Action Force (non SF)

[captcalhoun]

Helmand, Afghanistan
Six months ago

The six-man SAS team jumped down from the deuce-and-a-half truck and carefully moved up to the entrance of the cave. A local tribesman had informed a patrol that Taliban fighters were using the caves as a base.

Major Vaughn used hand signals to direct the other five troopers into position. Another signal and they threw flash-bangs into the cave. As the thunderous boom echoed in the dark, Vaughn and another trooper leaped into the cave, UMP sub-machine guns at the ready.

The cave held no Taliban fighters, but it wasn’t empty. Several crates were piled up along one side, while a radio rested on a rickety looking table. A smaller cave was visible through a hole at the rear. Another flash-bang was tossed in and then Vaughn’s partner jumped in.

“Clear.” The soldier relaxed somewhat. “More crates.”

“Move in,” Vaughn called to the four troopers waiting outside. His terse tone was matched by the growl he called speech.

The squad’s bomb disposal expert began checking the crates carefully. More properly known as explosives ordinance disposal, bomb disposal was a career with a bright future in this country.

“Nothing, no trip-wires, no motion sensors, nothing,” he reported after a moment.

“Open one up, Saunders,” the major ordered. The trooper pulled out his combat knife and pried the lid off a crate.

The soldier whistled in amazement. “Wow, check this out.”

Inside were large quantities of drugs.

“That’s a hell of a stash,” Saunders commented. “Got to be worth a couple hundred grand on the street.”

At Vaughn’s direction, the troops opened the other crates, finding a large sum of money in American dollars, Japanese Yen and Euros, as well as several assault rifles, a few sub-machine guns and a lot of ammo. Another crate contained several fake passports and other identity cards from a variety of nations.

“Take it out to the truck,” Vaughn ordered. “No sense leaving it here. Deny the enemy materiel and the means to acquire more. Good job lads.”

Once the crates were secure, Vaughn faced his men. “Good work,” he repeated. “It’s a shame to say goodbye. I’ve enjoyed working with you.”

Confused looks greeted his pronouncement.

Vaughn flicked the safety off his UMP, raised it and fired a long burst. Three of the SAS troopers fell before they could even react. A fourth tried to leap behind the truck but was hit in the face. The fifth tried to raise his own weapon before Vaughn shot him in the chest.

Vaughn put the safety back on, changed the magazine in his sub-machine gun and then calmly got into the truck and drove away.

Lying on the dirt, SAS sergeant Mark Floyd struggled to breathe. He managed to pull out his radio. His chest was on fire. He knew he was probably dying. He activated the radio.

“Sabre Two-Six.” He broke off, coughing. “Betrayed… Vaughn… Need Medevac…” He coughed again and dropped the radio.

Camp Bastion

“Sir, I’ve just received a brief transmission, no authentication signal, from Sabre Two-Six,” one of the radio operators reported.

“Say again?” asked the officer in the room.

“Transmission from Sabre Two-Six, sir. No authentication.”

The officer frowned. “What did it say?”

“ ‘Sabre Two-Six, betrayed, Vaughn, need Medevac.’”

“Who the hell are Sabre Two-Six?” the officer wondered.

He turned toward a lance corporal who’d just entered. “You, corporal, run over to the special ops guys and ask them if they know a unit call-sign ‘sabre two-six’.”

“Sir!” the non-com ran out the tent as the officer turned to another radio operator.

“Corporal, call over to the air wing and get them to scramble a Chinook for a possible Medevac. I think Major Campbell’s team should be ready to back them up if needed.”

“Yessir.”

Germany
Today

The branch of Metzler Bank was quiet at ten thirty. The few customers were being served with typical Germanic speed and efficiency as the business world continued to struggle in the economic crisis gripping the industrialised nations.

It seemed like any other day until the doors crashed open and armed men poured in the doors. The customers and staff screamed in terror as two of the red-clad figures fired bursts of bullets into the ceiling.

“No one move!” the figure leading the charge shouted in German. “Stay where you are!”

One of the red clad men on the right snapped, “Move away from the alarm, fraulien!”

When the woman didn’t move, the man simply shot her.

The bank supervisor, Heinrich Muller couldn’t believe the gunman could be so callous. As he watched terrified, the group of gunmen parted and another man, this one wearing a white jumpsuit, emblazoned with a skull and crossbones design, and an odd looking black helmet stepped forward.

“You overstep your orders, Kurt,” the man in white said.

The red-clad man turned toward him, straightening to attention.

“She was going for the silent alarm, Herr Baron,” Kurt replied.

“That doesn’t matter, Kurt. I told everyone that.” With that, the man addressed as ‘Baron’ drew a pistol from his own belt and shot the gunman in the head.

As the gunman collapsed, dead, to the floor, the tension in the air seemed to thicken to Heinrich.

The Baron turned to his fellows, “Landline,” he said in English. “Come here.”

The gunmen parted once more. Stepping forward, slightly reluctantly, was a man in a different outfit.

Heinrich noted that most of the gunmen, in their red helmets, long red coats and black boots looked like soldiers. This man, apparently known as ‘Landline’, was dressed in black ‘cargo pants’ as the Americans called them, black sports shoes and a red t-shirt with the same insignia that the Baron wore on the chest. Landline wasn’t wearing a helmet, instead he wore a red scarf across his mouth and nose, like some old-fashioned Baader-Meinhoff member, and spectacles.

“Get to work, Landline,” the Baron ordered.

Landline took off a backpack and removed a laptop. He quickly set it up on the counter-top and began work. Heinrich couldn’t see what he was doing, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be anything good.

“Firewall’s bypassed,” he announced after minute or two. “Searching for the accounts you specified.”

That definitely wasn’t good, Heinrich realised.

“Okay,” Landline announced five minutes later. “Got the account numbers. Transferring the money now.”

“You broke in here and shot that poor woman just to hack the accounts?” Heinrich blurted out. “Why?”

The Baron turned toward him, flinty eyes glowered from the helmet pitilessly. “Because your bank’s security is easier to penetrate when my hacker here can access your wi-fi network directly, without having to in through hard lines and your internet security.”

Heinrich swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit as the Baron continued to stare at him.

Sirens suddenly sounded in the streets outside.

“Baron!” called one of the soldiers near the doors. “The police are here!”

“How long?” the Baron asked Landline.

“Five more minutes, tops,” Landline answered, tension in his voice.

The Baron removed a small radio from his belt. “Red Jackal, this is the Baron. The polizei have arrived. Provide us with our exit, please.”

“En route,” Heinrich heard the other person answer.

Heinrich turned toward the wide windows at the front of the bank as the police cars from the local police arrived. As the vehicles skidded to a halt and blocked the road, the Baron turned toward the soldiers at the doors.

“Cover fire, please, gentlemen.”

The four soldiers immediately raised their weapons and fired long bursts into the police cars. The cars windows shattered, the tyres burst, the engines were torn apart. The police were killed.

Suddenly loud engines could be heard roaring down the street. Then, Heinrich watched in astonishment as four six-wheeled vehicles, each armed with two large machine guns, crashed through the shattered police cars and pulled up outside.

The Baron checked his watch. “Landline?”

“Ninety seconds, Baron. Last transaction’s going through now.”

The Baron turned to the soldiers. “You four, remain here with me and Landline. The rest of you, join Red Jackal in the Shadowtraks and prepare for our departure.”

Eight of the gunmen darted outside and leaped aboard the vehicles, Shadowtraks apparently, and took up positions ready to fire.

Heinrich stared at the dead soldier. The Baron looked at him and then followed his gaze.

The Baron turned to one of the remaining soldiers. “Luke, kindly collect our garbage. It wouldn’t do to leave it behind. Landline?”

“Shutting down, now, Baron. Mission accomplished.” Landline folded his laptop closed and shoved it back in his backpack.

“Good work, Landline. Let’s go.”

The three unencumbered gunmen led the way out the doors. The Baron and Landline following, whilst Luke, the dead body of Kurt over his shoulder, brought up the rear.

They boarded the vehicles and sped off as Heinrich, to his shame, lost control of his bladder.

Central United States
Exact location classified
One week later

Most people these days know about Guantanamo Bay, and the terrorist detention facility there. Some have even heard of Fort Leavenworth, the military prison in Kansas. No one outside of the US military has heard of Camp Zulu. Zulu is used to house prisoners that the American government doesn’t even know it’s detaining.

Located in the middle of nowhere, the camp looked like a small farm of some kind. The barns, however, were the cellblocks, and the large farmhouse was actually the guard barracks.

The camp’s key defence was its secrecy and its out of the way location.

When those were blown, so were most of its hopes of surviving any kind of attack.

Baron Ironblood watched the camp from the road overlooking the ‘farm’, nestled in a small valley. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to midnight. He turned to look up at his armoured group commander, Red Wolf.

“It’s time, Red Wolf,” Ironblood intoned in his accented English. “Move out.”

“At once, Baron,” Red Wolf replied.

The soldier ducked inside the turret of his Hyena tank and the engine roared to life seconds later.

Ironblood stepped clear as four of the blood-red coloured tanks sped down the hill. They were followed by four Shadowtraks. A fifth Shadowtrak pulled up next to Ironblood. The Baron climbed into the assault vehicle next to Red Jackal.

“Hold position here, Jackal.”

“Yes, Baron.”

Ironblood lifted his binoculars once more.

The Hyenas sped straight toward the camp. The flimsy razor-wire fence was easily bypassed by the tanks.

Inside the lead Hyena, Red Wolf took over the controls of the twin 20mm machine guns mounted on the turret.

“Firing,” he announced quietly before suited deed to word.

The bullets ripped through the wooden farmhouse. Several of the camp guards were shredded by the machine gun fire before they even knew what had happened.

Inside the control centre, disguised as a stable block, the duty officer hit the alarms and the searchlights. Then he grabbed the landline to the nearest military base.

Outside, two of the Hyenas traversed their turrets toward the stable and opened fire. Red Wolf was still hosing the farmhouse with automatic fire, while the fourth Hyena had dashed back to the metal gates and smashed through them. The four Shadowtraks raced into the camp. Two men alighted from one of the vehicles as the others dashed toward the barns.

Atop the hill, Ironblood watched, his satisfied smile hidden behind his black helmet as he watched Shrapnel, his army’s most skilled grenadier, unsling an M-203 grenade launcher and fire a 20mm high-explosive grenade into the stables. Shrapnel then snapped open the launcher, slapped in another grenade from the bandolier across his chest, and fired into the building again.

Next to him, his partner Bombshell was looking at the building with a set of night-vision goggles. “Looks clear,” Bombshell announced.

The roar of engines split the air and Bombshell turned toward the noise.

“Two Humvees,” he reported. “Perimeter patrol.”

The burly dark-skinned man stepped away from his partner, flipped up the goggles and hefted the FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank rocket launcher he carried. In seconds, Bombshell locked on to the lead Humvee and fired the first rocket. It hissed as it shot away from the launch tube into the air. Then the rocket motor ignited with a roar. The warhead was thrust into the air, arced over and dove into the top of the jeep. The resultant explosion shredded the vehicle, killing the soldiers inside instantly.

The second Humvee was following too closely to avoid the wreck. It slammed into the burning vehicle at speed.

“Allow me,” Shrapnel said, loading a fresh grenade. “Save the eighty grand one of those suckers costs.”

