose looked for the tracks of his men. A few seconds of inspection revealed the distinct boot treads. Unfortunately, it also showed dozens of hoof prints.
Without speaking, Moose motioned for Clumsy to follow him into the bush. The boot prints continued for roughly half a mile before they faded away. That told Moose that Lowball and Chainsaw had lost their pursuers, or at the very least thought they had, sufficiently to begin covering their tracks. In the same area, the hoof prints shadowing them were more crowded, indicating the horses tracking them had lost the trail as well. The hooves didn’t appear to leave the area, so most likely the search party had been the flying type and had taken to the air to search.
Moose pressed forward towards where he knew the river to be; Lowball was supposed to take himself and Chainsaw at least a mile past the river before heading to the RV point. If something had gone wrong, it had probably been near or on the river when they would have been exposed crossing.
The sound of rushing water announced the river’s presence before Moose saw it; the thick underbrush worked hard to conceal anything more than five feet in any direction. Moose tapped Clumsy on the shoulder and motioned for him to join him in searching along the riverbank.
Several minutes later, Moose heard Clumsy’s voice in his earpiece. “Boss, I got something.” Moose quietly made his way back to where Clumsy had been searching and saw the lanky soldier kneeling over a body. Moose’s heart leapt into his throat.
“Check this crazy shit out,” Clumsy said as he pushed aside the branches obscuring the details of the corpse. Moose’s reprehension dissolved in an instant, but was immediately replaced with confusion.
“What the fuck?” The body was a fusion of a lion and a scorpion with trippy leather wings. Two massive wounds marred the fur on its back as well as a dozen smaller bullet punctures.
“There was a scuffle, I think this nasty bitch came at them while they were trying to cross,” Clumsy said, pointing at boot prints that headed into the river and back out. “They turned around and engaged, but one of them got swiped before they took it down.” Moose noticed the blood puddle that was noticeably distinct from the growing pool around the monster and agreed.
“Bravo 1-2, this is 1-1. Can you read me? Over.” Silence. “Fuck. You see any tracks heading out or did they try to cross again?” Moose asked.
“Nope, they headed that way,” Clumsy replied, pointing north. “One of them is helping the other walk, but they left under their own power.” Moose nodded and the two followed the trail, Clumsy in the lead.
Less than a hundred meters up the riverbank, Clumsy raised his fist. Moose stopped immediately and scanned around, his HK 416 at the ready. A tap on his shoulder caused him to turn. When he did, the familiar weight in the pit of his stomach returned. Clumsy had stopped them just before they hit a small clearing where the tracks led. Near the center of the clearing, dozens and dozens of hoof prints surrounded and covered the boot treads. Wheel impressions started and stopped abruptly in the center of the small field. No tracks led away.
The two Delta operators looked at each other in silence, hesitant to voice what they both knew to be true.
Lowball and Chainsaw had been captured.
Klaxons sounded.
“All personnel, clear the Loading Bay. All personnel are to clear the Loading Bay immediately. ”
As one, the dozen or so sterile-jacket clad researchers in the Loading Bay turned towards the nearest exit and filed out quickly. After the last person passed the threshold, a heavy solid steel door descended into sturdy grooves designed to hold the slab in place against any force up to and including a tank. With a groan and a hiss, the windowless concrete room was sealed.
In the center of the room, watched by cameras placed so no space was left unobserved, a large silver device began to glow. Unfamiliar symbols lit up with soft white light along the edge of the rounded dais. A low buzzing filled the air as static electricity charged the atmosphere. The buzzing rose in pitch and volume until, had anyone been in the room, they would have been clutching their bleeding ears in agony.
From seemingly nothing, a small mote of light appeared three feet above the exact center of the platform. The symbols on the rim of the machine shifted color, taking on a sharp golden tint. The buzz was gradually overpowered by a dull roar coming from the vortex. The mote grew and began to swirl and rip at itself even as it swelled. Every color of light in the visible spectrum, and a few just outside it, bathed the concrete walls in a furious rainbow.
The vortex continued to expand. One foot, then three. Soon the light nearly reached the surface of the machine. In an instant, the light exploded and enveloped the entire room, then was gone. In its place were four men, three standing and another resting on a stretcher.
“Transition complete. Begin Decontamination Protocols. ” The heavy steel door rose with the whine of heavy duty motors. Into the room poured a team of men and women wearing biohazard suits and carrying hoses, sponges, and sterilizing agents. The four men began to strip off their weapons, armor, and utilities. The two men on either side of the stretcher helped their injured comrade remove his garments, with assistance from the technicians.
