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07-07-2018, 12:45 PM | #1 |
Cobra Soldier
Join Date: Mar 2014
Location: Kansas City, MO
Posts: 7
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The Iron Grenadier special services branch sends their newest members of the Project through their commando training camp.
MARS-ART Project Part 3: The Wolf By: Chris Roberts The cadre woke us up somewhere around 2am. It was ungodly early is all I know for certain. We quickly dressed, then walked for a half hour to the pier, where we boarded a small sea-faring fishing boat. This thing was beat up, and as expected, it smelled like fish. I couldn’t see much in what dim light there was coming from the pier, but aside from the eight of us trainees and the regular three cadre on the boat, there was two inflatable boats lashed to the deck which seemed a little concerning to me. We were out in the North Sea, bobbing up and down in the waves, for what seemed like over an hour. We were wearing our standard training attire of black commando sweaters, black bdu pants, black boots, and black floppy boonie hats. The air was cold and wet, and the brims of our hats were dripping water down onto our shoulders. The rough ocean made me feel like I’d been on a Tilt-A-Whirl way to long, and a lump was building in the back of my throat along with a pounding behind my temples. A couple of guys were already dry-heaving over the side of the deck, but I just blocked them out of my mind. Good thing they hadn’t feed us since before sunset yesterday, and those were just some MRE-type rations we got while cleaning our weapons after a day of shooting at the range. “On your feet!” Sergeant Volkov, the Wolf, barks at us in his Russian-accented English. “Listen up. Boat Crew 1 will be, Hart, Mallory, Landis, Shaw.” This is our standard team, although we don’t always get assigned to training together, but it is good, as Hart, Shaw, and I have bonded after running a mission together, and now surviving these Spetsnaz trainers. The other two cadre have unlashed the two inflatable 4-man boats, and are holding them up, while Sergeant Volkov starts handing us stuff. “Each four-man crew gets one compass, one rope, and three paddles. Proceed from this location on an azimuth of 230 degrees, then get all of your crew and equipment to the orange flag. First team there, gets a reward.” Sergeant Volkov looks at each of us. To ask a question would be dumb, but he gives us that opportunity for him to belittle us, or to take away an oar, or who knows what else he can contrive. He continues in his loud voice, “Also, each crew gets one boat.” As he says this, the other training cadre toss the boat they are holding over the side of the fishing boat, into the choppy, turbulent North Sea. Knowing how this could go badly, I react as quickly as possible from being stiff and cold, and a few quick steps on the deck and I leap towards our little boat that was starting to drift away. I’ve got the compass clutched tightly in my hand, but I land with my entire upper body inside the boat, so only my lower legs and feet get wet. Desperately gripping the wet rubber, I scramble inside. Corporal Hart grabs our rope and throws one end to me and starts to pull me back towards the fishing boat. I see that the second boat crew were less successful, and while they grabbed their little boat, one of their guys is completely drenched, as if he fell into the ocean. Once settled, we start rowing towards what we believe, and what we hope, is back to dry land. We take turns with the three paddles, while one person monitors the compass. Holding a straight course is difficult as the ocean off the coast of Northern Scotland can be rough, and the wind is pushing us off direction. I estimate an hour and a half of paddling, and we see a shadow rising on the horizon in front of us. As we get to the rocky beach, we are cold, soaking wet, and sore from rowing. That was indeed quite the miserable morning work-out they gave us. Now to find this orange flag. I don’t know where the second boat crew is at, although we heard voices a few times, but that was a while ago. We move up and down the beach looking for the flag, as we have got to get it first. Corporal Shaw started hollering and waving his hands in the air, from about 400 yards North of where we landed. As all four of us gather with our boat, paddles, and rope, Shaw points up the cliff, “I think they are training us for another D-Day invasion.” The orange objective flag is at the top of this cliff that is about 5 