Bombshell grunted in acknowledgement. Shrapnel fired the grenade into the crashed Humvee.

Over at the barn, the Red Shadows that had dismounted from the Shadowtraks were facing gunfire from inside the large buildings as the guards defended themselves.

Bombshell walked over to the Shadowtrak he’d driven and swapped the Javelin for a Russian RPG-29. He loaded the launcher and then fired the rocket-propelled grenade into the barn doors. The explosion tore the doors away, and one of the Hyenas advanced and sprayed bullets into the barn.

As Ironblood’s Shadowtrak entered the farmyard, the Red Shadows were dashing into the barn. Moments later, four returned, escorting a dishevelled looking brown-haired man.

Ironblood looked him over.

“Jovo Mladic?” Ironblood asked.

“Yes?” Mladic replied in a thick Serbian accent.

“I understand you are an excellent sniper. Would you be interested in joining my organisation?”

Mladic regarded the Baron steadily. “If I refuse?”

“We’ll leave you here, with no vehicle and American troops no doubt on their way.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Generous.”

“Who do you want me to kill?”

“My enemies.”

Mladic shrugged. “Alright.”

“Capital,” Ironblood said. “Welcome aboard. Oh, one thing.”

“What?”

“Your name. You are now known as ‘Kill Shot’. You no longer answer to Jovo Mladic. Clear?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“My name is Baron Ironblood.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

The newly named Kill Shot climbed into Ironblood’s Shadowtrak. “Got a drink?”

Red Jackal smiled and handed over a bottle of cheap vodka.

“Thanks. Haven’t had drink in ten years since NATO caught me.”

“Why were you in there?” Red Jackal asked.

“I was responsible for killing a number of Croat and Muslim leaders during the war. I also shot and killed some UN peacekeepers. I also killed some American troops when NATO entered Kosovo in ’99. A SEAL team captured me.”

“Good shot are you?”

“Every person I hit between the eyes from distances over seven hundred metres.”

Red Jackal looked suitably impressed.

“Enough chatter,” Ironblood commanded. “Move out.”

“At once, Baron.”

 

[captcalhoun]

Nuclear weapons disposal facility
Russia
Two weeks later

The facility was going about routine business, dismantling the warheads of Russia’s outdated ballistic missiles. It was a normal day.

Until four strange aircraft screamed over the sprawling complex at high speed and low altitude.

If Private Georgi Petrov were to describe them, he decided the easiest description would be ‘looking like a skull between the wings of a TIE fighter in that American movie Star Wars.’

As the young soldier watched, the aircraft split into pairs and looped around, back toward the base. He could see what looked like engine pods positioned at each end of the vertical panels. The panels were rotating as he watched, finally ending at a forty-five degree angle. The four skull craft slowed down, and then hovered in the sky overhead. They looked like something out of a horror movie. As he ran toward the command post, he heard the crackle of automatic weapons fire. Off to his right, one of the watchtowers at the gate was shredded by the bullets. The second followed seconds later.

Georgi Petrov reached the door to the CP as the colonel came out.

“Petrov! What the hell’s going on?” the colonel demanded.

“Look!” Petrov cried, terror lacing his voice, “Up there!”

The colonel turned from the clearly agitated soldier to look up as the four red skull craft began to slowly drift across the facility, spraying gunfire into buildings.

“What in the…?” the colonel gasped.

After a moment, the officer dashed into the CP. “Gorski, get on the radio, call the Air Force and tell them we’re under attack from unidentified aircraft! Get some MiGs out here fast!”

The colonel then grabbed another radio set. “This is Colonel Brekhov, get the Strelas out and shoot those bastards down!”

Outside, Petrov’s attention was drawn away from the strange aircraft when he heard the sound of approaching tanks.

He turned toward the gates just in time to see a blood red tank with two guns on its turret crash through them.

The turret turned and sprayed the CP building with automatic gunfire. Petrov managed to recover his senses and fired back at the tank with his AK-74.

The bullets bounced off the tank’s armour.

The tank ignored his counter attack, such as it was, and sped forward, deeper into the complex.

Seconds later, three more of the red tanks raced through the broken gates, followed by several large six-wheeled vehicles Petrov didn’t recognise.

The enlisted soldier did his duty, raising his rifle once more and opened fire at the lead vehicle.

A soldier in a red uniform the private hadn’t seen before stood up, levelled an AK-47 at him and fired.

The Red Shadow trooper leapt down from the Shadowtrak and hurried toward the burning command post. Ignoring the dead soldier, the trooper leaned through the door, then pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it inside before running back to the Shadowtrak.

The grenade detonated as the soldier swung himself back into the vehicle.

The Shadowtrak was now the last vehicle in the column as they sped into the centre of the complex.

In the Shadowtrak that was now trailing the Hyena tanks, Baron Ironblood looked up at the four Roboskulls as they cruised overhead.

Smiling behind his helmet, Ironblood turned to his right-hand man.

“Major, remind me to complement Red Condor when we return to base. His unit has performed well.”

“Yes, Baron,” replied the man in the black uniform.

The convoy of vehicles arrived at the large warehouse where the warheads were being stored prior to dismantling.

Ironblood and the Major got out of their Shadowtrak, with Red Jackal close behind. The Red Shadows had dispersed through the building under Red Wolf’s command, securing the area.

“Secure two warheads for transport, Major,” Ironblood ordered. “I want to be back in Algeria by tomorrow.”

“Yes, Baron.”

The Major began issuing instructions to the Red Shadow troops, whilst Ironblood and Red Jackal watched.

“He’s been a valuable addition to our cause, Baron,” Jackal commented.

Ironblood turned toward him. “Indeed. However, you are still unconvinced as to his loyalties, aren’t you?”

Jackal looked down. “Yes, Baron.”

“He will prove himself when we begin the next phase next month. Or, he will die.”

Jackal nodded. “Yes, Baron.”

A Red Shadow carrying a radio ran up, “Message from Red Condor, Baron. He reports radar has detected multiple Russian jets inbound.”

Ironblood took the radio. “Red Condor, you may engage at will.”

“At once, Baron,” Condor replied.

Overhead, the four Roboskulls streaked away at high speed.

Red Condor was an old man for a combat pilot. Nearly sixty, he’d fought in Vietnam before leaving the US Air Force shortly after the fall of Saigon. He’d joined a group of pilots who left American service and become mercenaries. During the 1980s they’d been employed by Saddam Hussein during the Iran-Iraq War. He’d ended up sitting out the Gulf War in ’91 in Iran. Finally getting out of that country, he’d then been employed by the Serbs to fly for them in the Balkans War.

After 9/11, Condor had returned to America. The Baron had found him in a bar in Louisiana. Tempted by a large payday and the promise of training pilots to fly a new type of aircraft, Condor had eagerly signed on.

Now, as he checked his radar, he saw four MiGs inbound. He flipped a switch, activating the experimental laser detection and ranging gear, or LADAR, that the Baron had had his scientists develop. The battle computer then compared the LADAR snapshot with its database and identified the MiGs as Fulcrum-D MiG-29s. They were the most advanced and deadliest of the MiG-29s.

Condor activated his radio. “This is Red Condor, switch to helmet-mounted sights and use your missiles. Fire one missile only.”

The other three pilots acknowledged the order with terse repetition of their flight number, two, three and four.

Following his own order, Condor flipped the monocle targeting system down in front of his eye and locked on to one of the onrushing MiGs. He switched from his 20mm guns to the missiles mounted on the wing-panels and fired.

Seconds later, the other three Roboskulls opened fire as well. The missiles streaked across the sky toward the fighter jets. The MiGs immediately began evasive manoeuvres and fired chaff and flares. The counter-measures did little good. The missile Condor had fired flashed through the cloud of metal foil and turned to follow the Fulcrum it was chasing, ignoring the burning flares. The missile detonated several feet from the left wing. Metal shards shattered the wing, sending the plane into a spinning dive. The pilot ejected as the aircraft plummeted ground-ward.

Two more of the MiGs fell to the Roboskulls’ missiles. The fourth managed to evade the missile by accelerating past the strange-looking aircraft and out of the pilot’s sight.

The Russian pilot threw his fighter into a tight, high-G turn, grunting with exertion as he brought the plane around, locked on with his infra-red seeker, and fired an AA-11 Archer heat-seeking missile.

The short-range missile quickly covered the distance to the closest Roboskull and detonated next to its wing panel. The explosion sent red-hot fragments into the aircraft’s engine nacelles and the other missile on its pylon. The engines and missile exploded, ripping the wing-panel off and sent the Roboskull into a dive.

Condor had learned to fly helicopters during his mercenary days. It was one of the reasons Ironblood had sought him out as an instructor. He knew how to steer the aircraft in ways no plane could match.

Condor rotated his wings, slewing the Roboskull around on its axis, lined up his machine guns and opened fire as the MiG-29 raced toward him.

Twenty millimetre bullets tore through the cockpit canopy, the engines and the tail fins as the Fulcrum shot past.

The pilot was riddled with bullets, the engines exploded and the high-tech jet plunged toward the ground trailing fire and smoke.

NATO Headquarters
Brussels, Belgium
Three weeks later

Brigadier Keith Nichol sat at the back of the room, watching as the North Atlantic Council, NATO’s principal political body, discussed an item left over from the previous meeting.

Finally, the Secretary-General called him forward.

“Brigadier Nichol is here to brief us on a proposal for dealing with the new terrorist threat, that has emerged,” the Secretary-General announced. “Brigadier?”

“Good morning. As you are all aware, six weeks ago a group of gunmen entered a German bank and launched a cyber-attack, stealing 16 million Euros from a number of accounts. One week later, the group, led by a man identified only as ‘Baron Ironblood’, attacked an American facility, killing a number of soldiers present. Two weeks ago, they’re believed to have attacked a Russian base, possibly a nuclear facility, but the Russians are admitting nothing. There have been three attacks since, including an attempt to free prisoners held in Belmarsh prison in London, an attack on a French naval yard and a battle between Polish troops and the gunmen at an airfield.

“In each instance, the group has exhibited an excellent grasp of tactics, heavy firepower, including armour and air support, and killed several people. I know that the governments of several member states are clamouring for action. I am here to propose a means to carry out such action.” Nichol paused and cleared his throat. No one interrupted.

“My proposal is simple; the formation of a military task-force to take action directly against this group. A task-force of soldiers, sailors and airmen recruited from all member nations and empowered by this body to take whatever action is needed to locate and capture this terrorist and his group.”

Nichol went on to outline the form this task force should take; four specific sub-groups to handle covert ops, maritime action, air support and armour, artillery and airmobility. Each member to be a veteran NCO or junior officer specialised in a set task, the entire group forming a NATO special army.

It took another two hours for the council to agree, particularly since France insisted the group not be under American command. America’s representative wasn’t happy about that, but the German, Polish and Belgian delegates agreed. Nichol was appointed force commander. The group was given the temporary code-name ‘Action Force’.

 

[captcalhoun]

Calw, Germany
Headquarters of the Kommando Spezialkrafte

Major Grant Campbell, 2nd Battalion the Parachute Regiment, wondered yet again why his leave had been cancelled at short notice and he’d been sent here, the home of Germany’s equivalent of the SAS.

He’d arrived a few minutes earlier and been escorted to a briefing room by an eager-looking young soldier. The sign next to the door informed Campbell that it was ‘Briefing Room A’ in German.