The equipment was placed on a large rolling cart which was then sealed and pushed to the side. The soldiers stood still as warm water, soap, and bleach was sprayed, scrubbed, and dumped on them. The wounded man gave grunt of pain when a careless technician was too rough on his broken leg, but otherwise the entire process proceeded smoothly.
After ten minutes of extremely thorough cleaning, the men were given new uniforms and led out of the Loading Bay, which was itself receiving a sterilizing treatment.
“Captain Marshfield!” One of the men, a black soldier who was leaning over the stretcher and rechecking the splint on the injured man’s leg, turned and saluted as another man came up to him. The second man was a half foot shorter than the first and, instead of normal BDUs, wore his Class A uniform, complete with campaign medals and stars on the shoulders. The second man returned the salute casually and nodded towards the injured man.
“What happened to him?” he asked brusquely, with a slight southern twang.
“General Hicks, sir. Sergeant First Class Hart suffered a fall and broke his left leg, sir,” the first soldier reported.
“He alright?” Captain Marshfield nodded.
“Simple fracture, sir. A couple months with a cast and he’ll be back at 100%.” General Hicks nodded and turned to walk to a side door marked with a plaque that said “JTF TOC” in large letters. Captain Marshfield followed wordlessly. Hicks led the way through a myriad of computer stations and mapboards into a small, isolated office inside the Tactical Operations Center. He opened the door and walked in, followed by the Captain. A wave of his hand ordered the younger officer to close the door. The improvised sign that read ‘JTF CO’ clattered against the opaque glass as the door clicked into place. General Hicks sat down behind a small desk without pretense. Marshall stood, as he had not been given permission to sit.
“Your last communications packet mentioned one of your teams had an encounter with the natives. I wanted to have a face-to-face so you could explain to me exactly what happened before DoD tears both our asses out of our mouths.” The fact that General Hicks had remained completely calm when he spoke sent a chill up Captain Marshfield’s spine.
“Sir, Beowulf team was in their designated OP in the forest outside of SS1 when I am given to understand that three juvenile locals wandered into the woods. The three passed within 200 meters of their position when they encountered a pack of local predators. Beowulf team at that time decided to intervene and destroyed two of the predators with sniper fire.”
General Hicks stared at Captain Marshall for a few moments before he leaned forwards and placed his elbows on the wood. Hicks opened his mouth to speak, then immediately closed it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.
“Okay. So, despite the very clear rules of engagement, Beowulf team decided that they would initiate hostile contact with local life forms, which we happen to know very little about. That about sum it up so far?” Marshfield nodded wordlessly. “Continue.”
“Following the engagement, a small group from SS1 arrived on scene. Through unknown means, one of the locals managed to recover the rounds fired at the predators, as well as discover Beowulf’s OP before they were able to reposition. Beowulf used a stun grenade to break contact and retreated on foot. Unfortunately, a group of LMFs* arrived on scene quickly and began a pursuit. After attempts at evasion failed, Beowulf deployed smoke and split up to reduce chances of capture. As of 0900 Zulu, half of Beowulf team is still unaccounted for.”
“Names?” Hicks asked.
“Sergeants First Class Richard Collins and Jacob Bidwell, sir.” Hicks shook his head and leaned back.
“Well, Captain, it seems this has turned into one gigantic gagglefuck.” Marshfield said nothing, but the tightening of his jaw bellied his nervousness. “Where is the known half of Beowulf team at this moment?”
“Beowulf’s team leader requested permission to begin the search for his men. As my Reaction Team was forced to turn back following Sergeant Hart’s injury, Colonel Yavarich authorized the mission, with added emphasis to avoid any further contact.”
For several moments, General Hicks said nothing as he inspected Captain Marshfield with a critical eye.
“Captain, I hope you realize that this single incident has torpedoed not only our careers, but also the career of almost everyone involved in this operation. Not to mention the fact that there doesn’t exist a shade of black dark enough for the list we’re going to be put on.”
“I do, sir.”
General Hicks opened one of the drawers on his desk and pulled out a slim cigar. He eyed it for a moment before pulling out a silver lighter. Flames danced to life and lit the cigar’s end. Hicks puffed for a few seconds before looking back up at the Captain with a sad smile.
“Well, if you’re gonna go down, go down in style.”
Author's Note
LMF: Local Military Forces, in this case the Royal Guard
Here it is at last! Tell me what you guys think in the comments
“Net call net call, all traffic clear the net. Priority One message. I say again, clear the net. This is a Priority One message.”