stories tall. The cliff is not a complete ninety degrees vertical, but it is relatively steep. “Let’s tie the paddles to the front of the boat with one end of the rope. Then we’ll haul the boat up to the ledges with the length of rope.” We get to work with Shaw’s suggestion. With the sun rising behind us, we are able to climb the vertical cliff without falling, and about a third of the way up was a decent ledge to rest and pull the boat up to us. But as we are pulling our rubber raft up the rocks, we see the second boat crew arrive. They get to work about 50 feet to our left, and copy our technique. The race to the top is on, but if one of our four guys falls because he’s rushing, he’s likely to get banged and scraped up, then we’ll have to haul him up the cliff via the rope as well. Sore back muscles from paddling in the ocean, have to continue their strain as we pull ourselves up the rocks further and further, but a couple more broad ledges eroded into the rock face, allow us a little rest and a place to haul the boat up to. Touching grass growing on the edge of the cliff, is a bit of a relief, but we still have to get all four of us up, and haul that little boat the rest of the way to the top, while the second crew is not far behind. Mallory and Hart heave the boat up to us with the rope, while Shaw and I hang on to their belts, to keep them from toppling over the angled cliff edge. With all four of our boat crew, and all equipment next to the orange flag, we let out a celebratory cheer, but shoulder muscles are too worn out to throw our hands in the air. Sergeant Volkov has walked over to our location, and directs us to a spot where the other two cadre appear to have food containers set-up on a folding table on the grass next to a dirt road. “It is about time you girls got here. Go over and get you a hot meal.” Turning to the second boat crew that jogs up a couple minutes behind us, Volkov scowls at them. “You four, get both of these boats to that cargo truck. Unload the truck, then load this equipment and tie it down. Then you can get some food. You got fifteen minutes, so stop standing around, kakashkas!” This was just the start of Day Three of our twenty-one days of commando training with the ART Project Cadre. Days One and Two consisted of multiple training circuits involving a long obstacle course, with a shooting range at the end of it. It was a fun shooting course with knockdown targets, and plywood walls. The circuits were ran in pairs, with five minutes between each pair, with the obstacles and running the route taking about 15 minutes to complete while the range took only a minute of shooting. After each set of runs, the ART Cadre would change the two weapons on the bench when you arrived, and you had no idea what to expect as you ran up. We had gone through the MARS Uzi (I spent two years in the 1st Castle Guard Battalion so I was quite familiar with this standard Iron Grenadier weapon), suppressed MP5, Soviet AK47, British L85, American M4, but the surprise was the scoped semi-automatic Chinese SKS, which might have been put to great use by the Viet Cong in the ‘60’s but was purposefully cumbersome for us on a quick-target range. Sitting on the grass and finishing a hot meal felt good, but it wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning yet, so I knew we had a lot ahead of us. The second boat crew had unloaded from the cargo truck all eight of our rucksacks that had been pre-packed yesterday and left at our barracks. I figured, riding in the back of that truck was not on the list of our next activities. With a heavily-faked British accent, “okay you blokes,” Volkov barks out our next instructions. “Grab your rucks, and I hope your canteens have water. We’ll meet you back at the barracks. Remember, the chow hall has set hours if you want lunch. Next formation is at 1pm, do not be late, or the whole group is doing this again tomorrow.” The cadre quickly load the truck and drive off. Mallory, a former British SAS Operator, inquired with our training group of eight, “anybody know where we are, or know this area?” Nobody knew the exact location, but several of us that had been a regular Iron Grenadier for a few years before this commando training camp, and we figured if we headed South and slightly West, we should be able to find some terrain or roads that we’d recognize. Not knowing how far we had to go, we each quickly changed to dry socks, and started down the road at a quick ruck-march pace. Here we were, eight guys in black military attire, each carrying