The Halo Effect [MT - Semi-Open]

[Layarteb]

The Halo Effect

Introduction

The Empire of Layarteb and its predecessor, the Republic of Layarteb were first introduced to the violence of South America in the early 1960s. The Venezuelan Civil War erupted in 1964 and carried straight through until 1983. It's one of the biggest influences on the Second Layartebian Civil War (1977 - 1980) and it ended only after the formation of the Empire and its subsequent conquest by the Empire (1981 - 1983). Thereafter, Venezuela continued to rear its ugly head into Layartebian politics in 1988 and again in 2007 when two separate insurrections ground the country to a halt. Subsequently, the Venezuelan influence led to the Layartebian war against the Amazonian Republic and its subsequent annexation in the early summer of 2007. It further brought the Empire to a war with the independent Mato Grosso in the fall of 2007. Officially regarded as a draw, the plague of Venezuelan insurrection remains dormant as of early 2009, ready to strike again.

Aside from Venezuela, the state of Colombia was invaded and annexed by the Empire in the early 1990s (1993 - 1995). Colombian influence on Layartebian politics dates back as far as Venezuelan but is far more muted. The Republic of Layarteb committed its first forces to the Venezuelan Civil War in 1967 and subsequently withdrew them in 1977 at the onset of the Second Layartebian Civil War. During this time, Layartebian special operations forces planned and conducted "illegal" raids across the Venezuelan border into Colombia to fight against drug cartels who were both funding and fighting with the anti-government rebels. These anti-government rebels included nationalists, communists, and anarchists, banded together in an unholy union with the single aim of destabilizing the government in Caracas and installing their own. They ultimately did not succeed, thanks largely to Layartebian influence but had they, their own infighting would have progressed the civil war for years more. With their common enemy gone, the single factor unifying them would have eroded quickly and left them a prey to one another.

Layartebian success against Colombian cartels was limited, at first, increasing in the early 1970s. The withdrawal of Layartebian forces from Venezuela in 1977 allowed the drug cartels in both Colombia and Venezuela to blossom exponentially. Even during the 1980s and early 1990s, after Venezuela was firmly in the hands of the Empire, the drug cartels flourished, despite severe, focused, and highly responsive resistance from the Layartebian military, police, and government. In the mid-1990s, the influence of the cartels began to wane, thanks largely in part to the Layartebian conquest of Colombia. By 1998, their influence had severely eroded, thanks to an intensive War on Drugs, which unofficially began in 1995. During this War on Drugs, Layartebian domestic and foreign policies focused on eroding the market that provided the cartels with their capital. Strict, severe, and even draconian penalties imposed by Layartebian law meant big jail time for offenders, from simple users to the big time dealers. Heavy-duty traffickers received life sentences and captured cartel bosses were executed. The message was clear and the cartels rolled up and took to hiding. Some traveled north to Mexico where they set up shop in the Yucatán region. Despite the Yucatán state being conquered by the Empire in 1993, it remained under loose control for more than a decade. In 2007, when the states of Campeche, Chiapas, Quantiana Roo, Tabasco were conquered, the drug cartels were forced to abandon their new base of operations. Their market within the Empire had almost evaporated by 2007 thanks to strict and intensive enforcement of Layartebian laws. The War on Drugs was called a success in 2007 and considered to be a closed matter following the fall of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands in late 2006. Secret operations against drug lords in Eurasian Afghanistan were also conducted and it seemed that the drug cartels could hide nowhere.

However, the drug cartels still plotted and planned. Some moved to safe ground in Brazil, away from the Layartebian government and military. Those that moved to Mato Grosso were spared the military after the Brasnorte Offensive was conducted, which brought the Imperial Layartebian Military all the way south to Brasnorte. They made no further advances southward, a move that was popular at home and certainly abroad. By 2009 though, some of the cartels had resurfaced here and there, including in both Colombia and Venezuela, using the mountains in both countries to hide their operations. Factories were once again constructed underground and the Imperial Layartebian Military remained entrenched with duties elsewhere. With the ever-growing possibility of another full-fledged civil war on Layartebian soil, the drug cartels saw opportunities both at home and abroad. The government was occupied thanks to piracy in the Caribbean, domestic terrorism, and enemies encroaching on the Empire's borders. By the time the government would realize that it was time to resume the War on Drugs, it was too late, they were too entrenched elsewhere to commit forces. Instead, they would have to turn to a strategy used against the dangerous Cauca Cartel in the 1990s, shortly after the capital of Bogotá fell to Layartebian forces in 1995.

The year was 1995 and the War on Drugs had unofficially begun using a single group of five soldiers who ceased to exist on paper and on record. They were handpicked from the Imperial Layartebian Army and Marine Corps and were banded together for a single mission that had only one predefined end, the capture or death of the Cauca Cartel's leadership, the destruction of their fields and factories, and the seizure of their weapons and funds. That single group was formed and given the unofficial nickname "Force Tiger" and they were branded part of the ever increasing Layartebian black ops community. Up to the task, those five men set a precedent for the rest of the Empire's counter-drug operations forever thanks to nearly limitless resources and absolutely no political influence. The soldiers of Force Tiger were given their goals, given their equipment, and given a single command, "Call us when you're done..." They accepted the task, knowing that they weren't going to receive medals or recognition for their mission's successes and if they failed, they wouldn't need to worry about being chewed out, their remains would never be found.

Maps

Click for larger file [1.11MB] (opens in same tab/window)

Table of Contents

Part I: A Paradise Lost

• Chapter I: Ghost Wars (-2-)
• Chapter II: First In (-11-)

Characters

CPO. Luis Ramos (left) & 1LT. José Alvarez (right)


SSG. Jesus Castillo


SSG. Carlos Mendoza


MSG. Marco Peña

Notes
The story you're about to read will be updated periodically and is listed as semi-open. If you wish to participate, please telegram me (do not post here) and I will be happy to give you the chance but please be forewarned, if you aren't a good RPer you won't be allowed to participate. I say this as such because I am a writer and I don't like to see stories of mine mucked up with noobishness. For further information, inquire within, as they say and let this not scare you off either. If you wish to see samples of other things I have written check the bottom links in my signature or simply click the link for my Roleplaying Guide. You won't be disappointed. Now, without further ado, here we go...