The random chatter common to all military radio frequencies abruptly cut out on the Task Force Tactical Frequency. Sixteen miles West of SS3*, a four man Navy SEAL detachment, callsign Hopper, stopped their stealthy trek through desert scrub brush. The four men dropped to a knee and waited with bated breath; Priority One messages were very rarely good things.
The leader of the SEAL det, known as Manwich for his large and imposing physique, felt a familiar wave of unease pass over him. It was the same feeling he often got while walking through an Afghan village where everyone seemed to be maintaining an extra bit of distance; the feeling that something was going to go tits up in his very near future.
“All Task Force Elements, this is Beowulf. I send ‘Metallica’. I say again, ‘Metallica’. Over.”
There was a brief moment of silence before the airwaves were filled to bursting with a flurry of confused transmissions, each stepping over the one before it to create an impossible to understand mess.
“Negat-“
“Can you rep-“
“Metalli-“
“This i-“
“Cop-“
“ucking be a-“
Manwich didn’t bother trying to transmit himself; he wouldn’t have been heard anyway. He’d wait until the C2 team got the radio situation un-fucked and then ask for confirmation. At the same time, he and the other SEALs on his team realized that they didn’t need it; the stress prevalent in Beowulf’s voice was enough to confirm that they were getting the ground truth.
As if to assure himself that he wasn’t making a mistake, Manwich motioned for Float to hand him the mission code book. Float, a lean Korean man standing at barely five foot six, dug through his tac vest and tossed him a slightly crinkled booklet. Manwich caught it easily and quickly flipped to the ‘M’ section.
Metallica: Blue Force* personnel taken prisoner.
“So what now?” Clumsy asked. Moose shouldered his rifle and stood.
“We find them. If we’re lucky, the horses didn’t make it to the village and we can do something to try and spring Lowball and Chain.” Clumsy looked skeptical.
“They were flying. Odds of them deciding to bed down five minutes out aren’t good.”
“I know, which probably means we’ll have to observe the village to find them,” Moose replied.
“Long guns?” Clumsy asked. Moose shook his head.
“Too far. We’re low on time already. We’re already pushing our luck hoping they don’t move our guys to one of the larger settlements, we don’t have time to grab our gear and head back. We’ll have to roll with what we have on us.” Both men glanced at their equipment; NODs, plate carriers, HK416s, Mk 23 pistols, two flashbangs, and a half dozen magazines each.
“Beowulf this is Camelot. Come in. Over.”
“Camelot, this Beowulf. I read you, send your traffic. Over.”
“Beowulf, Camelot is en route to Observation Point Kirk. ETA two hours. Over.”
Clumsy and Moose shared a semi-optimistic glance. OP Kirk was another observation position on the outskirts of SS1; if Camelot team was heading towards the town, it would definitely improve their chances.
“Copy that, Camelot. Good to hear. Has C2 changed the ROE? Over.”
“Unknown, Beowulf. We are currently not in communications with Riptide. Over.” The two Delta soldiers couldn’t help but share a conspiratorial grin. Camelot had left the Task Force staging ground on their own initiative, instead of asking permission which could have, and probably would have, been denied. It is easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
“Roger, Camelot. Be advised, Beowulf team will be waiting at Kirk. Over.”
“Copy, Out.”
“Let’s get moving,” Moose ordered, “We’ve got ground to cover.” Silently, both men shouldered their rifles and set out into the bush, phantoms in the jungle once more.
Author's Note
SS3: Dodge City
I know this chapter is really short, but it sort of had to be; its a transition chapter. More will be happening soon.
“You’re clear. Twenty seconds to move. Over”
Moose and Clumsy, hunched over to present a low visual profile, moved quickly and silently through a narrow alley. After eleven seconds of moving, they came to a stop behind a large dumpster just feet from the open streets of SS1.
“Local approaching fifty meters to your west up the street.
Thirty.
Twenty
Ten.
Turned a corner. You’re clear for sixty seconds.”
As the two elite soldiers stalked through the streets of the small village, Moose made sure to say a prayer of thanks for Camelot’s arrival, as well as resolve to buy the entire team a round after the mission was over. Assuming they weren’t all court martialed and thrown in some godforsaken CIA blacksite for the rest of their lives, of course.