a surplus British Army rucksack, walking in two columns down a dirt road in the middle of Scotland, with no idea where we are going, and hoping that the local Police do not hassle us, as we have no identification cards. We found our way back, and in time for lunch before the next 1pm formation. That afternoon, the entire afternoon, was spent on the PT / exercise field, practicing close-combat techniques. This included everything from Spetsnaz hand-to-hand fighting techniques that the training cadre loved to practice on us and left many a bruise, to silently eliminating a guard sentry, disarming an opponent, and subduing a live captive. The next morning, all of us were sore, between rowing a boat in the North Sea, to being tossed to the dirt during hand-to-hand practice, so a four-kilometer run first thing in the morning was about as easy a PT workout as we could hope for. After breakfast we were kitted up in our BDU’s, combat vests, backpacks, and submachine guns and loaded in a helicopter. While helicopters are kind of fun, we had no idea where we were going next or what the next exercise would be until we were almost to the target site. The cadre had us fast-rope down, sliding down the thick rope from the helicopter, landing a short distance from the obstacle course. We then ran the course in full gear, lugging packs and weapons over and through obstacles, again ending at the shooting range, moving through plywood walls shooting target silhouettes that would pop up as we entered then drop back down once a bullet hit the target’s center mass. Once all eight trainees had completed the course, we drank some water and walked back to the beginning of the course and ran the whole thing again. Throughout the 21-day training cycle with the ART Project cadre, running the obstacle course to the shooting range was common, as well as every three to four days we could spend the afternoon practicing the same close-combat drills. We also spent several days practicing recon patrolling with lots of stealth tactics, both in daylight and at night. The cadre seemed to enjoy the exercises that included the trainees patrolling the forest at midnight with generation-2 night vision devices, while the cadre in their highest-tech night vision gear would set up booby-traps with smoke grenades attached to trip wires, then they’d ambush us with paintball guns, if we didn’t see them first. The course trained all of us on civilian skydiving gear and military high-altitude low-opening (HALO) parachuting; which HALO was new to me, but some of our group was well experienced in both and would go on to do more parachute training with the Iron Anvils. Most of the training was not elaborate or new, but was about the repetition of techniques, leading to command’s knowledge that the individual commandos of the MARS ART Project each had the determination as well as the abilities to complete a variety of missions. - -- “Congratulations Grenadiers.” Captain Gregor, the Officer in charge of daily operations of the ART Project walks the row of eight trainees, eyeing each of them with a scowl born from several years of leading Russian special forces troops. Although the purple scar above the eyebrow probably adds to the menacing effect. “You have survived twenty-one days of initiate training. “Starting with day twenty-two, you have new orders. Kraus, you have orders assigning you back to the 1st Castle Guard Battalion.” Kraus and the other trainees know he just failed, and will not continue on with this Iron Grenadier special operations group. “Hart, Landis, Shaw, as you three have already been operational, we have a real-world mission for you. Report back to Echo Detachment this evening, and meet with their intelligence operative, Agent Foxtrot, as you’ll be accompanying her on a long range reconnaissance. This is my favorite kind of final test, because if you do not get the intel or you get killed, then you have failed. The rest of you don’t worry, you get to go out in the real world as well. For your final field exercise, Sergeant Volkov is taking you to Finland. You’ll get to do a HALO jump enroute to your recon. Report to the Command Post at 0600 hours tomorrow for briefing. Dismissed, Commandos.” |
07-07-2018, 12:48 PM | #2 |
Cobra Soldier
Join Date: Mar 2014
Location: Kansas City, MO
Posts: 7
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Following their training under the tutelage of the former-Spetsnaz Sergeant Volkov, a trio of commandos are sent to escort their attached intelligence spy on a recon mission.