Glancing once more at his escort, Campbell opened the door and went in.

Sitting in the room’s ample rows of seats were three other officers. Campbell looked them over. One was a Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander. Oddly, he wore both a submariner’s dolphins and a surface officer’s insignia.

Two rows behind him and on the other side of the room sat a man wearing the uniform of a Captain in the Rifles. He didn’t have any insignia other than the regimental badge and his pips. Campbell guessed he was actually SAS.

The third man was sitting in the middle of the back row and wore a US Air Force officer’s uniform. He was a Major as well. His name badge indicated he was ‘Connors’.

“Mornin’,” Campbell said in his strong Scottish accent. “Any know what’s goin’ on?”

“Not a clue,” the American answered.

“Not me,” replied the Navy officer in a strong Welsh accent.

“Damned if I know,” replied the captain. He was English.

Campbell took a seat and waited. He didn’t have long to wait.

The door at the other side of the room opened and two British officers walked in. Campbell leaped to his feet, “Attention!”

The other three officers stood and snapped to attention. The captain was the slowest.

“Sit down, sit down,” said the first officer in, irritably. He was a Brigadier.

The four officers sat. Next to the brigadier was a Major. Neither wore their best uniforms, instead they were wearing cammies.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Brigadier Keith Nichols. This is my aide, Major Francis Munro-Deighton.”

“Mornin’,” the Major interjected.

“Right, we’ll start with introductions. Our Navy friend here is Lieutenant Commander Gareth Morgan. He’s a submariner turned diver. He’s also been trained by the SBS and has spent time with the US Navy as well. Tours of duty include a hitch on board HMS Ocean when she evacuated civilians out of Lebanon a few years back.”

Morgan nodded politely.

“The American lurking in the back is Major Charles Connors, US Air Force. He’s an Eagle driver, specifically, the ‘Strike Eagle’ version. He’s served tours in Kosovo and Afghanistan.”

“Hi,” Connors said. “Call me ‘Chuck’.”

“The chap in the sanitised uniform over there is Captain Charles Buckingham of the SAS. Full service history is classified naturally, but needless to say he’s been to Iraq and Afghanistan as well as Sierra Leone and got a grab-bag of medals in the process.”

Buckingham nodded.

“Last, but not least, we have Major Grant Campbell, from 2 Para. Also got a bunch of medals and been on several tours in Afghanistan and was also in Sierra Leone.”

Nichols paused. “I take you two never met?” he asked looking between Campbell and Buckingham.

“Nope,” Campbell replied.

“Well, now we’ve got that out the way, let’s get down to business,” Nichols said, perching on the table at the front of the room.

“No doubt you’ve all heard about this terrorist group who attacked a German bank, an American secret base and Belmarsh prison in Britain. Well, they’re now being classed as the number one threat to NATO. As such, I’ve been put in charge of forming a unit to hunt them down. I want you four to lead the group.”

“Us four?” Connors asked.

“Yes. The unit’s being called ‘Action Force’ at the moment. The Major, here, and I are planning to create four squads in Action Force with a specific role. You, Major Connors, would lead the aerospace force.”

“Aerospace? You make it sound like we’ll have rocket-ships.” Connors snorted.

“Well, actually, MI-6 managed to get an agent inside this group some time back when it was still forming. That agent has provided only limited intel, but what we’ve been told leads us to think the leader, some guy calling himself ‘Baron Ironblood’, maybe pursuing space-launch capability. To that end, the US government has agreed to provide a pair of Boeing’s prototype X-78 single-stage-to-orbit space-planes. They’re also going to provide twelve of the new F/A-24s that Lockheed Martin are building. If you agree, Major, you’ll command that group.”

Connors looked surprised at the news and didn’t say anything.

Nichols turned to Morgan. “You, Commander, would be commanding our naval group. The Poles are going to provide four of their new two-man submersibles they’re developing.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up. “The ones that can do forty knots and have a hundred nautical mile range?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m in.”

Nichols smiled. “We’re also getting some fast-attack boats from the Italians. You’ll need to train up crew for them.”

“No problem.”

“What about us?” asked Campbell pointing at himself and Captain Buckingham.

“You, Major, are getting a promotion to lieutenant-colonel and command of the armour, artillery and airmobility unit. You’ll have a minimum of six tanks eventually, provided by Britain, at least two missile-tanks that the Americans are developing, as well as Eurocopter utility helos, GKN Westland attack copters as well as jeeps and motorbikes.”

“Okay,” Campbell answered.

“Captain, you’ll be promoted to Major and command of a commando assault team. A platoon size element of sneaky buggers who can get in and get out without being seen.”

“I’m in,” Buckingham said.

Nichols looked at Connors.

“Alright,” the American said. “I’m in.”

“Good. We’ve already got a few volunteers coming in a few days for selection. It’ll be up to you four to devise how you’re going to select personnel. We’ll mostly be based here, for the time being, but pilot selection’s largely going to be handled at Ramstein since you’ll have simulators there to use.” Nichols stood up.

“Welcome to Action Force, gentlemen.”

The four officers stood and saluted. Nichols returned the salute.

“The Major here will provide you with further information, I’ve got to get to a meeting in Belgium. I’ll see you when the first volunteers arrive.”

Nichols left the room.

Major Munro-Deighton looked them over. “Okay, who wants to tell me what they need first?”

A C-130 Hercules transport
Orbiting over KSK HQ
Five days later

Major Buckingham stood at the front of the plane’s cargo hold, looking at the men he was commanding. Two days ago, his first exercise had begun. There had been a hundred and twenty volunteers for his group. Now, there were forty. Half the group had been washed out on the first test, which had required the troops to score 98% accuracy at 300m with a G-36 assault rifle.

Another twenty had failed to make the grade on a pair of timed exercises, storming a train carriage in twenty seconds or less and storming a simulation of a freighter in two minutes. This was the third parachute jump. The soldiers needed to land within thirty feet of the target mark to qualify. At the plane’s rear, a Belgian paratrooper was conversing with the transport’s loadmaster. The Belgian was leading the way in this exercise. Buckingham had thus made him jumpmaster for the final two jumps.

“One minute!” the Belgian hollered over the roar of the turbo-props.

The soldiers stood and checked each other’s parachutes, before the Belgian, Sergeant Peter Van der Berg, checked them again.

“Ten seconds!” shouted the loadmaster, as the rear ramp whined down. The plane got even colder as the wind whipped in. The dark sky outside was visible beyond the plane’s tail.

“GO! GO! GO!”

Buckingham watched as the commandos raced off the ramp, Van der Berg bringing up the rear. Then Buckingham followed him.

Captain Buckingham enjoyed the sensation of freefall for a few seconds, before pulling his ripcord. The others continued to drop through the darkness without deploying their chutes for a little longer. Finally, they deployed and began floating down toward the landing zone, which was marked by blinking strobe lights.

Buckingham steered his parachute around in a circle, watching as the soldiers slowly landed. Van der Berg had managed to land squarely in the centre of the LZ. The others were scattered around him.

Buckingham steered his chute into a clear area and landed fairly smoothly. Another nighttime jump and he’d be washing out another dozen or so candidates, he decided.

Ramstein Air Force Base
Germany
The next day

Major Connors stood in the control room at the simulator centre at Ramstein AFB. He chewed his thumbnail as he watched the monitors displaying the current exercise he was running his twelve candidates through.

The pilots had been split into two groups of six. Each group consisted of three ‘interceptors’ flying the F-15C and three attack pilots flying the E-model.

The ‘blue’ group had to stop the ‘red’ group from destroying a bridge across a river, whilst also attempting to destroy a tank laager, which the ‘red’ group was defending.

Connors watched as two of the pilots, a Canadian and a Norwegian, flying the E-model F-15 dashed toward the tank laager that was their target.

Two of the red force F-15Cs dived out of the sky toward them and opened fire with their Sparrow missiles.

The attackers broke away, popping chaff as they fled.

The defenders chased after them.

Then the third blue force F-15E screamed over the laager at low-level and super-sonic speed, dropped a number of cluster bombs, and exited the area before the red force could respond.

The simulated tank laager exploded into a shower of pixelated debris. Connors smiled. The third F-15E, which was now decelerating and turning around for a second pass over the area, was being flown by one of the three best pilots in this group. Brian Windsor, a British RAF Tornado pilot, was beating out the two American pilots in the group.

Connors turned his attention to the displays showing the three blue F-15Cs, if they were able to fend off the attacking F-15Es from the red force, they would win this exercise.

Connors was putting the pilots through the wringer, having them run simulations against helicopters, bombers, enemy interceptors; both in intercept and attack missions. Windsor was the best, so far, but he had stiff competition from Tariq El Shafei, an Arab-born American who’d recently completed shuttle pilot training with NASA. The pair were easily head and shoulders above most of the other candidates.

The major watched as the exercise continued to unfold. He’d be putting the pilots through live-fire exercises in a few days time, running simulated attack exercises against dummy tanks, triple-A and even a few dummy ships out in the North Sea, but Connors was sure Windsor and El Shafei would be his first two pilot recruits.

 

[captcalhoun]

Eastern Germany
Armoured warfare training centre
The same day

Lieutenant Colonel Campbell raised the binoculars to his eyes once more as the German Army helicopter hovered over the tanks. The group of three tanks fired in near-unison at the targets. The shells slammed into the decrepit old vehicles, splattering yellow paint over them.

“Not bad,” Campbell muttered. The three tanks then raced off, heading for the next waypoint they had to reach. The helicopter followed.

He’d already overseen exercises for six candidate snipers and put three volunteers for the job of Explosives Ordinance Disposal, or EOD, through their paces. Now, he was running his second group of tank crews through their third exercise.

The Greek crew were speeding in front of the Portuguese and Italian crews. The helicopter zigzagged above the three Leopard II tanks as they raced into a fake village.

Campbell watched as they darted along two streets, the Greek crew evading a jeep armed with an anti-tank rocket, which scored a hit on the Italian tank. These guys, he mused to himself, were nearly as good as the American Marine crew who’d been in the first group. The lieutenant commanding the Greek crew, one Andreou Stalkis of the Hellenic Army’s 1st Armoured Calvary, seemed to know his stuff. They weren’t quite as good as the British crew from the Desert Rats, who’d aced the selection course in group one…

As the three tanks accelerated out of the dummy village, a German Tiger attack helicopter, armed with paint-warhead missiles, popped up from behind a nearby copse and fired.

The Greek tank was going to fast to get hit, but as Campbell watched, the Portuguese tank was hit by two of the pigment warheads. The Italian tank narrowly avoided the third missile, but was hit by the fourth.

Campbell sighed and activated his radio.

“Group Two, exercise leader, endex, endex, endex. Tanks 1 and 3 are classed as killed. Tank 2, you’re the winner.”

The anti-tank helicopter had finished off the French crew in the first group.

Two more of these exercises and then he was going to be dealing with the first group of candidates for the helicopter company…

Hamburg, Germany
The same day

Lieutenant Commander Morgan watched as the six prospective candidates for his diving squad suited up at the harbour side. Each wore a high-visibility yellow wetsuit, closed-circuit underwater breathing apparatus, or CCUBA, and had flippers and gloves to don as well.

“All right, boyos,” Morgan said. “Here’s the deal. That German warship’s been sabotaged, right?” He pointed to a frigate sitting nearby.

