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12-16-2014, 10:14 AM | #131 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
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At the sound of a girl’s scream Clutch laid down his pool cue and looked up. It was the same girl who had brushed him off earlier, her arm now caught in the grip of a burly biker. Clutch laid down the cue, flipped his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, and walked over.
“Hey buddy,” he said. “I don’t the chick is into any of us tonight. Maybe you should let her go.” “Maybe you should piss off,” replied the biker. Clutch didn’t break stride, launching a right cross that stunned the biker. Clutch hit him again, then grabbed a pool ball and hit him one more time, flooring the biker. Clutch grabbed him by the leather vest and tossed him over a pool table. Around the bar men rose to their feet. Wet Suit angled his cue across a biker’s chest. “Just give them a moment first,” he said. Big Ben held up a hand to the biker beside him. “Hold that thought a sec,” he said, running over to the juke box. He quickly cycled through the options, dropped in a quarter, and selected “God’s Gonna Cut You Down.” “Seriously?!” asked Barbecue as the first chords played over the speakers. “Gotta have a bar fight to Johnny Cash,” replied Big Ben with a grin. “There ain’t gonna be a fight,” shouted the bartender, racking back the slide on a pump action shotgun. “Next man to throw a punch gets a load of rock salt.” Wet Suit looked at the man beside him, who pushed the cue away. “When we leave, we’re going right.” The man nodded, and with a voice like gravel said “We’re going left.” The bathroom door opened and Crank Case stepped out, shaking his hands. “Hey – good tune,” he said, looking around. He stopped, taking in the tense atmosphere, and looked around the room. “Damn it. What’d I miss?” Wet Suit put the cue down, looked at the Joes and tilted his head towards the door. |
12-17-2014, 04:56 PM | #132 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Duke stormed through the door of the room where the team was suiting up.
“You,” he snarled, pointing at Clutch. “You’re reassigned. Pack your kit and report to ops. And the rest of you – go dry.” “Chill,” said Big Ben, stepping forward. Duke’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you just say?” “I said chill. Oh. Maybe that doesn’t mean what I thought, like rubber or boot. Relax. We just blew off a little steam. Everyone’s ready for training.” Duke’s lips went white. “Go dry. Now.” “What is this – a church group?” said Big Ben. “I’m not going dry, and if that’s a problem then call Hereford.” Duke pointed a finger, spun on his heel and stormed out of the room. “You talk like that to your Top back home?” said Barbecue. “Don’t have to. We don’t give wankers that kind of responsibility.” He glanced at his kit laid out in front of him. “Now I got a question for you lads. Are you sure this is the right load out for this op?” |
12-18-2014, 04:22 PM | #133 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Repeater doubled over and dry heaved, staggering to maintain his forward momentum.
“I think you left the last of your lunch a mile back,” gasped Crank Case. “Right beside mine.” Repeater grunted and pointed ahead in the distance. “Totally worth it to see that.” They could just make out Beachhead on his hands and knees, throwing up violently. Wet Suit and Torpedo grabbed him under each arm and pulled him forward, his legs scrambling to take back his weight. “Though I’m going to tell Big Ben to never again suggest humping all our kit back to the Pit instead of taking the truck.” Crank Case laughed and heaved. He wiped his mouth and nodded. “When I did my course over there we did a few tabs in the hills. He was feared even by most of the blades. I think that’s why they sent him to the international LRRP school as cadre – to get him out of Hereford!” Crank Case dry heaved, pulled a canteen and rinsed his mouth. “Son of a bitch is probably on his second mug of tea right now.” They turned behind them to encourage Barbecue. “Almost there man. Then you can admire the puke stains down Beachhead’s sweater.” *** Beachhead shoved a stack of papers into Torpedo’s hand. “Get a grip on your team.” “Are we not performing to standard?” “Their off-duty behaviour is out of control.” Torpedo stared at Beachhead’s soiled shirt. “Are we not performing to standard?” Beachhead gritted his teeth. “Same time tomorrow.” Torpedo flipped through the papers as he walked over to the team, putting them down on the six-foot table covered in bottles of children’s electrolyte replacement drinks. Repeater and Crank Case took advantage of the pause to dip plugs of Redman. Big Ben rolled and lit a small cigarette. “These are the printouts of our instrumented attack. These are the critical time periods of assembly, breaching, snatch, and exfil.” They studied the documents, noting tiny gaps in formations. Wet Suit pointed to figures in one of the out buildings. “I’m not sure we’ve got this piece properly covered. I think I see what Big Ben was getting at this morning about kit. The range is too long to suppress from here,” he pointed at the main target building, “with SMGs.” Big Ben nodded. “I’m thinking we need some long weapons. Maybe even a sniper in overwatch here.” He pointed to one of the buildings. “I agree,” said Torpedo. “Clutch is out. I’ll see about getting Ambush in.” Big Ben sucked on the roll-up and glanced at the team. “Pint?” |
12-18-2014, 10:49 PM | #134 |
W.O.R.M.S. Commander
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Back in the US of A! (NoVA)
Posts: 10,649
|
Man I'm loving BigBen even more every post. Can't wait for my club figure. I take it you haven't downplayed the Seals I wonder how you feel about the Marines. What does Go Dry mean?