MARS-ART Project Chapter 4: Tiger Recon By: Chris Roberts Shortly after dusk, I pull the satellite phone out of my backpack and make a call back to base. If all goes as it is supposed to, the GPS signal for the call should be rerouted to show up as if it is coming from the beach along the Adriatic Sea, instead of coming from the rugged hills 150 miles inland from there, inside Croatia. “Hey Jag, this is Charlie.” Corporal Jager, the tall, lean assistant for Echo Detachment answers the phone after a few rings. He works as McHardy’s driver and commo-guy and is someone always willing to help anybody out at any time. We are using pre-arranged codewords, and I’m confident any message I pass to him will get deciphered and passed along properly to the Iron Grenadier special services branch Operations Sergeant, Warrant Officer McHardy. “Charlie, how are you doing? I heard you were at the beach.” “The beach is great. Foxy has been looking good, running around in the sand. Hey man, can you let Daddy-Mac know that we will be going to dinner tonight late, and should be catching a flight out of here first thing in the morning.” “I’ll let him know. Take it easy. And you know what they say, if she’s easy, …” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I cut him off before he continues and hang up the call. I secure the phone back inside my pack, grab my night vision goggles, and place my pack next to Shaw’s pack in the ditch. “Good luck, Landis,” Shaw whispers to me as he gives me a thumbs up, indicating they are ready. Agent Foxtrot, our Intelligence branch attaché and temporary team leader for this reconnaissance mission, has already moved forward to her closer sniper position, now it is my turn to move past her. I start out at a low crouch, and move away from the OP (observation post) to the side first, before moving forward. I approach the backside of the two old barns that we’ve been watching as quietly as possible, my suppressed Uzi sub-machine gun at the ready. I know Foxtrot has her sniper rifle trained on the nearest guard, but the couple of guards outside are just meandering back and forth between the barns and the trucks parked in the front, then will occasionally pull out their cellphones, as we can see the screen light up as they check their messages. Moving forward I am exposed, but I have confidence in that if the crap hits the fan, Shaw and Hart are at the OP each with an AK-47 and will lay down a huge base of covering fire for just two guys. The night has turned very dark when moving amongst the trees, but with the old-model PVS-7B night vision goggles, the world is clearer, just in lighter and darker shades of green. It does not appear these terrorist-smugglers have any night vision devices, as anytime they hear a squirrel run too close to them they flick on a flash light. I should be blended in with the dark trees of this hillside forest, dressed in all black fatigues and a green & black tactical vest. As I reach the back of the closest barn, I squat down and feel the ground with my hand as I shuffle up next to the building trying not to disturb any of the old rusted farm equipment that is littered behind the building. Kneeling down, I’m concealed from view, and I await Foxtrot to join me. One of the skills practiced during our training last week was slow, deliberate, stealth walking. While it took me almost 30 minutes to traverse the 300 meters from the OP to the barn, I did discover and bypass one grenade booby trap, and I made it without an active guard discovering me. It will take Foxtrot another 15 to 20 minutes to reach me. While I wait, I can hear noise inside the barn, but I cannot make out what is being said, but I think it is just small talk as two guys carry in heavy wooden crates and stack them. I’ve heard that Agent Foxtrot used to be part of some British spy agency, and worked with British SAS in Iraq. She definitely has some skill and presents no sign of fear or hesitation when in the field. As she slips up beside me at the first barn she moves smooth and quietly and tucks up next to the barn. We kneel back to back listening to everything around us. She is wearing her black bodysuit that is made of a MARS Industry puncture resistant weave that won’t snag or rip on thorns or sharps edge, and protects against indirect cuts from knives or shrapnel. Over that skin-tight outfit that clings to her is a camo-net shawl that drapes over her shoulders and is currently pulled up over the back of her head, covering her dark red hair that is in a ponytail under the camouflage. She taps me on the shoulder and we sneak to the other corner of the barn, we can hear the two guards talking to the other two guys that had been unloading the crates, but that second pair doing the work just went into the second barn, that is a little further away. We are too far away to hear anything coming from that barn, except a couple of hoots and hollers as those guys enter. These smugglers must have just got back from somewhere, but I would venture