“Limpet mines attached to the hull. Each of you will have three minutes to swim out there and locate and remove a mine.”

Morgan pulled out several pieces of paper and shuffled them in his hands. “Random pick of who goes where, okay?”

The naval officer handed out the pieces of paper. The group consisted of three Americans, two Brits and a German. The two Brits, Jamie Maclaren and Peter Ford were leading the exercises, with Mike Turner, one of the three US Navy SEALs in third.

Each diver took the sheet of paper, read the message on it and then stuffed it into a see-through pouch on their sleeve. In rapid succession, they put in their mouthpieces, pulled on their goggles and then stepped off the pier into the murky water.

Morgan pulled his sleeve back and started his wristwatch’s stopwatch.

Morgan sighed as he waited. No way was the German kampfschwimmer going to get selected. He’d proved to be no match for the SBS frogman Ford, the Navy diver Maclaren or the American SEAL commandos. Turner was easily the best of those three. The two Danish divers weren’t any better.

He checked his watch. Ninety seconds gone.

Morgan bounced on his heels and whistled though his teeth. On the two-minute mark, Maclaren and Ford surfaced and began to swim across to the dock wall. Ten seconds later, Turner surfaced. Right on the two-minute twenty mark, the second American surfaced.

The Danes appeared just after the three-minute mark. The German arrived after them.

Morgan waited for them to climb out of the water.

As the divers all pulled off their masks and wetsuit hoods, he spoke.

“Larsen and Petersen, you’ve failed too many exercises. You’re out. Hauser, you’ve got two more exercises before I scrub you. Lake, you need to improve as well.”

One week later
KSK HQ

Brigadier Nichols returned the salute of the four officers as he entered the briefing room once more.

“At ease, gentlemen. I have some news for you. First of all, the agent the British have inside Ironblood’s organisation has managed to get out another report. Ironblood knows NATO has something in progress aimed at thwarting him. It seems he has his own intelligence operatives. As such, it’s necessary, for the sake of your families and ourselves that we adopt code-names. No more real names, particularly in public.”

The Brigadier looked at them, waiting for a response.

“We’ve got to use aliases?” asked Campbell.

“No, something completely different. From now on, I am simply ‘The Commander’. My aide is now ‘Major Flagg’. It’s up to you to pick your own code-names,” The Commander replied.

“Call me ‘Skip’,” Campbell said.

“I’m ‘Eagle’,” Buckingham chipped in.

“Damn, Charles,” Connors said. “I was going to use that.”

“I’ll go with ‘Dolphin’,” Morgan said.

“Fine, call me ‘Sky Raider’,” Connors said.

“Good, glad that’s settled. You better tell the rest of your men. Show them in.”

Eagle went to the door and called in the men outside.

The Commander returned the salutes the soldiers offered.

“Alright, for security reasons, you’re going to have to leave behind your real names. Each of you needs to choose a code-name to identify yourself with. Try not to pick something you’ll regret.”

“A code-name?” asked the German commando Eagle had recruited. “You mean like in a comic-book?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Call me ‘Leviathan’,” announced Jamie Maclaren.

“I’m ‘Undertow’,” announced Ford.

“I choose ‘Fathom’,” said Turner the third of the divers.

“You can call me ‘Spitfire’,” said Brian Windsor, an RAF Flight Lieutenant.

“I’m going with ‘Moon Dancer’,” said Tariq El Shafei.

“Blades,” said one of the three helicopter pilots Skip had selected.

One by one, the others added their chosen code-names, Trax, a British tank commander; Saxon and Warrior his driver and gunner; Jarhead, a US Marine tank commander; Powertrain and Muzzle his driver and gunner; Sandstorm, an SAS desert warfare expert; Tracker, a Spanish recon specialist; Chopper, another helicopter pilot; Whirl, a British helicopter pilot; Sabre, an SAS trooper; Sparrowhawk, the Belgian HALO expert; Steeler, the Greek tank commander; Spartan and Trojan his driver and gunner; Playback, the German KSK radio expert; Beaver, a Canadian swimmer-canoeist from JTF-2 and Sureshot and Bolt, a pair of snipers.

“Right, the other thing is, we need names for the four groups,” the Commander said.

“We’ve discussed that,” Dolphin said. “I’m calling my group ‘Q Force’.”

“I’m leading Z Force,” Skip announced.

“So we don’t get muddled up with any local air support, I’m calling my group ‘Aerospace Force’,” Sky Raider said.

“Yeah, well, you need more pilots in your space force, mate,” Skip laughed.

“Not my fault the rest didn’t make the grade.”

“True,” interjected the Commander. “But Skip’s got a point.”

“What about you, Eagle,” asked Dolphin. “What’s your team called?”

“SAS. My group’s made up of people who are either in the SAS or an SAS-modelled group, so that’s what I’m going for.”

Sky Raider snorted derisively.

“Now, the other news I have is very important. More volunteers are coming. You can get them started on selection. There’s been another attack in Russia. Ironblood’s right-hand man, this guy they’re calling ‘the Black Major’, led an attack on a Gazprom pipeline and demanded a couple of million dollars not to slag it. The company tried to negotiate, but it was a ruse to allow a Spetsnaz team to move in. They were the one’s who got slagged. Russia’s now hopping mad and called a UN Security Council meeting. They might know about AF, so I’ve been told to attend the meeting by NATO. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Three days later

The Commander called Eagle, Skip, Dolphin and Sky Raider in to his office. The four had left their senior NCOs in charge of the selection process. Major Flagg was already present.

“News from the UN, gentlemen,” the Commander said. “The UN has passed an emergency resolution. Resolution 7833, passed with backing from Russia, China, the US, UK, Australia, Japan, South Africa, Argentina and France authorises the NATO military task-group codename ‘Action Force’ to operate in any nation world wide in pursuit of the terrorist organisation known as the Red Shadows and their leader ‘Baron Ironblood’. The resolution also enables us to operate without notification of a government if such notification may threaten operational security, but must be given within three hours of commencement of operations. Resolution 7834 followed that, stipulating that Action Force selection should be open to volunteers from any nation, NATO member or not.”

The four officers exchanged glances.

“Wow,” Skip commented. “We’ve got a license to go any where?”

“Indeed. Try not to abuse it, though, Colonel.”

“Aye, sir.”

“We’re getting candidates from Russia?” Eagle asked.

“Possibly.” The Commander nodded. “We might also get some from South Korea, Japan, Sweden, Oman, China and Australia. I’ve spoken to some defence officials from all of those countries.”

“That’s going to play merry hell with security, sir,” Eagle commented.

“I’m sorry, but that’s something you lot are going to have to sort out. If need be, put them through preliminary tests of some kind before you allow them near the sensitive kit.” The Commander sighed. “I don’t particularly like it, either.”

Ramstein Air Force Base
The next day

Whirl leaned against the nose of his Eurocopter Bobcat helicopter, fiddling with his red beret and its black Z badge. Skip had ordered the badge’s creation and issued them to all Z-Force troops, along with red berets. Next to Whirl, Chopper was leaning with his arms folded across his chest and chewing gum. Blades was pacing back and forth in front of the three Bobcat helicopters they’d flown from Calw.

“So,” Whirl suddenly said. “What’d you think of the helo?”

“Not bad,” Chopper commented. “I prefer something with a few anti-tank missiles hanging on it though.”

Whirl grunted. “I quite like it. Not as fast as the Lynx, but decent enough.”

“You flew Lynxes?” Chopper asked.

“Yeah, up ‘til about four years ago, when I switched to the Apache. What’d you fly?”

“Apaches, both of us,” Chopper said, waving languidly in Blades’ direction. “We served together in the first of the two-twenty-seventh Aviation Regiment.”

“Oh, right.”

Before they could continue the conversation, the rumble of engines filled the air. Lumbering out of the sky was a massive Russian Air Force IL-76 transport plane.

The three pilots watched as the plane landed and rolled down the runway before taxiing off on to the parking area. Whirl pulled his beret back on.

“Come on. Better go and greet them.”

Blades and Chopper exchanged glances and then followed him.

When the trio reached the massive plane’s rear cargo ramp, it was already down and a Russian Army colonel was barking orders at the soldiers on board. Whirl walked up to the colonel and saluted.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Whirl said, hoping like hell the guy spoke English.

The colonel turned toward him. Saluting quickly, the colonel asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Whirl, sir, helicopter pilot with Action Force. We’re here to collect your men and take them on to Calw,” the pilot replied, pronouncing the German name as ‘calf’.

“I am Colonel Alexei Sergeivitch Ivanov. I am here to supervise the candidates and act as translator.”

“Translator?” Whirl asked. “Sir, Action Force requires all personnel to be fluent in English.”

Ivanov frowned. “I’ve got a hundred men here, to try out for this group and you’re telling me seventy of them are ineligible, simply because they don’t speak English? No one told us that!”

“Well, Colonel, no one was entirely expecting you. We were only sent over half an hour ago.” Whirl noticed neither of the American pilots was getting involved. “I believe the Commander was planning to contact your defence ministry with the entry requirements soon.”

“I want to see this Commander of yours. As soon as we arrive in Calw.”

“Fine.” Whirl turned away, “We’ve got three helicopters over here. We’ll fly you and your men out there in three flights.”

Ivanov glowered at him, but said nothing.

Twenty minutes later, Ivanov was in The Commander’s office at the KSK barracks.

“So, you mean to tell me, you want all of this unit’s troops to speak English and you never told us?!” Ivanov snarled.

“That’s what I said,” the Commander replied. “As Whirl informed you, I was planning on contacting the defence ministry in Moscow later today with our basic-level requirements for facing selection. It was decided that English would be the unit’s lingua franca since the senior officers are all native English speakers, but that the English-speakers all had to be at least bilingual.”

Ivanov glared at the Commander. “And what languages do you speak?”

“Well, actually, Russian, German and Arabic,” the Commander replied in Russian. “Would you like to hear more?” he added in German.

Ivanov frowned. “I have thirty troops here who are English speakers,” he finally said.

“Fine,” the Commander replied, switching back to English. “They’re welcome to try out at selection. If I had an opening for an officer of your rank, I’d ask you to try out, Colonel.”

Ivanov glared and snapped off a sloppy salute. “With your permission, Commander, I will return my men to Ramstein.”

“Sure,” the Commander replied, casually.

 

[captcalhoun]

Two weeks later
Ramstein AFB, Germany

Sky Raider stood looking up at the F/A-24 fighter jet in quiet awe. It was superficially similar to the Northrop YF-23 prototype from the 1980s, but had several significant differences, not least of which was the Pratt and Whitney F-119 engines and the small laser designator built into the nose. The Lockheed jet was also fitted with more up-to-date electronics and, unlike the YF-23, capable of air-to-ground strike missions.

Behind the American pilot, the other members of his squadron, which everyone now persisted in calling ‘Space Force’, were also looking the jet over. The squadron now had another five members, making eight in total. Spitfire was conversing with his fellow British pilot, Afterburner. Next to them were Australian pilot Blast Off, New Zealander Kiwi and the two Russians, Raven and Hot Jets. Moon Dancer was standing further off, drinking in the plane’s sleek lines.

“So, what do you think of her?” asked the ferry pilot standing near Sky Raider.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

“Yeah, wait ‘til you fly her,” he commented.