After half of Beowulf and all of Camelot teams had rendezvoused, their first issue had been confirming that their captured brothers were still in the village. It hadn’t taken them long to spot a large concentration of native soldiers; gold armor is not subtle, especially with the long-range observation gear that Camelot had brought along. Their .50 caliber sniper rifles also provided a wonderful sense of comfort.
Almost a dozen native soldiers, a mix of Pegasi and Unicorns, guarded the structure. They hadn’t been able to acquire visual on Lowball or Chainsaw, but Moose and Swiper, the team leader for Camelot team, had agreed that it was worth investigating.
Moose and Clumsy made sure to stick to the shadows as much as possible, a tactic helped by the fact that SS1 had few streetlights. It also worked in their favor that the town didn’t have much of a nightlife.
After less than half an hour of quietly infiltrating the hamlet, the two men were within two blocks of their target building; a three story round structure with a wraparound porch on the first floor, and full balconies on the second and third stories. Six gold-armored soldiers patrolled the structure. A pair of Pegasi on both the second and third story balconies, each on opposite sides of the building at all times and patrolling counterclockwise. Their spacing was such that the four formed a moving four-corner patrol, split between the two levels. The other two soldiers, both unicorns, were stationed at the front entrance to the building.
“Camelot 1-1, Beowulf. Can you see if the back door is guarded? Over,” Moose whispered into his throat mike. Beside him, Clumsy kept an eye out on their six o’clock. The four-piece NODs over his eyes bathed his face in a faint green glow.
“Negative Beowulf, I don’t have eyes on Black.” Black was the color-coded designation for the rear of the building. The front and back were designated as White and Black, the building’s left and right being Green and Red, respectively. The simple system allowed information from snipers to be relayed quickly to assault teams.
“Roger, Camelot 1-1. 1-3 are you in position? Over.” Camelot 1-3 consisted of half of the second Delta team, split off and positioned on the far side of the village. They had been forced to take a longer route through the forest to avoid detection.
“Roger, in position. Stand by, setting up scopes. Over.” A few seconds passed as the two soldiers sighted in their sniper rifle and spotting scope, as well as worked to conceal their observation position. “All set. Eyes on. Back door is guarded by two. Over.”
“Copy.” Moose released his throat mike and swore. The soldiers were in a bad position; they could eliminate the guards in thirty seconds or less and quieter than a whisper, but their orders said they weren’t allowed to engage the natives. They might have bended the rules for the rescue operation, but actually killing the locals would be indefensible. As it was, their behavior at least had a chance of being written off as D-Boy Cowboy games.
They also couldn’t use their more subtle tricks that they might on Earth, such as blending in with the crowd around the building. For one, there was no crowd, and two, they were completely the wrong species. Subterfuge was not an option. The area around the building was cleared for sufficient distance to keep them from being able to sneak closer, and the shades were drawn for every window to keep Camelot from being able to see inside.
“Beowulf, I think may have an opening. Break.”
Moose and Clumsy perked up.
“Black, Charlie, One has curtains open. They’re moving, and it doesn’t look natural. Over.”
Black, Charlie, One was the first window from the left on the third floor of the building’s rear side. The fact that 1-3 thought that the curtains were moving strangely was something. Not for sure, but if a Delta Operator thinks something is odd, something is almost definitely odd.
“Think it’s them?” Clumsy whispered. Moose shook his head, then realized a half second later realized Clumsy couldn’t see it.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, but don’t rule it out.” Moose clicked his throat mike, “1-3, can you see inside? Over.”
“Negative Beowulf. Our vantage point is too low. Over.”
“Copy. Is there any higher position you can observe from? Over.
An unusually long moment of silence passed.
“1-3, do you copy? Over.”
“This is 1-3, stand by Beowulf. Over.”
Another minute or so of silence hung in the air before the radio came to life.
“Beowulf, this is 1-3. I have a way to check it its our boys or not, but you’re not gonna like it.”
“1-3, I don’t like this. I really fucking don’t like this. Are you positive there are no other positions? Over.” Moose whispered even more quietly had than he had before. That was due to the fact that he and Clumsy were stacked up on the door to one of the buildings in SS1, prepared to enter.
“Negative. The only other structure with a good line of sight is confirmed occupied. Over.”
Moose resisted the urge to utter every word on the long list of curses more than a decade of military service had bestowed upon him.