a guess that the two guys standing out front of the barns near the pick-up trucks are the two newest guys, that are stuck on guard duty. Foxtrot leads and as one guard move to the opposite side of this barn and the other behind a truck, we move across the grassy expanse slipping up next to the second barn. We crawl next to an old tractor-pulled hay rake and conceal ourselves amongst some tall grass around the farm machinery. From this position, we can see light coming through a couple slats in the barn siding, and the loudest noises around are definitely coming from inside. As Foxtrot prepares her handheld recording device that has a gooseneck end to pick up audio and video, I take off my goggles and peak through an enlarged part of the crack into the barn. I can’t see much, except the center of an open barn. The building is big, as it has one surplus military cargo truck parked in the middle, yet could easily hold three more cargo trucks, plus it appears to have a loft of some sort above. Hearing a voice coming from out of sight inside the barn, I only make out the voice holler something about “soon” to the four guys in their 20’s & 30’s that I can see next to the truck. Then an older Slavic male walks into view. Oddly he is not wearing a shirt, just green & black tiger stripe camouflage pants, and as he turns away from me to hand a bottle of vodka to his associates I see a large tattoo across his back, of a tiger. Foxtrot taps me on the arm, signaling she was ready. I lean away, and slip my night vision goggles back on my head as Foxtrot inserts her recording probe. I know a little bit of the Serbian language from a prior Army deployment, but with my minimal knowledge and the sounds being muffled, I cannot make out anything being said inside. We sit in the tall grass behind the barn and wait for at least thirty minutes but seems longer as the temperatures start to drop, and our muscles get cold and stiff from sitting still. I just hope the recording has good intel. We hear another vehicle approaching down the dirt road that ends at these two barns, which gives us a little bit of anxiety of the unknown. The sounds make me think it is a civilian truck, not another large cargo truck. The vehicle comes to a stop and the engine turns off on the opposite of the large barn from Foxtrot and I. At that angle, I don’t think Shaw and Hart will have any line of sight to the new vehicle either. I hear more voices, and I believe the two guards that had been meandering around the front of the two barns are talking to the driver. Yet the number of voices grow, including a female voice. This does increase the adrenaline moving through my body, while Shaw and Hart wait, having no idea what is going on, Foxtrot and I know there is at least five males inside of this terrorist-smuggling faction that we were sent to gather intelligence on, plus at least three males and one female outside and possibly more. Now I can make out another sound, the sound of someone walking through the grass on the outside of the barn; coming towards us down the left side. I slowly lean back and twist slightly, pressing my right shoulder against the barn while gently raising the barrel of my suppressed Uzi. We are partially concealed in some tall grass between the old farm machinery and the wooden barn walls, but a sweep of a flashlight could expose us. The footsteps are almost to the corner of the barn. Foxtrot leaves her sniper rifle laying in the grass, but silently withdraws a small pistol from her grey shoulder satchel which I can feel the metal outline of the pistol pressing against the outside of my left arm, as she lets me know she is ready to back me up. The footsteps stop, I can see a shadowy silhouette of a man partially protruding from the corner of the building, and the pad of my first finger rests lightly on the trigger of my weapon. Preparing for the world to erupt into a firefight, a moment of horrifying relief comes instead, as I do not see a flashlight turn on but instead I hear the sound of a zipper. A stream of piss hits the tall grass only a few feet from me, I don’t flinch, I stare at the head silhouette and keep my finger on the trigger, as he could still lean around the corner and look down which would result in his face being pulverized by 9mm bullets. Once he’s done, he turns and leaves, going back to the front of the barn. Foxtrot squeezes my arm for a second, letting me know she thinks it is clear. My mind goes back to the voices at the vehicles in front of the barn. Now I think it sounds more like the guys are talking to what may be two females, as it sounds like one of the guys was telling a joke and one girl laughed while a different girl said “no”. Before I could discern what was going on, they go into the barn. By the ruckus I can hear from inside, the party is getting wound up and the girls may be the entertainment. I creep to the left corner of the barn, and slowly peek around the edge. I no longer see anybody moving outside. I take off my night vision