Sky Raider tore his eyes away. “What’s she like?”

“You flew Eagles, right?”

Sky Raider nodded.

“Well, she’s faster, smoother and lighter than the Eagle. She should out-fly just about anything in the air.”

“Even the Raptor?” Sky Raider asked.

“Even the Raptor,” the pilot acknowledged.

Sky Raider knew that was some claim. Finally, he turned toward the other pilots. “Alright, kids, let’s get geared up and take them for a spin.”

Spitfire, Afterburner and Blast Off sprinted toward the locker rooms like children eager to get to a toyshop.

Action Force temporary barracks
KSK HQ
The same day

Several of the SAS Force commandos were lounging around in the common area of the barracks room. Selection had finished on the next group of commandos and the first two groups were talking things over.

“You hear about the new guy who did the train and cargo-ship exercises with a pistol?” asked Tane, one of the two New Zealanders.

“Yeah, did it faster than some of the guys using UMPs or MP-5s, and he only had a P-220,” replied Anzac, an Australian.

“I know the guy,” said Sabre. “He was in my troop back in Britain. He’s competed in the Bisley shooting competitions before now.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw him on the range the other day,” commented Sparrowhawk. “He’s really average with the G-36 and the sub-machine guns. But as soon as you put a pistol in his hand, he’s magic.”

“What’s his handle?” Beaver asked. “I haven’t met him yet.”

“Double-Tap,” Sabre said. “It’s because that’s how he hits his targets. A double-tap between the eyes.”

Beaver let out a low whistle.

In the next barracks building over, the soldiers of Z-Force were staring at the new arrival in their unit.

“Um, I don’t think you’re going to be able to stay, Lieutenant,” said Short Wave, one of the new signals experts.

“Yeah,” Roadhog, a jeep driver, agreed. “I don’t think it’d be right.”

“Not that we have a problem with you,” Spartan added. “It’s just…”

“I’m a woman,” replied the new arrival. “I’m Triage, the medic. Believe you me, you boys have got nothing I haven’t seen before. I don’t have a problem sharing with you.”

“Well, medical necessities aside,” interrupted the Norwegian known as ‘The Doc’, “It’s not exactly seemly.”

“What? A woman living in the same building as twenty guys?” Triage asked. “I’m not going to be trying anything with you lot. You’re not my type.”

“You don’t date soldiers?” Tracker asked.

“No, I don’t date MEN, you idiot,” the brunette replied.

“Oh. Wow.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Are there any female quarters around here then?”

“Not that I know of,” Short Wave answered. “As far as I know, you’re the first woman in this outfit.”

“Great.”

“Well, we are only in temporary accommodation. I think we’re supposed to move somewhere permanent next month,” Spartan said.

Major Flagg walked into the barracks at that point. “Lieutenant Triage? Could you come with me?”

“Yessir,” Triage replied, grabbing her kit bag off the floor.

The doctor followed the major out the door as the other Z-Force soldiers exchanged glances.

Outside, Flagg led Triage to a smaller barracks building.

“Sorry about the mix-up, Triage,” Flagg said. “The Germans are doing everything they can to help us, but some how female officer accommodation got overlooked.”

“There’s going to be more women officers?” Triage asked.

“Possibly. There’s a Swiss woman being interviewed by Skip tomorrow for the Intelligence officer position and we’ve got a woman trying out for the SAS as well. She’s a South Korean from their 707th Special Missions Unit. She’s only a sergeant, but I expect she’ll be quartered with you if you don’t object.”

“No,” Triage replied.

“You’ll have to make do here, I’m afraid. This is an old officer’s barracks that’s actually due to be replaced soon.”

Triage looked around. The place was a dump, but she’d slept in worse places.

“I take it you haven’t served at Camp Bastion, Major.”

“Uh, no. I’ve been at NATO for most of the last five years and before that I was stationed at Colchester.”

“This is the Paris Hilton compared to Bastion. It’ll be fine.”

Flagg nodded and left.

When the Major got back to the Commander’s office, he found the Brigadier had changed out of his normal battle-dress and was wearing his service uniform.

“Has NATO called again?” Flagg asked.

“No, I’m heading for Miami. Apparently the FBI has apprehended someone we might have a use for.”

Flagg blinked. “Oh?”

“Here, read this. I should be back in two days at the outside. Keep things ticking over, alright?”

“Yessir.” Flagg took the proffered file and opened it. The Commander plonked his officer’s cap on his head and headed out.

The file Flagg held was labelled with a lot of classification and security stamps, which he ignored. Finding the meat of the file, he saw it pertained to one Chico Rodrigues, an Argentine soldier.

Intrigued, Flagg read on. Rodrigues had been a hotshot tank driver with the Argentine Army’s 1st Tank Cavalry Regiment up until three years ago. His girlfriend had been raped and murdered by a gang of drug-dealers.

Flagg’s eyes narrowed when he read that. The major flipped back and saw that although Rodrigues had been born in Buenos Aires, his family had moved to the Tri-Border area when he was a kid. The officer snorted. No wonder it was drug-related, he thought.

The file continued to describe how Rodrigues had learned of his girlfriend’s death, taken leave from the Army and then located and executed each of the gang involved. Rodrigues had then gone on the run, knowing he now faced a lengthy prison term for multiple murder in Argentina. He was believed to have crossed into Paraguay and then fled elsewhere.

Flagg frowned, wondering why the Commander was interested in this guy.

Miami, Florida
Federal Building
That afternoon

The Commander slumped in the chair in the interview room. Even though he’d slept on the plane for most of the journey, he still felt tired.

The FBI agent, Coulson, who was sitting next to him didn’t help. Coulson was particularly keen to see Sergeant Chico Rodrigues, late of the Argentinean Army, extradited back to his native country.

After five minutes of bickering with the agent, the Commander was glad when Rodrigues was finally escorted in. Typically for the American legal system, he was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and was shackled at the wrists and ankles.

“Buenos dias, amigo,” the Commander said.

“Buenos dias,” Rodrigues replied. He then demanded to know who the Commander was and what was going on in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Sorry,” the Commander said. “You lost me there. My Spanish isn’t that hot.”

“Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m the Commander of the United Nations special task-force charged with hunting down the terrorist known as Baron Ironblood. Have you heard of him?”

“Si, I saw the news about the attack on the bank in Germany, as well as the thing in Britain. You’re British, aren’t you? I recognise the accent,” Rodrigues replied.

“Only answer the questions you’re asked,” Coulson snapped.

“Coulson, shut the hell up, okay?” the Commander snarled. “In fact, why don’t you go fetch us some coffee or something?”

Coulson glowered at the Commander, but the brigadier had had longer to perfect his technique and the agent buckled.

Once the fed was out of the room, the Commander turned the tape recorder off.

“Okay, Sergeant, listen to me. I know your history. I heard all about you when you whacked those drug dealers from a friend in Brazil. When the UN sanctioned my outfit, I looked into your background. You were one of the best tank drivers Argentina’s produced. I could use a guy like you. But, you should also know, you’re a prime candidate for recruitment by Ironblood. He already busted one guy out of jail, here in America, to recruit him. It’s possible Ironblood’ll come for you.”

Rodrigues said nothing.

“You’ve basically got two options at this point. A, you come with me, I make you disappear from this building and you join Action Force. Option B, sit here, get extradited and wind up either in jail for the rest of your life or possibly get busted out and asked to work for the Red Shadows. And that’s an offer you don’t refuse.”

Rodrigues waved his shackled arms. “How’re you going to get me out of these?”

The Commander smiled. “Don’t you watch the movies?”

Rodrigues looked confused as the Commander pulled out a paperclip, unfolded it and picked the locks. Rodrigues kicked the shackles away and rubbed his wrists.

“Alright, how’re you going to get us out of here?” he asked next.

“Oh, that’s easy.”

Coulson walked back in the room. He saw Rodrigues was loose and started to pull his sidearm. The Commander grabbed his arm, pulled it away and removed the pistol from the agent’s shoulder holster.

He then span the luckless agent around and slammed the G-man into the wall, hard. Coulson slid down the wall, unconscious.

“Guy’s been pissing me off all afternoon,” the Commander commented casually. “Take his suit.”

Rodrigues complied, quickly stripping off Coulson’s shirt, jacket and trousers.

“Follow me and do exactly what I tell you,” the Commander said as Rodrigues finished buttoning the shirt and threw the jacket on.

The Commander stepped toward the door, then paused. “Oh, by the way, no one in Action Force uses their real name. Just call me ‘Commander’. You’ll need a name as well.”

Rodrigues frowned, “What, like in Comandos Heroicos?”

The Commander looked at him, “Never heard of it.”

“It was a toy line my older brother played with. Little toy soldiers.”

“Oh, you mean like GI Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, code-names, like that.”

“I’ll call myself ‘Gaucho’,” Rodrigues said. “It was a cowboy thing I did, killing those men.”

The Commander opened the door and slipped out. “I thought it was a damn good idea, personally.”

The newly named Gaucho raised his eyebrows at that, and then followed.

They quickly and quietly slipped along the corridor to the nearest exterior wall; the Commander forced open a window and the pair scrambled out into the car park.

“Over here,” the Commander said, leading Gaucho to a rental car he’d hired at the airport.

They got and the Commander sped out of the car park onto NW 2nd Avenue gunned the engine. The Commander slew the car across traffic on to the Ronald Reagan Turnpike and headed toward the Dolphins stadium.

“Where are we going?” Gaucho asked as the car raced around the junction on to Dan Marino Boulevard and screamed past the stadium.

“The airport.”

“Uh, we’re going the wrong way,” Gaucho pointed out.

“No, I’m going the long way.”

The Commander knew he was taking a risk since he was close to the speed limit, but he didn’t care. It was years since he’d had this much fun.

After several minutes speeding through and around traffic, the car entered a residential area and the Commander dropped his speed. He’d memorised street maps of the area before leaving Germany and knew where to go.

After several minutes of dodging through the quiet streets, they raced though a turnpike on to the I-75 and headed south.

Fifteen minutes later, the Commander slid the car around a turnpike on the Dolphin Expressway and raced west toward the airport.

After a short dash along the road, they took an exit ramp, then headed north and on to the perimeter road around the airport.

After The Commander had returned the rental car, he led Gaucho into the terminal and over to a luggage locker. The Commander retrieved two passports from the locker, handing one to Gaucho, who flipped it open.

The name inside said ‘Juan Ramirez’, with his nationality given as Paraguayan. The Commander then handed him a plane ticket to Atlanta.

“Why are we flying to Atlanta?” Gaucho asked.

“We fly there because it’s an internal flight. They’ll be expecting us to head immediately for a domestic one. Once we reach Atlanta, we’ll hop a flight to Boston, then on to Britain. The more hubs we pass through, the more traffic they have to cover.”

Gaucho frowned as he looked at the photo on his passport. “Where you’d get this picture?”

“Your Army records.”

They headed for the gate for their flight.

Calw, Germany
The next day

Once The Commander and Gaucho had arrived at Calw, The Commander introduced Gaucho to Skip and told him the Argentine was to be put through his paces operating the new ‘missile tank’ that had arrived from America.

The Commander now, though, found himself sitting in his office with Eagle and one of his newest candidates.

“Let me get this straight,” The Commander said. “You’re Scottish and proud of your heritage, so you want a code-name to reflect that.”