[Layarteb]

Chapter I
Ghost Wars

November 9, 1995 - 20:18 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 150 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(3° 46' 39.49" N, 78° 43' 35.27" W)

The Imperial Layartebian Navy, a massive blue water navy with the ability to project its force and strength into littoral areas, had settled a carrier battle group just eighty nautical miles off the southern Colombian coast. The battle group was centered around the massive Improved Nimitz class aircraft carrier, a nearly eleven-hundred foot long, one hundred and four thousand ton floating airbase. On this floating airbase were eighty-eighty aircraft, which included two squadrons of twelve F-14D Tomcats, three squadrons of twelve F-18C Hornets, one squadron of twelve A-6E Intruders, one squadron of four EA-6B Prowlers, one squadron of four C-2A Greyhounds, one squadron of four E-2C Hawkeyes, one squadron of two SH-60F Seahawks, and one squadron of two HH-60H Seahawks. The capital of Colombia had fallen in early February and combat operations ceased in late March after a long, seventeen-month war of conquest. Colombia was just one of many nations to fall to the Empire in the Conquests, which had begun in 1981 with the start of the Venezuelan Conquest, a war that ended in 1983 and claimed tens of thousands of lives, both military and civilian. The Colombian Conquest was no softer and the death toll, two years after the war had officially started stood solidly at two hundred and sixty Layartebian casualties, twenty-nine thousand Colombian casualties, and over thirty thousand civilian casualties. The Empire had offered the government in Bogotá the option of peaceful annexation but they had rejected the notion on October 27, 1993. Two weeks later, the first bombs fell on Bogotá from high-flying B-1B Lancer bombers. Since the war had come to a halt, the Empire moved on, currently focusing on Costa Rica and Panama to the north and Ecuador and Peru to the south, both of which promised to be much easier thanks to the hell Colombia went through. The carrier battle group off the coast of southern Colombia was flying operations mostly against Ecuadorian rebels but the government in Quito wasn't very confident in their abilities to defend against the Empire and its fifty-eight million-man strong Imperial Layartebian Military. It represented a massive portion of the Layartebian populace and the Ministry of Defense was already undertaking steps to reduce the military in size, thanks largely to the willingness of both Costa Rica and Panama to be annexed into the Empire. Like the Ecuadorians to the south of Colombia, the Panamanians and Costa Ricans watched both the bloody war in Colombia and the bloody conquests of Honduras and Nicaragua, which left over one hundred thousand dead in just two years. The Empire was the logical choice.

Operations aboard the carrier weren't particularly busy. A flight of two F-14D Tomcats were flying a barrier cap mission a hundred and eighty miles from the carrier, backed up by an E-2C Hawkeye. Another pair of F-14s were sitting on alert five on the deck, ready to be launched if the carrier came under attack. The threat of long-range attack against the carrier wasn't especially high because of the cooperation of the Panamanians to the north and the lack of adequate equipment by the Ecuadorians to the south. However, the Peruvians did possess several long-range bombers that had the potential to deliver supersonic, heavy, anti-ship missiles of a conventional nature. Such missiles could easily damage or potentially destroy the carrier. The threat wasn't particularly high though, the Peruvians may have known that the carrier group was off the coast of Colombia but they had more to gain by surrendering to the Empire than trying to sink a carrier. Thus, the decks of the carrier, both above and below the flight deck, were relatively peaceful. The only real activity was that in the rear of the carrier as a pair of Seahawk helicopters were being raised from the hangar area to the deck. One was an HH-60H Seahawk and was armed with only a pair of light machine guns in the windows while the other was an SH-60F Seahawk, which was armed with a pair of Miniguns. The light machine guns in the windows of the HH-60 were M35A1 LMGs and fired 7.62x51mm ball ammunition accurately as far as eighteen hundred meters at a rate of fire of nine hundred rounds per minute. The M74A1 Minigun of the SH-60 fired the same round out to around the same range but at an astonishing six thousand rounds per minute, thanks to its six barrels and electric power system. Both helicopters carried a total of six thousand rounds of ammunition, enough to fight out of any hostile zone. They also carried a pair of one hundred and twenty gallon fuel tanks, externally, adding an additional forty percent more fuel, extending their range out past five hundred nautical miles. They both had a mission, one that began six months earlier.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

May 12, 1995 - 07:30 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

First Lieutenant José Alvarez was a ten year veteran of the Imperial Layartebian Army. He had joined in 1985 when he turned eighteen, as mandated by the Layartebian conscription laws and though he was only supposed to serve two years, he stayed on, a byproduct of the Ministry of Defense's career-inspiring program to keep conscriptees on past their minimum twenty-four months. By offering benefits for each additional year served, the Imperial Layartebian Military had a very high retention rate and, because it was voluntary after two years, a very high level of morale. Alvarez started out as a grunt, an enlisted man who rose through the ranks quickly in his two years thanks largely to battlefield promotions. He hooked up with the 4th Special Operations Group, "Rangers," in 1987 after his two years. In 1990, he was given an officer's commission and promoted to the rank of first lieutenant in mid-1994. As a Ranger, he excelled and was invited to the 1st Special Operations Group, "Delta Force," in 1993, where rank didn't matter. His promotion in 1994 was largely in response to heroic actions on the field of battle in Colombia, that also earned him a Silver Star and also a Purple Heart for shrapnel taken to the leg and arm from a nearby grenade blast. He was team commander and led three other men in a high-stakes capture mission outside of Bogotá when the army was forty miles behind them still. The mission involved a helicopter insertion and tasked them with capturing the Colombian vice-president while he slept. The insertion was perfect as was the approach to the vice-president's compound. It was there that things went awry, thanks to German Shepherds guarding the compound, a detail that had not been present when the reconnaissance team first observed it. They encountered resistance of up to forty-five bodyguards and in just twenty-five minutes, fought through the resistance and captured the vice-president. Alvarez was wounded early on in the mission but fought on and provided cover fire while his team extracted to the helicopter with the vice-president. For that, he was awarded the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and a promotion. He spent a week in the hospital upon returning.

When brass first approached Alvarez about what was to become known as Operation ANACONDA, they put it simply to him. Because he was a Delta operator, his existence had already been wiped clean from the records. He never existed, despite the obvious reality that he was quite alive. A single man with no family ties, he was the perfect individual for such a mission. "Lieutenant, take a seat," the colonel said to him as he entered his office. It was peculiar for him to be referred to be rank because rank was unimportant in Delta but Alvarez knew why once he sat down. The colonel's office wasn't lavish by any means but neither was it simplistic. He sat behind a comfortable wooden desk in a relatively comfortable chair. A circular table sat in front of the desk, a pair of chairs between it, facing the colonel. Books lined shelves on the walls and photos were neatly framed around the office. Chairs were neatly arranged around the table, which smelled of fresh Pledge. Alvarez took a seat at the table and was joined by the colonel himself. Having been on the phone when Alvarez entered, he cupped his hand over the receiver, gave his instructions, and returned to the phone. He was done with the conversation by the time Alvarez sat down. "Lieutenant this is James McLoughlin, Deputy Director of Operations at the Ministry of Intelligence. Sir, if you wish to proceed."

"Thank you Colonel." James snuffed out his cigarette and pushed a folder across the table to the Delta Lieutenant. "Lieutenant, I'm here about a highly secretive mission that we need you to lead in Colombia." Alvarez picked up the folder, set it down in front of him, and opened it. Red stamps covered it and he knew that this was a folder that the colonel might not have even seen.

"Of what nature?" Alvarez asked as he looked down at the folder, sifting through the papers, skimming each other to get an idea what was being asked of him.