goggles, and by the glow from the light on the front of this big barn and the smaller one next to it, I see the same two old beat-up pick-up trucks, plus a shiny black SUV parked next to them, that looks much newer than those old trucks. Our team is definitely at the right spot at the right time for this recon. Moving back next to Agent Foxtrot, I whisper into her ear, “no movement out front. I’m going to move up with tracking devices.” She pulls her head back and looks me hard in the eyes. I feel confident I can crawl up there without being noticed. She leans back in, “slow and cautious,” is all she whispers back. I put the night vision goggles into a pouch on the back of my belt, and double check that the two magnetic tracking devices that are in my left chest pocket I can get out quickly. Crawling with my belly to the ground, I keep my butt down and my head barely up, as I crawl along the edge of the barn. I move slow and deliberate, pausing every five feet. I can’t make out the voices inside the barn, that has turned into a party, but I see a sliver of light coming from inside. As I pause, I scan the front for any movement, then look through the slim opening in the barn siding. I see one guy standing there with an AK47 slung on his shoulder, and as I follow his gaze from his big cheesy grin, I see the old guy with the tiger tattoo trying to dance with one of the girls, who is wearing a short sun dress. He’s got one arm around her waist and with the other he’s grasping a bottle of vodka, but she does not look impressed to be dancing with a guy that looks old enough to be her father. All I can think is, ‘keep celebrating for another 15 minutes you creepy old dude, then we’ll be out of here’. I continue my crawl to the vehicles, and still no sign of the guards, thus I suspect the guy inside with the AK was supposed to be protecting them from guys like me. With no guards out front, I jump up and dart across the short distance and lay down next to the black SUV. It’s a Volkswagen SUV, fairly new, so whoever drove the girls in, has some money or significant backing. I fear an alarm on the vehicle, so I crawl to the front ensuring I make no contact with the doors or body panels, and without touching any thing I reach up past the front bumper and gently attach the magnetic backed tracker inside the engine compartment. The first thing I touched it didn’t stick, but nor did an alarm go off, so I finally made contact with a metallic piece of the engine and the tracker stuck, so I quickly crawl backwards while still watching the front door for any movement. Crawling to the back of the three vehicles, I visually scan all the way around me, but I still see no movement. I take the risk, and sprint to the barn door of the first barn, that is slightly smaller. The door is closed and padlocked shut with a chain going through the two doors. No way to get in silently from there, so upright I quickly walk around to the far side of the building, which also puts me back into view of Shaw and Hart at the observation post in the woods. I hold one hand up to my head, making a circle, so with the low-light binoculars they should see my ‘okay’ signal and know everything is still good. Just as I put my hand down, things get a little less good, as I hear the barn door open at the big barn. With the packed dirt where the vehicles are parked, I can’t tell which way the footsteps are going, and I don’t dare peek my head around the corner. I kneel down next to the little barn and ready my weapon for somebody to come around the corner of the building. I hear footsteps closer, just before I hear the padlocked chain on the front door of this barn move. As the barn door open I hear two male voices speaking Serbian. As the voices muffle, I can tell they’ve entered the barn. They are inside for less than a minute. As they keep talking as they leave the barn, I make out the words for ‘bag of cocaine’, ‘Brazil’, and ‘girls’ something ‘Algeria’. One thing I did not hear is the padlock being relocked on the door. But as I hear both voices get further away, I take the chance to peek around the corner. There are two Caucasian males, one carrying an AK and the other a duffel bag. As they enter the larger barn where the party is going on, I slowly open the door enough to slip inside to this first and smaller barn. Stacked in the middle of the space I count three stacks of crates, each stack with different size wooden crates. I ease the latch open on the top crate of the left stack, and inside is a pair of AT-4 anti-tank rockets. Looking around the barn, while one side has old cobweb covered farm equipment, the other side has three pallets of ammunition. Not having time to inventory the stuff, I take out my second tracking device, activate it, reach into the inside corner of the top crate with the AT-4s, and stick in under some packing material. I hope by the time they find the tracker, Headquarters will have already tracked the destination of these crates. As I secure the latch on