__________________
Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome. |
12-19-2014, 08:01 AM | #135 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Quote:
Marines . . . I always liked Gung Ho, and always thought Leatherneck was a dick. As a Corps, I think they're very good at self promotion. Almost as good as the Seals! Go dry = stop drinking. |
12-19-2014, 02:32 PM | #136 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Barbecue walked over to the table with a fistful of beers, followed by a waitress carrying snifters of sambuca and coffee beans.
“I thought we’d try something different from Drambuie tonight,” said Barbecue. “My first thought was some Irish Car Bombs.” Big Ben raised an eyebrow. “Irish car bombs are fookin’ shite Vauxhalls loaded with fertiliser and semtex. And paid for by Massachusetts wankers.” He turned to fix Barbecue’s gaze. “Kelly.” Barbecue rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That’d be my aunt. Sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, I thought better of it and got these instead.” He lit the drink on fire and then snuffed it with an empty, overturned snifter, waiting for the top glass to fill with fumes. He then quickly put the top glass on the table, upside down, slid a straw under the lip and sucked in the alcohol fumes. He knocked back the sambuca and crunched on the coffee beans. “How’s that strike you?” he asked, as the waitress prepared the rest of the drinks. “I’m glad tomorrow’s a rest day,” laughed Crank Case, putting a straw to his mouth. “Yeah,” said Big Ben. “Don’t suppose we could get a rugby game on.” He glanced at the others who shook their heads. “Oh well. I’ll go for a recovery run. Anyone want to keep me company?” Barbecue rubbed his calves and shrugged. “Sure.” Wet Suit nodded in agreement. “Sorry. I’ve got a commitment at the track,” said Crank Case. Torpedo and Repeater shook their heads. “Gun club plans.” |
12-20-2014, 11:10 AM | #137 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Barbecue wiped the sweat from his head as they slowed to a walk in front of the Pit.
“That was good,” he said. “I’ve been doing more weights than cardio recently.” Big Ben nodded, glancing at Barbecue’s bulk. “Right, well, I’ll keep going then,” he said. Barbecue and Wet Suit exchanged puzzled glances. “You’re not done?” “Nah,” said Big Ben, glancing at his watch. “That was just six miles. But I figured you’d be better with a short run.” Wet Suit’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a challenge. Let’s keep going.” Barbecue swallowed some water, thinking of his breakfast of a cup of black coffee, and nodded. “Just give me a moment.” He went into the building, rifled through a store room, and returned with a box of gel pouches and a couple of bottles of Gatorade. “Let’s go.” Big Ben shrugged, and they set off. An hour later, Barbecue coughed and held his hand over his side. “Want to stop?” asked Wet Suit. Barbecue swallowed hard. “No no. I’m good.” Twenty minutes later they turned onto a street lined with pawn shops, pay-day loan shops, and a couple of seedy strip bars. A homeless man stood on the sidewalk, urinating beside a passed out drunk. Barbecue glanced at Big Ben. “Are you lost, or do you really intend to run through this neighbourhood.” “It’s part of the route.” A half dozen young men in ripped t-shirts and spiked hair pushed off of walls and blocked their path. “What do we have here?” asked one, smiling. “I think we have some weekend joggers here to give us a charitable donation,” said another. Big Ben smiled and veered towards one of them, who stuck his hand out towards Big Ben’s chest. Big Ben grabbed the wrist, twisted it, drove a fist into the man’s throat and lunged towards a second man, slamming his forehead into the man’s nose. Wet Suit dropped a man with a hook, grabbed the wrist of another, yanked him off balance, and kicked his feet from under him. A thug pulled a knife on Big Ben, who pulled out a sock with a D-cell battery in it, whipped it into the knife-hand, then back towards the thug’s head, and proceeded to pummel the thug. Barbecue crossed his arms, looked at the remaining thugs, and held up a hand. “We’ll be back. You’d better have checked into a recruiting centre by then.” Their eyes widened. Barbecue nodded his head down the street. “Run.” He stepped over the prone figures, sucked on a Gatorade bottle, tossed it on the ground, and looked at Big Ben. “What was that?” “Cross training. Let’s go.” Forty