"Lieutenant, the Cauca Cartel in southern Colombia is the deadliest and most capable of all Colombian drug cartels. They net over seven billion shingrots in profit last year and now that stability has returned to the region, they'll make a lot more. They mainly export cocaine but they have a good market in both marijuana and heroin and we suspect that they are also major producers of several psychedelic drugs, primarily mescaline.

"They're a major obstacle to the interests of the Empire in the region. Aside from drugs, the Cauca Cartel also provides funding, bodies, and weapons to the Ecuadorian rebels and they have been linked to the Venezuelan Insurrection of 1988. Their network is global but their base of operations is in the Cauca department in Colombia. We've unofficially begun a 'War on Drugs' with the various cartels and the Cauca Cartel is the primary target because they are the strongest." James lit another cigarette but didn't offer anyone else, figuring that neither of the officers in front of him smoked.

"Sounds like something you'd need a division for, why come to us?" The Colonel had spoken what he wanted to voice earlier but had held it in until the Lieutenant was present. He had already been briefed on the situation a week earlier, recommending Alvarez after two days of deciding. The other five were spent by the Ministry of Intelligence running every possible scenario and also looking into the combat service of the man the Colonel recommended.

"Colonel, the 'War on Drugs' isn't high profile. It's not a conventional war, as you already know. Its success isn't just contingent on taking a single objective but rather fighting an ideology almost. We cannot afford something high profile either for the simple fact that we need to make the cartels think we aren't focusing on them. You see, if they think we're after them, they'll go underground, tuck tail, and run. We'll never catch them without leveling the whole country. Instead we are going to fight the first round in complete secrecy with the aim of getting the Cauca Cartel to fight the other cartels.

"If the mission goes according to plan, the Cauca Cartel will think that the actions perpetrated against them are from a rival cartel, rather than the military. They'll go to war with each other, weakening each other to the point of extinction and we'll mop up the rest." James smiled, this was his plan after all.

"Sounds nice in theory but there's a lot more than just blowing up factories and killing drug traffickers." Alvarez said as he looked up from the folder. "This isn't a mission with a set end to it. It doesn't have a time frame, just a wide open objective."

"That is correct Lieutenant." The Colonel affirmed. "Should you accept this mission you will be assigned four men and you will reign havoc on the Cauca Cartel from inside Colombia."

"Colonel, if I may?" James interrupted. The Colonel nodded, "Lieutenant. The importance of this mission isn't lost on anyone here nor is its requirements. That's why you were recommended. As I've read your dossier, you aren't locked into anything."

"You mean I don't have a family."

"Correct."

"Which makes me?"

"Highly motivated. You joined in '85 and served ten years, growing through special forces quite well."

"Very well!" The Colonel added, puffing out his chest a little bit. "The risk is beyond comprehension. If you or your men are captured you will be executed on the spot or severely tortured first and then executed. There isn't any way to sugarcoat it." The Colonel knew what Alvarez was going to say already from the look on his face.

"When do we go?" Alvarez said, having heard enough. He would read the mission folder thoroughly through but he knew what was in it already.

"That is contingent on you Lieutenant but we'd like to launch you into Colombia in November. You'll have six months to pick and train a team. Requirements are largely up to you but we in the MOI would prefer individuals without family ties at home."

"Understood. When are you expecting the first sitrep?" Alvarez closed the folder and looked at the title. Operation ANACONDA, he thought to himself, reading the title.

"Two weeks. We will expect one every two weeks until you launch, after which you will be on your own. There will be no political influence but we will provide a list of targets. Intelligence will be provided and resupply will be inconsistent but available on demand. You should be prepared to 'live off the land,' so to speak. Is this acceptable Lieutenant?"

"I cannot find an objection yet but I will review this folder more thoroughly."

"Upon completion, should you choose to reject this assignment you still may, you have two weeks Lieutenant," the Colonel said. "If you accept, the remainder of the packet will be given to you."

"Very well. Thank you sir." The three men stood up, shook hands, and headed their separate ways. Alvarez would be back to talk to the Colonel in the morning about the mission but he would accept it. It was a perfect opportunity for him. Alvarez was no stranger to black ops but this was the mother of all black ops, a secret war and only he and four others would be waging it against an enemy that outnumbered and outgunned his team more than a thousand to one.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 20:25 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 150 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(3° 46' 39.49" N, 78° 43' 35.27" W)

Both Sea Hawks were pulled to previously identified spots on the flight deck, a few hundred feet behind the F-14s and their raised, blast deflectors. Despite the overall lack of operations onboard the deck, it was a loud place and everyone on deck protected their ears and eyes with earphones and goggles. The buzz of activity around both Sea Hawks was normal for pre-flight operations and at one time, much was being done. Purple shirted men watched gauges on the fuel they pumped into both birds while blue shirted men unhooked the tethers used by their tractors. Green shirted men and yellow shirted men readied the helicopters for take off while more blue shirts scurried around the deck, some carrying messages, others preparing the helicopters for take off. Everyone had an assigned role, which was determined by the color shirt they wore. There were seven distinct colors: purple, blue, green, yellow, red, brown, and white and they all meant something different. Carrier operations were stressful, dangerous, and there was no room for error. Everyone had a duty to do and if one person slacked, hundreds could die. Pre-flight operations around the helicopters was routine. Both helicopters were crewed by four men, two pilots and two cabin crewmen, both of whom would man the door mounted machine guns and Gatling guns for the duration of the flight over "hostile territory." One helicopter would act solely as a gunship while the other carried the precious cargo, five men who had flown aboard the carrier a few days earlier onboard a C-2A Greyhound.

The pre-flight ballet continued and the pilots of the helicopters were added to the mix as they, wearing safety equipment of their own, did their final external inspections of the helicopters. On the dark, flight deck it was difficult to see so they used small flashlights that sent a dull, red glow over a close area. The two cabin crewmen from each helicopter climbed aboard and inspected the inside of the cabin at the same time. All of this had been done prior to the helicopter leaving the hangar but the men of the carrier had one motto, "Always double check!" It was a policy more than a motto and the men checked everything over a second time. While the Sea Hawks were being handled, fueled, and checked, five men exited one of the many doors on the carriers starboard side island. They walked out, dressed in heavy camouflaged, their skin painted, wearing weathered boonie hats, carrying rifles in one hand, and bags in the other as well as on their backs. Nobody knew who they were when they arrived on board except for the captain of the ship and the battle group's commanding officer. Everyone else just assumed they were special forces going into Ecuador. Not even the flight crews knew who they were flying or where. This wasn't some rag-tag mission. This was an agenda.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

May 26, 1995 - 21:00 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

Thunder cracked seconds after a sharp bolt of lighting lit up the dreary, night skies over Fort Bragg. For some soldiers on the base the weather was an opportunity to train, to hone their skills crawling through the mud and searching for objectives while others sat comfortable and dry indoors. Trainees all across the base were dragged out, into the rain, and given tasks befitting of giants, a testament to the degree of training that ILA airborne and special forces received. Soldiers dug holes in the mud, learned to fight in the rain, and learned to hide in the rain, to use the natural elements around them to become absolutely invisible. Gunshots cracked with the thunder and bright flashes lit up the vegetation and mud. Silence befell some areas while others were louder than a freight train. Lessons were given indoors and out to soldiers and officers. At the airborne section of the base, soldiers were taught how to control their descents in the horrible weather, being dropped from a 250 foot high tower. Strong crosswinds made the tasks very dangerous but only expert parachutists were allowed to train in the rain and they looked forward to it.