the crate, I hear someone outside the barn door, thus I only have time to duck behind this stack of crates of explosive anti-tank rockets, before I’m discovered by the enemy. Taking cover and being as quiet as possible, I think only one person has entered the barn. Then I hear the distant sound of a lighter. It seems somebody else is outside the barn, possibly smoking. Squatting down with both feet under me, I try not to get too tense, but I have my sub-machine gun at the ready behind this stack of crates that is barely covering me in the dark barn. Whoever is in the barn with me is at the stack of crates on the right, which were smaller crates that looked like standard grenade packing. As he opens the crate, his flashlight kicks on and from the glow and shadows in the open room I can tell he has the light pointing into the small crate. I glance around the edge of the crates I’m behind, and from the glow of the light silhouetting this guy he seems big. As this big husky Slavic dude rummages through the grenade crate my anxiety level keeps gradually rising. I felt confident in the hand-to-hand combat skills that were drilled into us, and I know those Spetsnaz techniques are good, but being ten feet away from this guy that is the size of an NFL lineman makes you question yourself, and if he turns and spots me with the flashlight I will have to take him out with my hands without him making noise to alert the others. I can feel the sweat running down the insides of my arms as it trickles down, then I wonder will he smell me perspiring with anxiety sweat. Even with a big suppressor, the Uzi I’m carrying will make some noise that the guard outside smoking could hear. I’ve laid the submachine gun in the soft hay, and drawn out my knife from its vest pouch. The knife is more of a utility device, as the three-inch blade won’t do much good stabbing this guy in his beefy chest or back, so I’ll have to go for neck or face. It’s times like this that I wish I had a bigger combat knife, although those things get in the way and snag on stuff when you are trying to crawl stealthily around. No point second guessing myself now, I’ll use what I got, and I’ll use his tall height to my advantage. I can move low and fast, while his tall, bulky body will rely on brute strength. If he faces me, I’ll charge in, deflect his hands with my left arm while I strike upwards with the knife in my right hand and plunge it up under his jaw. He might not die instantly if I don’t go deep enough, but should keep him from yelling. Then I have to be prepared to make the short dash back, grab the Uzi, and take aim on the doorway incase his buddy hears any commotion. I take a deep breath, and slowly and quietly let it out, I’m ready, focused and centered, but completely still. ‘Mister Bulky’, turns away from me and yells something in Serbian, and while I can’t see from my hiding spot, it sounds like his buddy is at the open doorway as he responds. I can also smell the trace of cigarette smoke. The barn having old hay on the ground, and currently having crates of ammunition, rocket launchers and grenades, this guy is staying outside with his cigarette, but that also means that even if I shot the first one, the guy at the door will be able to be gone and rally everyone else at the second barn from the party, and this whole mission is blown. With my heightened senses, I can feel the tension in the air. The guy at the door starts talking forcefully, and Bulky slams the lid on the crate closed, and the light from the flashlight whirls around the room, with the glow ending towards the front of the barn. Hearing the footsteps in the debris of the barn floor going away from me, I take a chance and peak around the corner from the stack of crates I’m behind, and the guy in the doorway is lit by the flashlight. He’ll be unable to see me being blinded by his pissed off comrade, but I can see he has a cigarette in his left hand while the right hand is on the grip of an AK assault rifle that is slung across his chest. He moves out of Bulky’s way just before he gets to him, then closes and locks the barn’s front door. Crap, I might have just got locked in. Listening intently, I can’t hear anything happening outside. I walk up to the barn door and gently see if it will open. It does not. The chain draws tight that laces through the two big wooden doors. Both barns are older buildings that have been here for a few decades without much care and left out in this forest. I could probably break out a side panel and get out of the building, but I’ll leave evidence that someone was here, then they’ll search everything, and would probably find the two tracking devices I planted. Earlier while approaching the backside of this barn that is closest to our OP, I noticed vent slots below the peak of the barn on the back. I have a small pen-sized miniature flashlight with a red lens cover that is stored in a small utility pouch on my belt, so I pull it out. With the red glowing beam, I can see the rafters above