The building he and Clumsy stood in front of was unremarkable. There were a dozen others just like it in SS1. Unfortunately, that meant that neither Beowulf nor Camelot team could remember anything about that specific building. Whether or not it was occupied, if it was occupied then by whom and what their schedule was, all of it was up in the air. Neither team had brought their Observation Books; Camelot had forgotten theirs and Lowball was carrying Beowulf’s. The only reason it had been selected specifically was twofold; it had a small third story attic with a window that pointed towards the guarded building, and it sat on the top of a small hill, just barely tall enough to give it a high angle view into the third story window.
Moose sighed. They were out of options and out of time. If they waited any longer, they risked losing Lowball and Chainsaw. If the natives decided to move them, the Operators wouldn’t be able to intervene without risking killing the guards. As it was, they were going to be hard pressed to form and execute a plan before sunrise.
As if the message had been relayed telepathically, both soldiers shifted into position to enter the structure. Clumsy tapped Moose on the shoulder, and Moose lightly gripped the doorknob. It was unlocked. Moose turned it slowly and pushed inward. He set his feet on the hardwood floor softly to avoid making a sound.
The door opened into what looked like a living room; a small couch in front of a dead fireplace. Dust covered the mantle above the hearth. Moose advanced slowly farther into the house. Behind him, Clumsy closed the door and followed.
The two soldiers stayed close to the walls as they progressed inwards to reduce the chance of creaking. The living room led to a kitchen that lacked appliances and an empty hallway. Rifles at the ready, they walked towards the hallway. Clumsy stepped into the kitchen to check for occupants. Moose waited with his rifle trained on the stairs at the end of the hall as Clumsy executed his search. The PEQ-15 laser showed up as a bright green beam on his NODs.
A high pitched screech pierced the air and immediately cut off. Moose tensed, but after two minutes the house remained silent. A moment later, Clumsy stepped out of the kitchen and nodded. Moose turned back towards the hallway and moved forward. Clumsy followed silently.
The hallway had three doors before ending in a staircase. Moose moved to open the left door first, which turned out to lead to a broom closet. He turned and covered Clumsy who pushed open the right door, which had already been slightly ajar. This door revealed what was presumably a bedroom, though it lacked any furniture to mark it as such. The third door was a bathroom, and the large bathtub lacked a shower curtain.
Moose keyed his mike as Clumsy closed the door and took up a position at the base of the stairs.
“Camelot, Beowulf. First floor clear. This place looks vacant. Moving to second floor. Over.”
“Copy Beowulf, moving to second floor.”
A tap on the shoulder sent Clumsy up the stairs. He scanned as he ascended with Moose on his tail. The second floor was just as empty as the first, nothing more than another pair of bedrooms and a second bathroom.
“Second floor clear. Moving to third.”
“Copy. Moving to three.”
The attic was accessible by a drop-down ladder in the second story hallway. Moose pulled the string and carefully caught the ladder as it fell. Instead of a crash, he lowered the rungs to the floor silent as a mouse. Clumsy ascended the latter with Moose covering him. A muffled, “Clear,” came from above, and Moose pulled himself into the attic.
The space was cramped, barely four feet high. It forced both men to crouch as they moved to the only window. There were small ventilation openings on both sides of the small glass portal, as well as a larger one on the opposite side of the house, but the attic was still hot and stuffy. Cobwebs pockmarked the walls and hung from the rafters.
Moose edged himself up to the window and looked out. The view of the town was excellent; he had an unobstructed outlook on half the village, including a direct line of sight towards the target building.
“Camelot, Beowulf is in position. Turns out 1-3 was right; couldn’t ask for a better view. Setting up OP gear now. Over.”
Clumsy pulled the spotting scope Camelot team had leant them from his gear and sat it in front of the window. He leaned down to peer through the eye port and grinned.
“I see them. They’re alive, and they look pissed.”
Moose chuckled. “That’s always a good sign. Move over.” Clumsy rolled to the right and allowed Moose to slip in behind the scope.
Downrange, at 324 meters according to the built in laser range finder, Moose saw Chainsaw. He was sitting on his ass with shackles around his wrists and ankles. He did indeed look pissed. In the bottom left corner of the window, just an inch or two of dirty blonde hair showed above the windowsill. Lowball.
The two men had been stripped of their equipment, but appeared unharmed. Through the powerful magnifier Moose saw Chainsaw moving his lips, though he couldn’t make out what was being said.
“Camelot, Beowulf. I have eyes on friendlies. Appear healthy and happy. Over.” Moose released his mike and turned his eye back to the scope. “Okay, we found ‘em. Now we gotta get them out.”
Author's Note
Well, here it is. Tell me what you guys think in the comments, and please feel free to point out any errors you find above