The mood was vastly different in a faraway section of the base where few soldiers tread. The section wasn't physically closed but soldiers were warned to stay away from it, even the veteran operators. It was a section off-limits to everyone except those who were allowed in, a vague statement but a true one. Remote and far from any of the amenities of Fort Bragg, a single barracks structure with the capability to house up to forty soldiers, was the most important part of the remote section. Its seclusion was by design. Until May 19, it had been empty for seven months and cobwebs hung all over the barracks. When Alvarez first entered it on May 18, he liked what he saw; although, he saw nothing any normal soldier would enjoy. The building was in a poor state of disrepair. Its roof leaked in a dozen locations, windows were filthy and covered in mud, dirt, and grime both inside and out letting in very little sunlight. The beds inside were covered in filth and dust. The bathroom was in need of a plumber and the water was brown for the first half hour it was run. Half of the lights didn't work and the other half flickered occasionally. The floor was filthy and commercial tiles that had once laid flat were curling upwards on their edges. The walls peeled, the doors creaked, the drop ceiling was moldy, and the whole place smelled of fifteen different odors. Alvarez spent two hours in the building with the Colonel and professed nothing but love for the location. "Now this is what I'm looking for. Nobody comes over here, afraid of getting shot or worse. No. This will be perfect for training."

"Your men are arriving tomorrow."

"That's the way I want it. We'll fix this place up on our own, if we so desire. The things we'll be training for will need a lot of dirt and grime to cover up when we're done." Less than twenty-four hours later, a Humvee pulled to a stop in front of the Delta compound at Fort Bragg. With tens of thousands of them sitting all around the Empire and declared unfit for combat duty, the Humvee had been delegated to on-base transportation and they were in abundance with plenty of spare parts when needed. The three soldiers had arrived with little gear except what few personal effects they chose to bring with them and they had been told little. They were surprised when they arrived at Fort Bragg. Knowing that they weren't going to airborne school, there was only one other logical choice, Delta. The three of them had conversed a little bit along the way. Both Marines worked together leaving the SEAL as the odd man out but he was comfortable. "Gentlemen. Welcome to Fort Bragg," Alvarez greeted them as they stepped out of the vehicle. The driver pulled away moments later, leaving the three men standing in front of a pair of operators. They didn't know whether to salute or not as neither operator wore a rank insignia. The rumors that rank mattered not within Delta were suddenly true for these three men who, while they wee special forces soldiers themselves, were not on the level of Delta, which doubled more as a black operations force than anything else. "I'm José Alvarez and this is Marco Peña. Before any of us proceed I have a question to ask each of you and your answer must be absolutely truthful. If you are hiding anything I will find out and the consequences will be dire." Alvarez said with a stern, drill sergeant look on his face. "I have studied and memorized your dossiers so if you are lying to me, I'm going to know it right away." He looked at them again and they were all at attention, assuming him to be an officer simply because he was addressing them. It was a correct assumption but Marco could have done the same thing with the same results. "Very well. Do any of you have girlfriends." They answered to the negative. "Wives?" Again, a negative response. "Girls you like to fuck?" The answers were still negative. "Kids, legitimate or illegitimate?" Alvarez was pleased thus far. "Now you're going to have to make a choice. If you accept the assignment in front of you, let this be known. You will be required to part with any friends or family you may have for an indefinite eternity. You will be required to submit fully to this program. You will not be given the opportunity to fail. You will be drafted into a clandestine unit with a clandestine objective in a clandestine location. Is this a problem for anyone?" Alvarez hoped no one would. He read their dossiers front to back and that was why he hand picked the three of them, along with the man by his side. "Very well. Allow me to introduce you to Marco over here. The SEAL is Chief Petty Officer Luis Ramos. The two Force Reconnaissance Marines are Jesus Castillo and Carlos Mendoza, both staff sergeants. This puts you all at an 'E-7' rank. Marco is a master sergeant, an 'E-9' and I am a first lieutenant, an 'O-2' but all of this is worthless information. You've heard rumors, no doubt, that we in Delta don't abide by rank. That's true. Rank is secondary to skill. We are all members of the same team and while I am its leader, you are not followers. Understood?" The men responded in kind and Alvarez was pleased. "Shall we take a drive?" He showed them to a Humvee and they drove to the ramshackle barracks, bypassing stares from airborne trainees who were curious.

That was a week ago and since then, the tests had been grueling. Alvarez and Peña were part of the most elite, special operations group in the Empire. They weren't nearly as capable as the multiple black operations groups within the military but they were more capable than any other special operations group and certainly any regular infantry unit below them. The two Force Reconnaissance Marines and the SEAL were on even turf and they weren't pushovers either. They kept pace with every workout and performed just as well as both Alvarez and Peña did, which was exactly why Alvarez chose them. He needed men who could become operators and that was what he sought out when he put fourth his recommendations, which included an operator in his own unit, the SEAL, the two Marines, and six potential back ups, none of whom had even been notified that they were yet. They grew accustomed to the building quickly and knew that its dilapidated state meant no one was going to be nosing around either. A week into the training, they still didn't know what they were training for except that it was a black ops mission and that it had no time frame. Indefinitely meant just that and they all came to the same conclusion, that they had been picked because they had few ties. They wrote few letters and received even less, barely used up telephone time, and they were all career military. Their loyalty rested with the Empire and all of them had seen multiple theaters of combat. They were also all decorated.

First Lieutenant José Alvarez, aside from his Silver Star and Purple heart, wore a Bronze Star and two Soldier's Medals aside from a slew of ribbons for theaters, marksmanship, and training achievements. Master Sergeant Marco Peña wore two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, and a Soldier's Medal aside from the same slew of ribbons for theaters, marksmanship, and training achievements that Alvarez wore. Chief Petty Officer Luis Ramos was the most decorated with a Navy Cross, Navy Distinguished Service Medal, two Silver Stars, a Purple Heart, and plenty of ribbons to go along with those medals. Staff Sergeant Jesus Castillo wore a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart and Staff Sergeant Carlos Mendoza wore a Bronze Star. Both Marines had the same ribbons as they were both part of the same team in Force Reconnaissance. For this mission though, they would be receiving no medals and no ribbons, regardless of what they did.

The first week of training and testing was for Alvarez to judge whether or not he had made the correct choice in asking for these four men. When it was over, he was pleased and that meant he could divulge more information, a lot more information. He had left early in the afternoon and left the team in the hands of his second in command, Marco Peña. During the afternoon and early evening, the men honed their skills on the rifle and pistol range, returning to the barracks just after the rain started. It was now a full blown thunderstorm and Alvarez returned at 20:45 with four cases of beer. He dragged them inside, with help, and put them inside a refrigerator that he had managed to get working again. He sat the men down in the main, common room, where the refrigerator was, handed each one a beer, and leaned back in his chair. "Gentlemen. You've passed my first and only test. From here on out, we are all equal. One week is all I need to determine the abilities of you and whether or not I had made the correct decision. I can see that I have. So how about I tell you what's going on?" Alvarez said with a swig.