minutes and two fights later they slowed to a walk at the Pit. “God I feel like I just ran a marathon,” gasped Barbecue, doubled over. Big Ben nodded. “Yeah. Twenty six miles. Easy pace.” Barbecue gave him an evil glare. “So SAS stands for savage and sadistic?” Big Ben smiled. “I always hoped it meant sex and sunshine.” “Come on. I’ll fix up some IVs,” said Barbecue to Wet Suit. He glanced at his bruised and cut knuckles. “And a couple of bowls of ice water. Maybe some Trenbolone.” Big Ben snorted and lit a cigarette. “You lads might have better cardio if you smoked more.” Wet Suit stretched his quads and winced. Big Ben flicked away his dog end, rolled his shoulders and glanced at his watch. “So, what time tonight?” Barbecue gave him a puzzled look. “Pint.” Barbecue and Wet Suit stared at each other, and Wet Suit nodded. “Yeah. I know a place. Shipwreck’ll be there. Good drinks, lots to look at, and we can probably get someone to rub the knots out of our legs.” He looked over at Big Ben. “Bring lots of ones.” |
12-21-2014, 09:44 AM | #138 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
Big Ben walked into the weight room, glanced around, and headed over to a bench where Duke was working out, being spotted by a man in a tight t-shirt, ironed shorts, and socks pulled up to his knees. He waited while Duke pushed off his final reps, taking long drags on his battered rolled up cigarette, listening to the conversation.
“There are a few skills that we can transfer to the degree program,” said the spotter. “Languages are easy. Nav, intel and briefings become geography, politics and public speaking. There’s some cross-over in marketing, psych and leadership. Plus phys ed, medical training and kinesiology. But a lot of our training is too highly classified for some of the academic institutions, and the rest is a grab bag of skills that don’t fit into any neat associate degree.” “What’s this,” interrupted Big Ben. “Shouldn’t you be worried about winning wars instead of trying to get your toms degrees?” “It’s about setting them up for the future,” replied the spotter. “Shite. This is the blue collar state school choice. People worried about the future are your public school boys, who all head into MI6.” Duke sat up, wiped himself with a towel and stared at Big Ben. “I have no idea what you just said, but you should refer to Colonel Courage as “Sir.” What do you want?” “I hear you called my RSM. I can only imagine how that conversation went.” “Get back to training,” snarled Duke, getting up. “And don’t smoke in here.” Big Ben took another drag and tapped some ash on the rim of a forty-five pound plate. “Are you coming on the op with us?” Duke raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger at Big Ben. “My job is to set the conditions for you to all come home.” “Hmm. Right.” Big Ben took another drag and flicked the dog end away. “Well maybe you’ve got soft with that desk job of yours. I don’t need telling how to come home, and neither do your lads.” He walked away, heading towards the locker room and paused, altered course and walked into the infirmary. Doc was taking IVs out of Wet Suit and Barbecue, who were draped in heat packs and rubbing their legs. “We’ll be fine,” grunted Wet Suit. Big Ben nodded, and glanced at a piece of paper taped to the wall, with the words “When I help the poor I’m called a saint. When I ask why they’re poor, I’m called a communist.” Big Ben caught Doc’s eye. “You’re a well read man. Where did you pick up street priest sayings?” “I’m also a chaplain’s assistant.” “Hmm. Well, all I can say is that if the Provos spent more time reading Câmara and less time reading Marighella they’d be tougher to combat.” Wet Suit nodded thoughtfully as he strapped on his gear. “That’s an interesting take on revolution.” “I think you’re missing the point,” said Doc. “No. When our enemies resort to arms it becomes easy to fight and kill them. It’s when they adopt nonviolent resistance that we, in the West at least, run into problems.” Wet Suit cracked his knuckles and read the quote. “That’s a philosophy that isn’t really covered in the classic military texts. But then they’re all pretty weak in revolutionary warfare.” “Exactly. Now come on, before Beachhead starts to think we’re skiving.” Doc watched them leave, and stared at the quote again. “That’s not the point,” he said quietly. |
12-22-2014, 09:12 AM | #139 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
“Briefing Room!” Beachhead shouted to the team.