“Aye, sir. That’s correct,” the soldier confirmed in a thick Inverness accent.

“And the code-name you’ve selected, Eagle feels is unsuitable.”

“Yes, sir,” Eagle said.

“What’s the code-name?”

“Haggis.” Eagle glowered at the soldier as he spoke.

“Haggis,” The Commander stated flatly.

“Aye, sir.”

The Commander rubbed the bridge of his nose and briefly wished he was back in Florida.

“Eagle, why don’t you want this guy to call himself Haggis?” The Commander asked.

“Because it’s a bloody stupid code-name, sir. Because I feel it could lead to other stupid regional delicacy code-names.” Eagle paused. Adopting a fake Yorkshire accent, he continued, “’But Eagle, It’s a traditional dish o’Yorkshire. I can no’ see why I can’ be called ‘Yorkshire Pudding’.’”

The Commander nodded, “I see.”

“Or it could lead to other food-related codenames in general. Would you want to command a unit with a member called ‘Pie’n’Mash’ or ‘The Ice Cream Soldier’, sir?”

“Not really, no.”

“I don’t object to a Scots name in general, sir. I could live with, I dunno, ‘Claymore’ or something. But ‘Haggis’...?”

The Commander nodded. “I agree. You’ve got 48 hours to come up with something more sensible, or you get RTU, trooper.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The two SAS soldiers left and the Commander picked up a report from his desk to read. His phone rang before he’d even opened the card file.

The Commander picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Commander, it’s Flagg. You better get over to the ops room right away, sir. It’s Ironblood.”

The Commander slammed the phone down and dashed out of his office.

Minutes later, he dashed into the ops room. The main display screens had been switched over to Euronews, the international European news channel. Flagg was standing alongside several of the German operators of the room, watching the broadcast.

The screens showed a gun battle raging in a city street. Red Shadow troops were fighting what looked like police officers.

“What’s going on?” The Commander demanded.

“Ironblood’s launched an attack on the European Parliament in Brussels,” Flagg replied.

The Commander looked back to the screen as a police car was hit by an anti-tank rocket and exploded.

“Get hold of the Belgian MOD, tell them we’re available. Then get Eagle and Skip over here stat,” the Commander ordered.

“Already got the Belgians on the line,” Flagg replied. “Waiting for a response.”

The major picked up the phone next to him and dialled a number.

A short while later, as the gun battle continued, Eagle and Skip arrived.

“Get everyone you can airborne on the Bobcats,” The Commander snapped. “Get to Brussels, fast. Ironblood’s attacking the EP.”

The two men ran from the room at speed.

 

[captcalhoun]

Somewhere over western Germany

The four Bobcat helicopters sped toward the Belgian border. Flying the lead helicopter was Chopper, with Skip in the co-pilot’s seat. Blades flew the second with Eagle in the co-pilot seat. Whirl and Downdraft, a Polish MiL-24 pilot flew the third, while the two American pilots Snake-Eater and Night-Stalker flew the fourth.

On board each helicopter were twelve members of Action Force; two manned the side-mounted guns, whilst the other ten sat in tense silence in the rear.

Five miles from the border, the radio crackled in Whirl’s ear.

“Bobcat flight, Lead. Reduce speed and hold position,” Chopper ordered.

Whirl glanced to his side where Downdraft used the controls to lift the helicopter’s nose to decelerate faster, even as he pulled back the throttle. The Polish pilot seemed to be doing well.

The mission had been thrown together quickly and Chopper, accorded seniority over Blades and Snake-Eater by virtue of being older, had insisted on making sure Belgian air traffic control knew they were coming.

The four helicopters hovered near the border for nearly a minute, then Chopper’s voice came back on the channel.

“Bobcat, Lead. We’re clear to enter Belgian air space and proceed to Brussels. Continue squawking emergency code on IFF.”

The lead helicopter’s nose dropped and it accelerated away, Blades’ helo close behind. Downdraft kept up, while a glance in the side mirror confirmed to Whirl that the fourth helicopter was close behind.

“How you doing?” Whirl asked over the interphone circuit.

“Fine,” Downdraft replied. “Not too different to flying the Hind,” he added, referring to the Russian helicopter by its NATO name.

“Good.”

Ten minutes later as they were over central Belgium, the radio squawked once more.

“Bobcat flight, this is Eagle Leader, flight of four F-16s from Belgian Air Component. We’re your escort to Brussels. Maintain current course and speed. We’re joining from south.”

Downdraft glanced at Whirl. “Belgian Air Component?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s their air force,” Whirl answered. “The Belgians merged their forces into a combined unit a few years back, same as Canada and New Zealand have. Chopper’ll handle it.”

“Right.”

“Eagle Leader, this is Bobcat leader. I copy. I have you on radar.”

Moments later, two F-16C Fighting Falcons slid into view out Whirl’s window. He looked across the cockpit to see the other pair on the other side.

“Bobcat Flight, Do you have current intel on the situation in Brussels?”

“Our last update was just before we crossed the border,” Chopper answered. “We were told that the Shadows are being held off by Belgian troops and armed police.”

“Correct. We don’t know how thy got here, but several people reported the Shadowtraks speeding through the city to the police. There’re no reports of any Hyenas or aircraft involved. The Shadows have surrounded the European Parliament building. They’ve shot down a police helicopter and an Army one with shoulder-fired SAMs, so be careful.”

Chopper acknowledged that comment as the helicopters crossed the outskirts of Brussels.

The F-16s circled over the city as the four helicopters descended toward the capital.

“Listen up, guys,” came Skip’s voice over the radio. “I’ve spoken to the local commander in charge. The Shadows are mainly in the Leopold Park behind the Parliament building and the Place du Luxembourg on the other side of the rail lines. Whirl, I want you to put my Z-Force guys in the park, with the ones Chopper’s carrying. Then orbit overhead and provide cover.”

Whirl keyed his radio. “Copy, Skip.”

“Snake-Eater and Blades, drop the SAS guys in the square and provide cover.”

“Wilco, Skip,” replied Snake-Eater.

“Roger that, Colonel,” Blades answered.

Whirl put his hands on his controls. “I have the aircraft.”

Downdraft let go of his controls. “Pilot has the aircraft,” he replied.

Whirl took his hand off the controls long enough to flick his targeting monocle into place, before taking the Bobcat lower, toward the Leopold Park. With the monocle over his right eye, he now controlled the 20mm machine gun mounted on the helicopter’s nose.

Several Red Shadows were easy to spot sprinting across the park, firing at Belgian troops as the British pilot brought the helicopter toward the ground.

A Shadowtrak raced around a building toward them. Whirl didn’t hesitate. He held the trigger on his control stick and sprayed the vehicle with bullets. Several tore through the assault vehicle’s front right tyre, sending it into a skid. More bullets shredded the driver as the vehicle span around.

Whirl brought the helicopter down to a few feet above the ground. He turned his head slightly and screamed, “GO, GO, GO, GO!”

The soldiers were already on the their feet and began leaping clear as he shouted. As soon as the ten troops in the back had leapt clear of the doors, even as Warhead, the door gunner behind him, opened up on a Red Shadow bringing an RPG to bear, Whirl lifted the helicopter from its hover and raced skyward.

“Damn,” Warhead commented over the interphone. “I missed him.”

“As long as he didn’t hit us, I don’t care,” Whirl replied.

On the ground, Red Devil shouted to the four men who’d leapt clear alongside him, “Move it! Go! Get to cover!”

The British paratrooper raised his G-36 to his shoulder and sprinted across the open ground to the nearest trees. A Red Shadow ran toward him, an AK-47 in his hands.

Silently thanking the bad guys for wearing easily identifiable uniforms, Red Devil fired a three round burst that hit the soldier in the chest, dropping him to the floor.

The park was a madhouse as civilians lay screaming in pain and terror and the red uniformed terrorists ran riot.

“Skip to all teams, try to drive ‘em away from the civvies,” the colonel ordered as he fired at a Red Shadow who was trying to line up a Stinger MANPAD on the circling Bobcat.

Skip received several acknowledgments over his headset as the Red Shadow lowered his SAM and turned around. The veteran paratrooper calmly put three rounds into the terrorist and waved his group forward.

“C’mon lads, let’s move it!”

On the other side of the European Parliament building and the train station, the SAS troops were engaged in a ferocious gun battle in the Place du Luxembourg.

Two Shadowtraks were positioned near the station’s entrance and were firing their forward .30 calibre guns as the two Bobcats fired back.

The clatter of gunfire was loud in the small square as Double-Tap leaped from the helicopter.

He, unlike most of the other troops, wasn’t carrying an assault rifle or a sub-machine gun. Instead, he carried a standard issue 9mm SIG P226 pistol, known as the L105 to the British Army.

He brought the pistol up as he crouched beside the Bobcat’s nose. He took aim at the Red Shadow manning the gun on the right-hand vehicle. He fired twice. Despite being a good sixty feet away, and with the down draft from the helicopter’s rotors, Double-Tap’s shots hit the gunner’s neck, throwing him back.

A few feet from him the Australian commando known as Anzac swore. “Geez, man, how’d you do that?”

“Practice,” Double-Tap replied, aiming at the gunner in the left-hand vehicle. Anzac and a Polish SAS trooper called Piorun opened fire with their G-36s as the right-hand Shadowtrak started moving forward.

Suddenly, a bullet slammed into the ground a few feet in front of Double-Tap. The marksman leaped to his feet and dashed across the street toward the nearest parked car.

Piorun and Anzac were close on his heels. The Bobcats lifted clear and a second gunshot hit the car’s window above the three commandos.

“Sniper,” Piorun pronounced in his strong Gdansk accent. “Probably on the station roof.”

“Agreed,” Double-Tap nodded. He pulled out his radio.

“Double-Tap to all SAS teams. Sniper on the station roof.”

“Copy that,” replied the voice of the American SEAL sniper known as Hunter.

Double-Tap looked across the square to see both Hunter and his partner, Longshot, were leaning on the rear of a Citron car.

The snipers were carefully albeit hastily adjusting their sniper rifles. “Got him?” Hunter asked.

“Nope.”

“Me either. Hold on. Bingo.” Hunter squinted as he adjusted his sights.

Kill Shot was trying to spot the three soldiers who dived behind the car after he tried to shoot the pistol marksman. He didn’t even see the snipers setting up behind the car.

Overhead, a Bobcat circled. Suddenly, Snow Wolf, the Chinese commando spotted Kill Shot.

“Sniper!” he shouted. “Station roof!”

The commando opened fire with his door-gun.

Kill Shot dove for cover as the 7.62mm bullets slammed into the station roof. On the street below, Hunter cursed as he lost his shot. Snow Wolf, however, continued spraying bullets at the sniper as he rolled over, dropped his Dragunov sniper rifle and ran across the roof, desperate to reach safety.

Bullets chased Kill Shot as he sprinted across the flat roof, leapt and dropped on to the glass roof over the station. He rolled over, cursing as he felt pain stab through his feet. The Bobcat shot overhead, engine roaring.

“God damn Action Force,” Kill Shot cursed. He gingerly got to his feet. The glass near him creaked ominously. “Oh, yeah, that’d be right,” he muttered.

In the Rue Weirtz, between the station and the Parliament building, Baron Ironblood was crouched behind a Shadowtrak, with the Black Major. Ironblood was cradling an Uzi sub-machine gun in his hands whilst the Major was listening intently to his radio headset.