"That'd be nice." The SEAL responded, taking a swig himself. Everyone was interested and silence ensued while they listened to their leader.

"We're going to wage an unofficial, classified, and clandestine war against the Cauca Cartel in Colombia. Whatever you think you know about them, it is probably wrong. They are the most powerful and capable cartel in the world and their influence is international. Our operations against Ecuador are being subverted thanks to them. They supply drugs, weapons, and money all over the world and now that we control Colombia, we're public enemy number one to them. The war that we're about to wage on them will commence in the fall, giving us five months to train ourselves into becoming a five man army. They have forces numbered in the thousands, air support, and more weapons and ammunition that we stock here on base. That's saying a lot." The men chuckled but continued to listen. "Our mission will take us more than a year and we'll be deployed until our mission is complete. We'll have access to resupply but it will be limited. This is a black op, probably the biggest our military has ever conducted." If only Alvarez knew of the exploits of the black operations groups, he wouldn't have made such a statement.

"How exactly are we going to do this?" Mendoza wondered aloud. "Why doesn't the army just stomp them?"

"Two reasons. First, that's too high profile. If the army comes after these guys, they're going to run and hide. It'll take us decades to root them all out. They're out in the open right now and that's how we want it. We want them to think that the government is preoccupied elsewhere to deal with them for now. And secondly, because they'd probably get slaughtered," that was a joke they could all laugh at but it was definitely underestimating the army. "We're going to fight against the Cauca Cartel in such a way that they will suspect another cartel of fighting against them. We'll leave it up to them to decide. This will result in the cartels fighting each other, weakening each other and themselves in the process, making it far easier to clean up. This is a long term strategy, obviously. Our primary objectives will be to disrupt the Cauca Cartel's business by blowing up airplanes, factories, and whatever else we find, decimating their leadership, and, if possible, capturing Manuel José Vargas, the cartel boss alive. I doubt we'll be able to do that one, that fat slob will surely put up a flight. We'll have resources out the yin yang. Satellite coverage, intelligence briefings, whatever we need. We'll be on our own basically except for a few contacts within the Ministry of Intelligence. I've only been briefed on one, a special agent assigned to the task. He'll be joining up with us sometime next month. He's part of those guys more secretive than we are so we'll definitely be interested to hear what he has to tell us."

"What tactics are we going to employ?" Mendoza asked, taking the floor again.

"Every single one we can find. We don't want to appear like a group of soldiers or mercs. We want to appear as a vast network of operatives and soldiers employed by a rival cartel. That means we're going to have to get down and dirty. We've got five months of training for just that purpose. Until this spook gets here we're on our own. We'll work as a team and act as a team. For hell, we'll shit together, as a team, if the plumbing holds. When we're deployed it'll just be us five. I have no family, you have no family. Tonight, we're family and from now own because this is it for us. This isn't a mission that guarantees we'll come home. If we're captured expect torture and execution. Speak nothing but if you cannot hold your tongue, spit lies. A bullet in the head is more honorable than betrayal."

"So it is." Castillo finally said. "Where did these orders come from?"

"As far as my understanding, the Emperor himself. This goes all the way to the top. I'd like to be able to make our Emperor happy when he reads the reports those cracks in the Ministry of Intelligence prepare for him about Operation ANACONDA, as we're going to call it. Drink up gentlemen, business is concluded."

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 20:35 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 150 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(3° 46' 39.49" N, 78° 43' 35.27" W)

The preflight checks were complete and everyone was aboard the two Sea Hawks. The lead helicopter was the SH-60F Sea Hawk, the gunship and its two pilots and two gunners. The trail helicopter was the HH-60H Sea Hawk, the transport and its two pilots, two gunners, and five soldiers. With everyone inside and the engines starting up there were only two more things left to do, start the main rotor and the tail rotor. The main rotor of the helicopter was, from end to end, fifty-three feet, eight inches long. Spacing between both helicopters was crucial and they were separated by at least forty-five feet of space between the end of the fuselage and the start of the rotor. The two main rotors started up almost simultaneously amid the crescendo roar of the four, eighteen hundred and ninety horsepower, turboshaft engines, which had already spooled to idle speed. The two, massive, main rotors began to rotate slowly, gaining speed as they turned counter-clockwise. The tail rotors started up as well. Located on the starboard side of the tail, the rotors turned towards the aft of the helicopter and had the primary purpose of countering the massive amounts of torque created by the main rotor. The crescendo of engine spooling noise was now joined with the slapping noise of the rotors as they spun up to idle speed themselves. The helicopter wouldn't take off or move from its position, thanks to careful synchronization between both the main and the tail rotor. As the main rotor increased in rotation speed, so too did the tail rotor, keeping the helicopter balanced and centered. The tail rotor was one of the most crucial systems of a helicopter and most helicopter losses during the Conquests thus far, due to ground fire, were attributed to loss of the tail rotor, causing the helicopter to spin uncontrollably. In this instance there was only one thing to do, yank on a pair of power control levers above their heads. The levers decreased the amount of power to the engines allowing the pilots to make a much more controlled crash landing. Those levers saved many lives.

Once the helicopter's rotor blades, both main and tail, reached idle speed, matching the engine speed, they were ready for take off. The yellow shirted sailor standing in front of the lead helicopter, far enough away to avoid the downwash from the main rotors but close enough to be seen began to move his hands in a signaled fashion. The pilots of the lead helicopter saw him as a green figure in front of their tinted windows. The cabin of both helicopters was completely dark while the cockpit was illuminated only by specialized lighting on the instrument panel to make the gauges, knobs, dials, and what not defined and visible underneath night vision. No one outside of the helicopter would be able to see them and as the helicopters sat comfortably on the deck of the carrier, the gunners donned their night vision goggles. The soldiers would put theirs on when they got closer to the objective. They would be in the air for a hundred and twenty-five nautical or one hundred and forty-five statue miles. Trained to fly at tree top height, both helicopters would be flying over the water at just ten feet above the waves. Once they reached the land, they would raise to just above the tree tops, using their night vision goggles and training to keep as low as possible. All of this would be done at one hundred and thirty knots or one hundred and fifty miles per hour. At that speed and altitude, there would be no room for error.