me, and what may be a way out just below the peak of the roof. Typically, I do not keep a sling on my submachine gun, as the sling gets tangled on things or makes unnecessary noise in the brush, but for climbing I keep a spare sling in my pants cargo pocket, so I get it and attach it to the Uzi. Using a piece of farm equipment as a step, I reach up and grab ahold of a dirty wooden rafter. With the mini-flashlight held in my mouth, I pull myself up. I feel like this is part of training camp’s obstacle course, as I heave myself up to the top of the beam, then balancing on it walk one foot in front of the other to the end of the building. At the peak of the roof, I do find an old triangle shaped piece that has horizontal vent slots. My luck has changed as the piece is loose, so I wiggle it quietly and pull it out. From my new vantage point, while standing the opening is head height, which I can look out over the woods behind the barns, and I look down to see the ground about eighteen feet below the opening. As I’m looking down, a bit of movement catches my eye, and Agent Foxtrot has come from my left and is now at the corner of this barn. She looks up and signals me to come on down. The opening is not big, is well above the single wooden beam of the rafters I’m standing on, and I don’t want to fall face-first from two stories up. Doing this quietly is not going to be easy. Sticking my head through the hole, I pull my body up and out the slot until my waist is resting on the bottom of the opening. With one hand I reach up and able to get a small grip on the edge of the roof, then with the other hand bring the slung Uzi out of the opening and drop it to the grass below so it doesn’t make noise banging on the wooden sides of the barn. Using the roof edge as a grip point, I ease my body out, then grab back ahold of the ledge of the opening where the vent used to be. With one hand I pull the triangle vent piece back up and wedge it in the opening at an angle. Hopefully it will not fall out tonight, and that nobody notices the opening. Hanging for a moment by both hands, I look down and see Foxtrot is looking around the corner of the barn towards where the vehicles are parked, and she does not seem to tense. Hoping everybody else is inside the second barn, I push off slightly and drop to the ground. I quickly snatch up my Uzi and turn towards Foxtrot. Foxtrot moves next to me, “Landis, you good?”, she whispers. I reply with a nod and a thumb up. She indicates to get out of there. I move out at a quick pace while crouched over and take cover behind the first big tree before looking back. I catch a glimpse of Foxtrot moving behind some trees off to the side, but I also see two separate flashlights walking around the barns. It seems the guards have come back outside, so either we got lucky or she must have understood them talking and knew the guards were being told to check around the two barns. I lay down behind the big tree, and observe while the guards, each with a flashlight in one hand and an AK assault rifle in the other, make a lap past both buildings and shine their lights all around. After they’ve gone past and the guards are back at the front of the barns, we move back to the observation post. Once at the OP I brief Foxtrot, Shaw and Hart about the two tracking devices I planted. Foxtrot is pleased about the trackers being planted on the SUV and in the crate of anti-tank rockets, but is significantly displeased with the fact that I almost got caught. She orders us out of there, and says we’ll debrief after we pull back from the barns. Shaw secures the low light binoculars in his backpack, while Hart pulls down the camo net hanging at the front of the OP. We each grab our packs, and one-by-one silently slip out of the dry ditch we are laying in. We move about two miles away until we found a thick grove of trees to take refuge in. Agent Foxtrot fills me in on the highlights of what she heard, after I tell her about all the weaponry and ammunition being stored in the smaller barn. The older male was definitely the leader of this small group, and they were celebrating getting back from Brazil. She also heard something about heading for Algeria the next day to trade for what seemed like they said village or tribal villagers. Hopefully S-2 Intelligence back at Iron Grenadier Headquarters can make out the video and audio that Foxtrot acquired and help determine the identity of who is involved and what this terrorist-smuggler group is involved in. I thought that Warrant Officer McHardy and Agent Foxtrot gathered information from the base camp that we assaulted a month ago, but our team has not been told any definite details yet, so hopefully this will open up more information. In the meantime, we sleep for a couple of hours in pairs while the other two stay alert. Just before first light we move out of our position and head for our rendezvous point to get out of the Balkans, and head back to Scotland. |
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