The metallic rasping of weapons being unloaded and checked filled the small kill room. Torpedo tilted his head up and blew, watching the cordite vapours dance in the glare of his Surefire. He spat out a gritty black ball of phlegm waved to the team. “Let’s go.” They shrugged out of the heavy body armour and made their way to the briefing room, to find Duke standing in front of a large scale map and a projector. He wasted no time with pleasantries. “There’s been a change of plans.” Repeater rolled his eyes and spat small jet of tobacco juice into an empty Gatorade bottle. “The exfil will now be by air.” “So instead of disappearing into an urban jungle with various cut outs, we now have to head to an exposed pick up point.” stated Torpedo. “It’s about efficiencies. We’re combining this with another op.” Jaws dropped. “That’s fookin’ ridiculous,” said Big Ben. “I’ve just about had it with your attitude,” snapped Duke. “You’re even worse than Shipwreck. What now – this isn’t daring enough for you?” “It’s got nothing to do with daring and everything to do with complete stupidity.” “Do you always talk back like this?” “Only when talking to idiots. No more Op Mikado’s.” “What?” asked Duke. “Never mind. Here are the new details. It’s 1730. I suggest you apply some Delphi method and come up with a plan. Back brief me and Beachhead in the morning.” Duke and Beachhead left and Big Ben looked over at Torpedo. “What the Delphi method? Sounds like some kind of dodgy birth control.” “We all discuss options until we collectively come up with a plan.” “You mean like a Chinese parliament?” “Are you sure we’re all speaking English?” asked Barbecue. Ambush took the bottle from Repeater and spat into it. “So, what now?” he asked. The rest looked at each other and smiled. “Pint.” |
12-26-2014, 03:28 PM | #140 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2012
Location: Canada
Posts: 1,018
|
The embassy worker pulled his nondescript car to a halt in front of the banks of shipping containers unloaded from a freighter earlier that day. He walked down a row, looking for a specific one, paused, pulled out a key and undid the lock. He opened the doors, and was met by the stares of several men. Torpedo nodded and Crank Case pulled the chocks from under the wheels of the pickup truck. The team climbed in, Crank Case started the engine and they rolled out. The embassy worker closed the container, locked it, got in his car and led them out of town. He pulled over on the side of the road and waved them past him, did a u-turn, and returned to the embassy.
Torpedo checked off waypoints on the map as they approached a small town, pointing Crank Case down the twisting streets. They pulled over in front a cluster of building surrounded on three sides by a tall wall and on a fourth by thirteen-foot tall steel railings. They dismounted and Barbecue hauled a manually operated spreader-cutter to the fence. He slid the jaws over bottom horizontal rail and cut through it. He repeated the procedure a couple of feet down, and Repeater and Wet Suit hauled on the section, twisting it up enough for the team to squeeze through. Big Ben braced his back against a small outbuilding and Ambush stepped up used a knee and shoulder as a ladder to climb to the roof, lying prone and scanning the area through night sights. “Clear,” he whispered into his radio. The team moved quickly to a door. Barbecue pulled out a lock-pick and opened it, the team flowing past him into the building, weapons raised. Wet Suit motioned to a staircase and they bunched, ascending while covering all arcs. Big Ben opened a door looked inside, stepped back into the hall and shook his head. Repeater tried the next door, and then Wet Suit opened the door into the bedroom. A man and a woman lay asleep in bed and Barbecue pulled out a syringe of anaesthesia. He crept to the bed, put it against the woman’s neck and pushed it in as he clamped a hand over her mouth. She jolted momentarily, stiffened, and slumped back into the pillow. Simultaneously, Wet Suit slapped a piece of tape over the man’s mouth and pinned him to the bed. “Stop resisting,” he whispered, holding a silenced .22 pistol to the man’s head. Repeater zip-tied the man’s hands, and the dragged him to his feet. Barbecue opened a closet and pulled out a pair of uniforms with the crossed sabres and falcon rank insignia of a Major General, belts, shoes and a peaked cap, and shoved them in a duffel bag. He flashed a thumbs up and the team slipped out the door, down the stairs and back outside. They pushed the metal fence back into position and climbed into the truck. Torpedo picked up a radio handset. "Trucial Abysimian intelligence chief is secured. Moving to extraction point." Crank Case started the engine and pulled away from the compound. Last edited by LowTech; 12-27-2014 at 02:39 PM.. |
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