The lead helicopter lifted off the deck of the carrier gracefully, under the direction of the yellow-shirted sailor in front of them. It tipped into the air, nosing up until it was high enough to slip over the side of the carrier, where the nose of the helicopter dipped back down and began forward flight. The trail helicopter lifted off just behind the lead and joined the lead helicopter in forward flight. The noise on the deck of the carrier had peaked at that point as the engines and rotors of the helicopters went to maximum effort, providing the proper amount of lift to get the helicopters airborne. As they flew away from the carrier, gaining speed and dropping to their cruise altitude, the noise waned quickly. The helicopters were soon gone from sight, formed up in an echelon formation, one behind the other, with barely a hundred feet of spacing between both helicopters. They were on their way.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

June 18, 1995 - 08:00 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

Fog had settled over Fort Bragg just after 01:00 hours and was finally lifting now. The opportunity was golden and the five men barracked out in the "Shed" as it was referred, skulked out of their barracks at 01:30 hours, a half hour after the soup had set in nice and thick. They were going to test their acquired skills in an exercise with a unit of airborne soldiers out conducting navigation exercises in the fog. Armed with paintball guns that required them to get within one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet of their target, the five men set out to locate the two airborne platoons. In the dense fog, they would have to be a lot closer than that to achieve a kill. They could only achieve success if they "eliminated" all sixty-four airborne soldiers with "fatal" shots. It would be a difficult exercise especially since the airborne soldiers out on maneuvers had no clue they were about to be the red side in a blue versus red match. The exercise had been concocted by Alvarez with the permission of Colonel Maris, who had been the one to choose him for this assignment. The men were under the direction of Alvarez who was now joined by their Ministry of Intelligence contact, who identified himself as Andrew Hunt. That was obviously a cover name and he entered the barracks in the middle of the night on June 8 with two bags in his hands and one around his back. He had narrowly beaten another thunderstorm that rolled into the area and he had come quite unexpectedly. The men in the barracks were spooked and drew their sidearms, preparing to shoot him dead until he uttered the pass phrase. He smiled at Alvarez who smiled back, Andrew Hunt was no desk jockey.

Andrew had a long history with the Empire. He was born in 1957 and served with the Republican Army during the 1970s, joining the military when he was eighteen. He was rotated to Venezuela right after he finiShed basic training and was drawn back when the Second Layartebian Civil War broke out in 1977. He refused to take sides but he was in the military and as such, his obligation was to defend the President, the Congress, and the constitution. He did so, surviving the civil war and retiring once the Empire had been declared and the Republican Army renamed the Imperial Layartebian Army. He returned to Venezuela in 1982 and became an unofficial asset for the Ministry of Intelligence, providing intel whenever he could. When the Venezuelan Insurrection of 1988 shook the country, he was in Caracas. Intel he provided identified the ammunition cache in the Caracas Stadium and the Imperial Layartebian Navy vectored in a pair of F-18C Hornets to destroy the ammunition cache. The stadium was obliterated after being struck by just AGM-183B Zombie rockets. Each rocket carried a two hundred and fifty pound high-explosive warhead, which detonated the ammunition cache in the stadium. Sixty-four hundred rebels were killed in the strike, eliminating a huge chunk of enemy forces and reinforcements that the rebels had. Unfortunately, one hundred and sixty-two civilians were killed as well, who were using the stadium as a shelter from the Layartebian bombardment of the city.

Andrew nodded in silent approval after Alvarez had finiShed his explanation of the night's activities. They had until the fog lifted to eliminate the sixty-four airborne soldiers who weren't going to be too happy once they began to get hit by paintball munitions. It was a dangerous exercise but the airborne soldiers weren't carrying loaded weapons, a vital piece of intelligence that Alvarez obtained from Colonel Maris. The five men found the airborne platoons within an hour. They were easy to find for the five men who made a living on searching for hard-to-find enemies. Once found, it was easy pickings. The five men could hear the airborne soldiers before they could see them, using their knowledge of the area and their expertise to stalk the airborne soldiers. They split off into two formations, one of three and one of two while they stalked the paratroopers. Paratroopers in the Imperial Layartebian Army were elite soldiers, picked from infantry ranks to form specialized units trained to fight on their own, deep behind enemy lines with limited supply and no reinforcements. Sixty-four paratroopers in the Imperial Layartebian Army may have only formed two platoons but they carried the strength of a full battalion, the equivalent of over five hundred men or eight times the amount of men. Sixty-four against five wasn't fair odds but, then again, these five were special forces, more elite than the paratroopers and they had been training for nearly a month already doing intensive exercises that formed them into the equivalent of a black operations force, in terms of expertise and hitting power.

The five men stalked the two platoons for a half hour before they struck first. They moved silently, the paratroopers having no clue that they were being stalked by a hostile force. Just after 03:00 hours, the shooting began. The five men opened fire from concealed positions, hiding in the fog. The sound of their paintball guns echoed in the cool, soupy fog. The carbon dioxide in their guns was enough to last a few hundred rounds and each one of them carried two extra canisters of carbon dioxide and enough rounds to use up all three canisters. They opened fire accurately and swiftly, shooting down twenty paratroopers in the first strike. Before the paratroopers could respond, all five men backed off, in pure silence, regrouping a few hundred yards away. They could hear the paratroopers trying to figure out what was happening. Some of them were shouting, others were whispering. "I just got stung by something," one of them said. "What the fuck?" Another added. "It's paint. Jesus that hurt! Someone's shooting paintballs at us." They finally caught on, their body armor taking most of the impact force. They all felt it and all twenty paratroopers that they hit were "killed." The paratroopers were pissed, angry at the practical joke they assumed to be played by a rival platoon. "Let's go find those fuckers!" They decided. Alvarez and his men laughed to themselves as they huddled in the fog. They backed off, stalking the paratroopers through the fog. The five men had gone out with night vision goggles and the paint they used contained phosphorescent materials. It glowed green in the dark allowing the soldiers to know who had been hit already and allowing them to track the paratroopers better who had given up their maneuvers and were taking to catching their attackers.

Alvarez and his four soldiers took off to meet the paratroopers a little bit ahead of where they were, striking again at 03:30 hours. The second strike wasn't nearly as successful as they increased their kills from twenty to just twenty-eight, shooting and scooting. They were drawing the paratroopers the way they wanted and while the paratroopers took off running they backed off and hung behind. In the dense fog, they knew just how far they should stay back to be unseen and they used it to their advantage as they were passed by the angry paratroopers. They used the time to reload their weapons and check their carbon dioxide canisters. They took off on the chase, striking again twice more before 04:00 hours, racking up another seventeen kills leaving just nineteen hostiles. The morning wore on and the sun would soon be rising at 05:58 hours. They knew that once the sun was up, their chances of success were far less. They stalked the paratroopers, silently, keeping close enough to them to see them but far enough to avoid being seen, using the phosphorescence in the paintball rounds to know where their enemy was. By 05:00 hours, after another eleven attacks, they had drawn the paratroopers to just four remaining. Those four included the commanding officers of both platoons, who they decided to save for last. A swift strike at 05:21 hours netted one of them and two others leaving just the last platoon commander who they all tagged at 05:48 hours, ten minutes before sunrise. Light was on the horizon and they tracked back to their barracks. All sixty-four paratroopers had been "killed" and the SOF team had avoided capture. Heads would roll once the morning fog lifted and the commanding officers got back to their barracks. They would put the blame on rival platoons who would firmly deny anything. Nobody knew, save for Colonel Maris, who the real culprits were outside of the Shed. Andrew Hunt was pleased to find out the results, which filtered back to Alvarez through the colonel who heard from his officer staff. Hunt knew he wasn't working with amateurs but their performance in the fog was definitely a testament to their capabilities and dedication. He decided he would stick around just a few weeks longer. They were worth being trained.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 21:00 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 120 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(3° 33' 60.00" N, 78° 23' 17.52" W)