Gunfire pinged off the assault vehicle, which had been crippled by a Belgian police officer. Said officer was now dead in the street. Several of the other Shadowtraks had remained in the street to cover the Baron and his right-hand man.

Belgian troops were off to the left, near the junction with the Rue Montoyer, firing sporadically at the Red Shadows.

The major swivelled his headset away from his mouth and turned to Ironblood. “We’re in trouble, Baron.”

“How so, Major?” the Baron asked.

“Action Force has arrived. Obviously your source’s information that they were training in Europe was correct. Red Jackal reports that his group in the park has come under fire from a group of soldiers airdropped in by the helicopters we’ve heard overhead. He says he is taking heavy casualties and wants to withdraw to this street, to cut off the Belgians and reinforce us.”

Ironblood frowned behind his helmet. “What about Shrapnel’s group on the other side of the station?”

“Red Jackal says he’s lost contact with them and believes they’re under attack also.”

“Get Shrapnel on the radio and tell him to fall back to the Rue Belliard. We need to get back to the airport. I knew I should’ve brought the Roboskulls,” Ironblood cursed.

The Major swivelled the headset back into place, trying to raise Shrapnel.

In the nearby park, Red Devil and his team were pressing their attack on the Shadowtraks.

“Tracker, Raider, flank them on the right. Blast Wave, Toro, follow me!” Red Devil shouted.

The troops cut loose with sustained bursts from their G-36s before sprinting forward.

One of the Red Shadow gunners fired back, causing Blast Wave and Toro to dive for cover. Blast Wave pulled a grenade from his bandolier, shoved it into the breech of his AG36 grenade launcher, which he then slammed shut.

The Polish commando levelled the weapon and fired. The grenade slammed into the ammo box on the side of the gun and detonated. The explosion tore apart the gun, the Red Shadow’s chest and sent the driver reeling back.

Suddenly a male voice yelled out, “Red Shadows, retreat!”

Almost instantly, the five surviving Shadowtraks’ engines roared to life and they began dashing across the park, some slowing to allow other gunmen to leap aboard, others simply running flat out. Gunfire chased them across the park as the Z-Force troops tried to stop them.

“Follow me!” Red Devil yelled, sprinting toward a police van.

He scrambled into the driver’s seat as Tracker scrambled into the front passenger’s seat.

Blast Wave and Toro scrambled into the van’s rear as Raider grabbed an abandoned police motorcycle.

The two vehicles screamed out of the park on to Steenweg op Etterbeek and headed north.

More Shadowtraks raced out of the park onto Rue Belliard, with two Belgian Army Dingo jeeps in pursuit, Roadhog was driving one, with Diablo manning the gun turret, while Jammer was driving the second.

“Jammer, I hope to hell you can drive stick!” shouted Sureshot, the sniper who was manning the gun turret.

“Relax, bro’, I drive an import Civic back home. I got this!” Jammer called back.

On the west side of the park, Ironblood and the Black Major had scrambled aboard a Shadowtrak and were racing up Rue Weirtz with a Belgian police car and a civilian car on their tail, with more Z-Force troops hanging out the windows, firing at the red assault vehicle.

As the chase raced past the intersection with Rue Montoyer, three more Shadowtraks joined them. One sprayed the police car, causing Bolt, Ton-Up and Trax to duck as the engine block was shot apart. The civilian Peugeot raced past, with Ring-Tone hanging out the left rear window, spraying the Shadowtrak that had crippled the police car.

In the Place du Luxembourg, Double-Tap, Anzac and Piorun had scrambled aboard a Shadowtrak, with Double-Tap wrestling the vehicle into gear and running. Already, Tane, Quickfire and Beaver were on the heels of the retreating Shadowtraks in a Belgian Army Dingo, while Beaver, Sabre and Barracuda had commandeered a Belgian police car.

The Action Force troops raced on to the Rue de Tréves and headed north in pursuit of two of the Shadowtraks.

As they sped through the streets, the Red Shadows manning the rear guns on the vehicles were spraying bullets indiscriminately at their pursuers. Several parked vehicles were shot up.

Sparrowhawk raced up the street on a Honda motorcycle and caught up with Tane’s Dingo.

“They’re heading on to Belliardstraat!” he shouted to Beaver in the gun turret. “Keep chasing them!”

“Got it!” the Canadian shouted back before ducking into the vehicle to tell the New Zealander driving.

The chase was soon overrunning the Belliardstraat and the adjoining Rue Belliard as the vehicles headed east.

As the chased crashed through a police barricade on the junction with the Oudergemsalaan, the Red Shadows hosed the police and bystanders with indiscriminate fire.

Where they could, the Action Force troops fired at the Red Shadows, but the gunmen had less compunction and blazed away at their pursuit, regardless of the civilians in the line of fire. Several bystanders were hit as the chase moved on to the Avenue de la Joyeuse Entrée, while at least three civilian cars were hit, causing crashes.

Jammer took one hand off the wheel of his Dingo to hit his radio’s earpiece. “Anyone know where the hell we’re going?”

“Looks like they’re heading for the Kortenberg tunnel,” Roadhog replied as two of the Bobcat helicopters roared overhead at low level.

“Where’s that lead?” Jammer asked.

“Could lead any where,” Sureshot answered from the gun turret.

Jammer grunted in acknowledgement as he slid the van-like vehicle around a shot-up BMW.

Above the city, Eagle watched as the continuing car chase played out below. “Don’t lose them, Blades.”

“Don’t fret, Eagle. This is easier than flying cas-evacs in Baghdad.”

“We’ve got company,” Snow Wolf reported from the left-side gun position.

“Who?” Eagle asked.

“News helicopter,” the gunner replied. “There’s a pair of Bobcats close behind too.”

Calw, Germany

The Commander and Major Flagg watched the unfolding car chase on the TV screens in the ops room. Euronews was showing the chaos live. A second screen showed BBC News was showing the Euronews coverage as well.

“What the hell are they doing?” The Commander demanded. “This isn’t goddamn Hollywood!”

“Off hand, I’d say they’re doing their jobs.”

The Commander glowered at Flagg.

Brussels

The car chase entered the Kortenberg tunnel. The soldiers were forced to dodge more and more shunted aside civilian vehicles as the Red Shadow drivers simply rammed aside anything that got in their way, whilst the rear gunners continued to blaze away with their weapons.

Luckily for the commandoes. Most of the gunfire missed them. Unluckily, it was hitting everyone else.

The Shadowtraks emerged on to the A3 motorway. A quarter of a mile up the road from the tunnel entrance, two of the Bobcat helicopters hovered over the busy road, like some kind of alien raptor.

As the Shadowtraks got into range, the two helicopters, pilot by Snake-Eater and Whirl opened fire with their turret-mounted 20mm machine guns. The forward gunners on the three leading Shadowtraks opened fire at the helicopters.

Snake-Eater managed to hit the Red Shadow manning the gun on one Shadowtrak, before he was forced to pull the Bobcat up and away from the return fire.

Whirl hit the driver and gunner of the second Shadowtrak, killing both, but return fire pinged off the helicopter’s underside.

The British pilot whipped the helicopter around, pivoting in the air to bring the turret to bear and fired once more. Behind him, Warhead opened fire with his 7.62mm machine gun, spraying another Shadowtrak with bullets. A Red Shadow in the vehicle raised a LAW anti-tank rocket launcher.

“RPG! RPG! RPG!” Warhead screamed at Whirl.

The rocket launched, trailing white smoke as it streaked skyward.

Whirl jammed the throttle forward and dropped the nose, causing the helicopter to shoot forward, the missile to speed harmlessly past and slamming both Warhead and Horsepower, the other door gunner, into the back of Whirl and Downdraft’s seats.

“Hang on,” Whirl ordered as he span the helicopter around, lined up on the offending Shadowtrak and fired.

The six-wheeled assault vehicle was almost sawn in half as the bullets shredded the LAW-wielding Shadow and punched into the vehicle’s base.

Whirl dropped the helicopter lower, now flying only scant feet above the roofs of cars heading west along the motorway. He then began flying the helicopter sideways, keeping the nose pointed at the column of vehicles. Whirl opened fire again, as Warhead and Horsepower twisted their door guns to face forward and opened fire.

As the convoy continued up the motorway, the pursuing Action Force troops began to open fire at the rear-guard vehicles once more. Some shots hit, mostly on the Shadowtraks’ rear armour. Most missed.

Chopper and Blades dropped their helicopters in low on either side of the convoy, allowing Throttle and Wireless, the two door gunners to open fire.

The Shadowtraks in the middle of the convoy opened fire, trying to drive off the helicopters.

Throttle yelped in pain as a ricochet hit him in the shoulder, staggering him.

 

[captcalhoun]

The Shadowtraks crashed through another fence and raced across open tarmac toward a pair of Ilyushin 76 transport planes. The Bobcats converged on them quickly.

The helicopters hovered low over the two transport planes as the Shadowtraks drove up the planes’ tail ramps.

Ironblood leaped clear of the Shadowtrak he’d been in and scrambled into the cockpit next to Red Condor and a Red Shadow pilot.

“Are you running engines?” Ironblood asked.

“Yes,” Condor answered.

“Good, get moving.”

“What about the helicopters?” Condor asked.

“Blades, break off,” Eagle ordered. “Chopper, we’ve got an injured man here. Breaking off to higher altitude.”

“Copy that, Eagle. We’re taking a lot of fire and breaking off as well.”

The two Bobcats climbed away from the motorway as the Shadowtraks began turning on to the turnpike, to head north.

“Where the hell are we going?” muttered Whirl as he hovered his Bobcat helicopter over the turnpike, watching as the Shadowtraks merged on to the R0.

He pivoted the helicopter and looked around. “Oh, shit.”

He keyed his radio. “All AF units, target vehicles are heading for the airport. Say again, Red Shadows heading to the airport!”

Once again, Whirl dropped his nose and increased his speed, dashing across the city to try to cut off Ironblood’s escape.

The four Bobcats were soon hovering over the airport, waiting for the Shadowtraks.

Minutes later, still being chased by the troops on the ground, the surviving six Shadowtraks raced along the A201, cut across a car-park and smashed through the gates into a cargo loading area.

Ironblood held the Black Major’s radio to his ear.

“Are you ready for take off?” he demanded.

“The planes are ready,” replied Red Condor. “But they’ve shut down all air traffic. We’ve got no clearance for take off.”

“You can fly with out can’t you?” Ironblood snarled.

“Of course, but the Belgian air force is around. So are those Action Force helicopters.”

“Don’t worry about them!”

“Were the modifications completed?”

“Yes,” Condor replied, sounding confused.

“Taxi to the runway,” Ironblood ordered.

As Skip watched from the cockpit of the Bobcat helicopter, both ‘Candid’ transport planes raised their rear ramps and taxied across the aircraft parking area toward the taxiway that adjoined the runway.

“Hose ‘em,” he ordered over the interphone.

Chopper opened fire on the lead Il-76 with the nose gun as behind him, Muzzle opened fire with his door gun.

Whirl opened fire with his gun, as did Snake-Eater. The bullets bounced off the airplanes’ armoured bodies.

The two planes continued to taxi into position for take off. The first Il-76 taxied to the white ‘hold’ line, bullets pinging off its hull. Then, it suddenly launched flares and smoke canisters from launchers on the wing-roots.