In just fifteen minutes, both helicopters had flown thirty-five of their one hundred and fifty miles, aiming for a destination atop a hill just twenty-five miles northwest of Popayán, in a spiny, mountainous part of the Cacuan state. The insertion point was an area that had initially been overlooked by an asset for the Ministry of Intelligence who had been tasked with finding a good location for the soldiers. He knew the spot was strategically advantageous because of its flat terrain, tall grass, and higher altitude but it was tactically dangerous. Within just fifteen miles of the landing zone was Manuel José Vargas' primary hacienda and estate, a ten square mile swath of land that included an artificial lake, a baseball and soccer field, and a small landing strip for helicopters and private, propeller planes. It also included his eighty thousand square foot hacienda. It was considered a fortress, protected by a contingent of nearly a hundred men, all armed with rifles and submachine guns, as well as the latest in electronic security that included pressure sensors, laser trip wires, and camera equipment with thermal and night vision capabilities. Vargas was obsessive about his security and it showed. His whole estate was valued at over §10 billion with at least §250 million just for his security system alone. The Ministry of Intelligence asset, who went by the code name "Pablo" wasn't confident with the spot but, after nearly two weeks of exhaustive search he realized that strategically, no site would be better. The soldiers would have to make due with the tactical limitations of the location and get on the ground and exfiltrate the area as quickly as possible. The helicopters would echo over the quiet night, especially in the valleys of the mountainous region and it was possible that they would hear the echoes back at the hacienda but it was a risk that Alvarez agreed to take.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

July 21, 1995 - 13:00 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

The five-man army had finally chosen a name for itself, "Force Tiger" and they were pleased with it. Andrew Hunt, the Ministry of Intelligence agent was pleased too and wrote it briefly with his notes as he described how well the soldiers took to his specialized and highly unconventional training exercises and methods. They weren't necessarily excited about it but rather dedicated to the overall mission. The five of them understood just what was at stake, what they were being asked to do, and what the outcome of their actions would be, whether they succeeded or failed. They understood it very well and that made Hunt very pleased with the men chosen by both the colonel and the team leader, Alvarez, who trained with his men as hard as they did. He wasn't the type of officer who stood back and watched the men train. He gave orders that he followed himself and if he wouldn't carry out an order himself, he wasn't going to expect his men to either. That was how it fell for them, day and night. During the days, they trained hard. At night, they trained harder. Sometimes, they took a break, found a few cases of beer and relaxed telling stories of their exploits, their lives, and what they expected to happen. They weren't just required to become an unstoppable unit of special forces soldiers but rather to become five brothers who would sacrifice his own life to defend the man next to him, even if the man was dead. They weren't going to just be a unit of elite soldiers. They were going to be an army unto themselves with a bond so strong that it would last past their mission, if they survived. Alvarez referred to his unit of men as the most honorable, dedicated, and fearsome men he'd ever trained with and he wasn't lying. The men all felt the same about each other and when they sat down at night to share a beer, they would have drank from each other's bottles if asked.

The summer wore on and by mid-July, the men had trained about as hard as they could, physically speaking. They were in better shape than any of their peers in the special forces community, both inside and outside the Empire. They were in better shape than even the most hardened, native hunters in the harshest environments in the world and that was by design. Their enemy knew the terrain far better than they did and they grew up in it. Their bodies were, physically, much different than the five soldiers who, though they were all Hispanic origin, didn't grow up in the jungles of Colombia. They had to be able to outrun, outclimb, outbreathe, and outlast their enemies who had grown up in that region, who had the unfair advantage of fighting where they lived their entire lives. Such minuscule factors like altitude and humidity wouldn't hinder their enemies like they would the five soldiers. They had to overcome this and they had plenty of methods, handed to them by some of the most brilliant military scientists of the 20th century and that took the better part of two months to do. They ran, hiked, climbed, swam, jogged, walked, and trained. Through training and proper diet, they turned their already fine-tuned bodies into something nearly machine-like, increasing their cardiac and pulmonary capacities to levels that only the finest athletes dreamed of attaining. They learned to hold their breath for over five minutes, which was not a global record but far more than the average person, which was a testament to how well they tuned their bodies. They ran ten miles daily just to warm up their muscles and they had the stamina to run more, all of them proving it by entering a marathon race in early July. All five of them finished first to fifth and contemplated running back to the start line, twenty-six miles in the opposite direction. They decided against the notion, laughing as they walked away from the ceremonies without being noticed. They took it easy after the race, allowing their bodies a chance to heal and spent the next fourteen days doing a lighter workout but keeping themselves from getting out of shape. Instead of running ten miles in the morning, they chose to run five instead.

The five men of Force Tiger did their physical exercises around base and in a specialized gym they made for themselves in the Shed. They ate their meals there and rarely, if ever, ventured into the main buildings on base. They trained in the vast wilderness around the base and used the shooting ranges there at will, which was usually the only time they came in contact with other residents of the base. The five men kept to themselves, to a distant area reserved for "private parties" and were largely unbothered by anyone else except on a few rare occasions that had become something of lore with the men on Fort Bragg. Alvarez threatened a captain, an officer with a higher rank, one morning with personally gutting him if he didn't back away and let the five men practice on their own. The captain nearly lost his lid on the firing line but when Alvarez put his hand on his sidearm, the captain noticed that, though it sat in his holster, its safety was off and Alvarez meant business. The captain was soon dismissed from his position at Fort Bragg by Colonel Maris and sent to an isolated post far away from North Carolina. A first lieutenant, Alvarez carried the sway of a four-star general and nobody dared approach him and his men when they were on the firing line after that incident, which was late June. Hunt had proded the captain to do such a thing, to test Alvarez and felt only slightly bad when he heard of the captain's dismissal. He didn't reveal though that it had been him who had prodded the captain into bothering Alvarez and he was pleased with the way Alvarez responded. Alvarez and his men couldn't go to Colombia and act like military professionals who respected a chain of command and the authority of those who ranked higher than they. They had to go to Colombia and be a war party that fed, ferociously on the weak and the ill-trained. They had to go there and stand up to a drug boss and be the alpha male. They had to make the most feared drug bosses and cartel leaders tuck their tail between their legs and cower whenever they spoke. That was how they were going to win the war. They had to make anyone they captured voluntarily wish to give out vital intelligence out of fear of what was to come before they ever spoke a single word and body language told it all. They trained on this day and night and, once a week, they ventured off base to the real world like normal civilians and picked fights. If they had to throw a punch, they failed. Their goal was to find the biggest, baddest, toughest looking person and force them to back down. It wasn't an easy task and even when the fights turned physical, they weren't allowed to back down, they had to win. They did, each and every time..