Reacting instinctively, all three helicopter pilots pulled back, avoiding the cloud of smoke and the burning flares. The Il-76 raced down the runway at full throttle, quickly reaching rotate speed, its nose lifted and then it was away.

The second Il-76 ‘Candid’ thundered forward to the hold line, revved its engines to maximum and then launched into its take-off run.

The two transports began rapid climbs away from Brussels and the airport, turning northwest, toward the Channel coast.

The planes had soon passed above the helicopters maximum altitude.

The four Belgian F-16s raced west to follow them.

 

[captcalhoun]

Somewhere over Mauritania
Half an hour later

Sky Raider was leading four F/A-24s across the western Sahara desert, in hot pursuit of Ironblood’s fleeing plane. It had taken a good ten minutes for the four Wraiths to get away from the remaining Roboskulls. They were still five minutes out of range of the plane.

Flying alongside him were Spitfire, Hot Jets, the other Russian pilot, and the American Navy pilot, Hornet.

Sky Raider was fuming. He couldn’t believe one of his handpicked pilots had suddenly become a traitor and switched sides. It beggared belief. Anton Nobokov had been a highly decorated pilot with the Russian Air Force, surviving being shot down over Chechnya, before volunteering for Action Force. Why, Sky Raider wordlessly demanded, had he done this?

The four stealth fighters got within range of their AIM-120C Scorpion missiles. Sky Raider immediately targeted the transport.

Then it began ejecting chaff and dropped toward the ground, two Roboskulls close beside it.

Sky Raider had enough time to wonder where Raven’s F/A-24 was before he dropped out of the clouds, fired a Sidewinder and then sprayed Sky Raider’s jet with gunfire.

Hot Jets and Spitfire ejected flares and pulled up, away from the missile.

Hornet fired flares and tried to out-turn the missile.

He failed.

The Sidewinder struck the fighter’s spine and detonated, ripping the plane apart. Hornet never stood a chance.

Sky Raider’s own controls were sluggish as he tried to bring the jet around.

“Back off, Sky Raider,” said Raven over the radio. “Or the next one goes up your exhaust.”

“Shoot him down and you die next,” Spitfire replied. “Your ass is in my sights, comrade. Just try it.”

The Russian pilot didn’t reply, instead he turned and accelerated away.

“Head back to Algeria,” Sky Raider ordered. “I can barely keep this crate flying. Ironblood gets away, this time.”

NATO Headquarters, Belgium
Later that morning

Major Flagg walked out to the lectern in the pressroom. Several photos were taken as he stopped and faced the journalists.

“Good morning. My name is Major Flagg. Two ‘g’s for the benefit of the print media. I am here to give a statement regarding Action Force’s recent operations.”

An expectant hush descended.

“At oh three hundred hours local time, Action Force launched an assault on a Red Shadow camp located in Algeria. The Algerian government were informed ahead of the operation and their military provided logistical support. The operation was part of Action Force’s ongoing mission to locate and apprehend the terrorist known as Baron Ironblood. The operation incorporated elements from Action Force’s Z Force, Space Force and SAS Force; these are the armour and assault unit, the air wing and the special forces group. The raid was a success, with the camp put beyond use. A total of thirty-seven Red Shadows were apprehended alive by Action Force. Resistance by the remainder resulted in three hundred seventy-eight Red Shadows being killed.”

The still cameras went mad, flashing their lights as Flagg made that announcement, but no one interrupted.

“Unfortunately, in the course of the operation, five Action Force personnel were killed. Their identities will not be revealed for security reasons, although their next-of-kin have been notified. The soldiers killed were from several nations and included a pilot from Space Force whose fighter was shot down whilst pursuing an enemy aircraft. The other four soldiers were all killed on the ground as a result of enemy fire. A further eight Action Force personnel were injured in the operation. They are currently receiving treatment in Europe.”

Flag paused. “Any questions?”

“Excuse me,” asked an American reporter, “Can you please confirm the number of Red Shadows killed?”

“Three hundred seventy-eight Red Shadows were killed. Thirty seven captured.”

“There were over four hundred Red Shadows present?”

“Correct. Unfortunately, some were also able to escape.”

“Was Baron Ironblood present?” asked a French reporter.

“He was. He was one of the escapees, along with his number two, the Black Major.”

“How were Ironblood and his cohorts able to escape?” asked a German.

“They fled aboard an Ilyushin-76 transport plane, the same type used when they fled Belgium following the Brussels attack.”

“Did Action Force attempt to shoot down the plane?” demanded a British reporter.

“Yes. This was what led to the pilot’s death.”

“Do Action Force know where Ironblood is now?” asked another American.

“Information on Ironblood’s whereabouts is classified. I will not reveal any information we may have.”

Central Africa
The same day

Ironblood turned toward the former Action Force pilot who stood beside him, as they looked out on to the floor of the factory below.

“Impressive, is it not?” asked the baron.

“Very,” he replied.

“This used to be a tractor factory, but I bought it after it was closed down. Now, it is one of my facilities, manufacturing Hyena tanks.”

The pilot nodded.

Ironblood turned away, back toward the conference room and those present.

“Meet your new colleagues, Red Vulture,” Ironblood said, waving a hand toward the group.

Ironblood went around the table counter-clockwise. “My right-hand man, the so-called Black Major.”

The man nodded. He’d changed out of the black BDUs he’d been wearing when they arrived. He now wore a black version of a British Army Major’s uniform, with a skull and crossbones over the left breast. A red officer’s cap sat on the desk in front of him.

“That’s Red Wolf,” Ironblood continued. “Commander of my Hyena brigade.”

The Teutonic looking man gave nothing away. His blue eyes icy.

“Red Fox, my undercover operative.” Ironblood said, indicating the beautiful brunette wearing a slinky full-length red dress. She gave a small smile.

“Kraken, my naval commander.” The dark haired man was chewing gum and leaning on a green helmet that looked like some kind of sea monster.

“Red Laser. Our expert in directed energy weapons.”

This was a rather geeky looking Asian, who ignored the introduction as he stared at Red Fox in adoration.

“Bombshell, my chief anti-armour expert.”

The burly black man growled a greeting.

“Shrapnel, my leading grenadier,” the blonde man gave a nod as curt as the Black Major’s.

“Landline, my computers expert.”

Anton Nobokov recognised the American from the pictures in the papers after the German bank robbery. He still wore the mask over his face.

“Airburst,” Ironblood went on. “My resident expert on nuclear, biological and chemical warfare.”

“Who has nothing to do since we lost the warheads,” Airburst muttered in Russian.

“And finally, you’re predecessor as air commander, Red Condor.”

The American, still clad in his red flight suit, glowered. “Still don’t know why I got demoted.”

“Because you didn’t deliver a cutting-edge stealth aircraft when you signed up,” Black Major laughed.

“My advice, my Baron, is to begin work on dismantling the Wraith at once and replace your Roboskulls with copies. They are far superior to the Roboskull.”

“Indeed.” Ironblood made no other comment. “But we have other issues to discuss first.”

Before they could continue, the building was rocked by an explosion.

In seconds, Ironblood, Red Vulture, Red Condor and the Black Major were rushing for the door.

Moments later, they looked out at the burning wreckage of Red Vulture’s F/A-24.

“What the hell happened?” demanded Condor. “Did Action Force hit it with an air strike?”

Germany

Sky Raider handed the detonator back to the Commander. “I hope we’re going to be able to get replacements for the three Wraith’s we’ve lost.”

“Worry more about replacing Hornet and Raven.” The Commander paused. “And be glad Moon Dancer’s recovering. We move out to our new headquarters tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

[Admiral2]

So, what made you decide to write an Action Force origin story? Is it in protest of the impending cluster-F that is the GIJOE feature film, or was it just something you wanted to do?

I just printed it all out so i haven't finished readin it yet. i'll let you know what i think when I'm done.

 

[captcalhoun]

no, it was just a desire to do a realistic updated version. that and hanging at www.bloodforthebaron.com a lot.

 

[Admiral2]

Okay! Fantastic story, by the way. I have to pick one nit, though (because it is me, y'know... ) and it's about the F/A-24s. They're supposed to be upgraded YF-23s, right, and the upgrades make them better performers than the F-22, right? Well, can you explain why, if some upgrades could make the F-23 better than the F-22, why Boeing didn't offer those upgrades to the US Military while the YF-22 and YF-23 were in competition, so that Lockheed Martin wouldn't have walked away with the contract?

(Yes, I know. I did say it was a nitpick.)

Other than that, keep going with this!

 

[captcalhoun]

Okay! Fantastic story, by the way. I have to pick one nit, though (because it is me, y'know... ) and it's about the F/A-24s. They're supposed to be upgraded YF-23s, right, and the upgrades make them better performers than the F-22, right? Well, can you explain why, if some upgrades could make the F-23 better than the F-22, why Boeing didn't offer those upgrades to the US Military while the YF-22 and YF-23 were in competition, so that Lockheed Martin wouldn't have walked away with the contract?

(Yes, I know. I did say it was a nitpick.)

Other than that, keep going with this!

LM took the YF-23 design and upgraded it into the F/A-24.

i've started on AF2: Escalation today. which will give Q Force a big part, and actually see Space Force go into space. the third story's also been outlined today: 'Devastation'...

 

[Admiral2]

Okay! Fantastic story, by the way. I have to pick one nit, though (because it is me, y'know... ) and it's about the F/A-24s. They're supposed to be upgraded YF-23s, right, and the upgrades make them better performers than the F-22, right? Well, can you explain why, if some upgrades could make the F-23 better than the F-22, why Boeing didn't offer those upgrades to the US Military while the YF-22 and YF-23 were in competition, so that Lockheed Martin wouldn't have walked away with the contract?

(Yes, I know. I did say it was a nitpick.)

Other than that, keep going with this!

LM took the YF-23 design and upgraded it into the F/A-24.

Works for me!

i've started on AF2: Escalation today. which will give Q Force a big part, and actually see Space Force go into space. the third story's also been outlined today: 'Devastation'...

Cool! I want to see the Q force in action.

So now I ask you: Red Shadows versus Cobra. Who wins?

 

[captcalhoun]

MY Red Shadows. wait til you see what they've got in store...

hell, even the Red Shadows from the originl toyline would kick Cobra's butts what with the Skeltrons, the Muton death robots and the army of cloned Kraken creatures...

of course, in Battle Action Force Ironblood became Cobra Commander...

 

[Admiral2]

MY Red Shadows. wait til you see what they've got in store...

hell, even the Red Shadows from the originl toyline would kick Cobra's butts what with the Skeltrons, the Muton death robots and the army of cloned Kraken creatures...

of course, in Battle Action Force Ironblood became Cobra Commander...

But Cobra's got death robots too: Battle Android Troopers (though they're not as big...)

Meanwhile, I've been reading the AF comics and that site and thinking, "Dammit. Now I'm gonna get hooked on these..."

 

[captcalhoun]

BATs are crap.

 

[Admiral2]

BATs are crap.

They're not crap. You can drop one out of a helicopter at a hundred feet and the parts will still try to kill you.

 

[captcalhoun]

Mutons are indestructible.

 

[Admiral2]

Mutons are indestructible.

BATS don't need to be to complete their missions.

 

[captcalhoun]

anyone else read this and care to comment?