This was one of Hunt's many exercises and he graded them on how well they did. If they failed, he made notes of it and, at first, they did, almost always starting a fight. It would take all summer to conquer but they were getting better and Hunt noticed their progress and, as usual, he was pleased. He was training these men to be a whole different breed of warrior and that was something only he and a few others in the Ministry of Intelligence could accomplish. If the men of Force Tiger succeeded, they would be the newest recruits into a specialized core of warriors in the Empire known as black operations soldiers. They were the elite of the elite and, by ratio, they were the top one percent of the special forces community. These were soldiers that could fight, think, plan, predict, and evaluate. A simple soldier only followed orders. A special forces soldiers could do all of the above but still had to follow some semblance of a chain of command and were bound by some rules and laws. Black operatives were bound by no laws, their existence wiped from the record books in the Empire, something that required the signature of the Emperor himself. That was how Force Falcon had been formed in the early 1980s and it was the first program for black operatives in the Empire and it certainly wasn't the last.

Hunt had given the five men a special task early on July 19 that was far different than anything else he had previously asked. "Gentlemen," he said to them just as the sun broke the horizon. "You have twenty-four hours to complete this exercise and each of you must complete this very exercise, individually, without help. You will find and steal a civilian vehicle from off base and travel for at least one hundred and eighty miles, each in different directions. Fine a location after those one hundred and eighty miles and kidnap someone, preferably a male between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-eight and don't get any sissies either. It has to be someone tough. I would recommend drugging them and bring them back here by 10:00 tomorrow. Here are syringes with a strong barbiturate that will knock a three hundred pound man unconscious for at least twelve hours. Make sure you aren't caught and make sure you bring them here, we'll lock them up in the holding room. You'll find out why when you get back." The men looked at each other and questioned the exercise for an hour. This was beyond a violation of the law and they had come to terms with the fact that they would be violating just about every law in the Empire but that they would be doing it in Colombia, not North Carolina. In the end, Hunt sent them out to do his bidding and by 10:00 the next morning, they were back with their kidnap victims that included a college football player, two craftsman who went to the gym regularly, and a pair of factory workers. Handcuffed, gagged, and hooded, they were put in the holding room and given an extra shot of chemicals to hold them over just to the afternoon when Hunt addressed the men. "Good, you all succeeded in your task. You ditched your cars, you weren't followed, and you made no mess but that football player is definitely going to be high profile Luis. That's no matter. Let's get to the reason why you have them. There's something that we've only briefly touched on and that is how cartel soldiers and mercenaries kill high value targets, things like the 'Colombian Necktie' or 'Beheadings' understand?" They did but they didn't know exactly where Hunt was going yet. He revealed that after a few minutes. "Your job is to kill them and in the most horrible manners possible. I want you to kill them and send a message. We'll dispose of the bodies ourselves and they'll never be found." They looked at Hunt, eyes wide and Alvarez immediately objected. It took until 13:00 hours, three full hours, before Hunt convinced Alvarez and his men to follow the plan, revealing the rest of the information about their mission. They weren't just going to bring the war to the cartel, to make the cartel fear the Empire but rather to create not only a war between the cartels but to scare each and every cartel around the Empire and the world so horrifically that they would question whether or not they would continue. When the stories of mutilated corpses from an unknown, renegade group of elite and unstoppable soldiers filtered through the cartel communities, they would think twice about many things.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 21:30 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 62 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(3° 3' 7.09" N, 77° 26' 12.69" W)

The two helicopters had cried "Feet Dry" just five minutes earlier although they were under strict radio silence. They were skirting over the deck of Colombia, still flying at one hundred and forty miles per hour. The gunners had moved from their relaxed positions in the cabins to attentive positions at their weapons. They had disengaged the safeties on the weapons and checked to ensure that the weapons were locked and loaded just before they passed over the Colombian coastline. Below them, the lush, green vegetation of Colombia whizzed by, underneath them as the helicopters were now over territory that could prove potentially fatal in just a few moments times. The helicopters were close together, still flying the echelon formation but they had adjusted their locations slightly. The lead helicopter, the SH-60 gunship was flying slightly higher than the trail helicopter, which was really flying nap-of-the-earth. The helicopters were flying lower than fighter jets could because they were more agile and flew slower allowing for more time to react in the event of an emergency.

Inside the cabin of the HH-60, the five men shuffled around their gear and did the last checks on their weapons and gear such as their night vision goggles. They kept quiet in the cabin, relaxing, chewing gum, preparing themselves mentally for the task ahead of them. They could do no more physical preparation, they had done enough in the months prior, training in Fort Bragg and then in Nicaragua for the last month of their training, where the environment was similar to what they would be facing in Colombia.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

August 15, 1995 - 01:00 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

It was balmy at Fort Bragg and most of the soldiers on base had settled into their barracks and passed into their slumber as a light drizzle fell over the area. The morning fog wasn't too far away there was barely any breeze to alleviate the humidity. The five men of Force Tiger were undergoing a new phase of training, which was more mental than physical. Already, as special forces soldiers, they had been trained to go long periods without continuous sleep or any sleep at all but never had they gone as long as they had. They had already been awake for one hundred and seventeen hours straight, using a variety of techniques taught to them by Andrew Hunt to keep their eyes open and their minds sharp. Unfortunately, the effects of sleep deprivation had already been seen and the men were being taught to fight them properly. The first and most noticeable effect the men felt were aching muscles that slowed them down and inhibited their abilities to perform. Their hands began to shake with minor tremors and they had to perform precision tasks with their hands, which was inhibited by their tremors. They yawned like crazy and the rest of the effects were mostly mental. Their irritability increased exponentially with each other and this was shown as they tried to perform the small, precise tasks with their unstable hands. They were also given questions to remember each day to test memory loss and by the fourth day, they were having trouble remembering what they were told on the first day. Then there were the hallucinations, which were minor, at first but grew with each passing day. At five days, or one hundred and twenty hours, the risks of psychosis grew significantly. What they were experiencing was much like sleep deprivation used in interrogation but because they were being made to perform tasks both physical and mental, they were really straining their bodies.

Andrew Hunt was no stranger to sleep deprivation. To become a full agent with the Ministry of Intelligence he underwent some of the most brutal training courses the Layartebian military offered and sleep deprivation torture was one of them. He stayed awake for eleven days straight before finally being allowed to sleep. Recovery took almost a week and he had claimed to had seen quite vivid hallucinations. Medical research gained from his eleven days showed that he had full-on psychosis at the time and though it wouldn't be permanent, it risked reoccurrence if he pushed himself too long again. Since then, he had many times but he had been lucky thus far. Medically speaking, he was only getting further and further along on the brink of possible, irreversible insanity based on what he was doing to himself but he accepted the risk. He had been awake now as long as the men he was training and suffering all of the same effects but, because he had many times before, he was better equipped to deal with them. The men had all gone for long periods without sleep but never this long without at least a few hours here or there. They were completely taken by the effects and they were only getting worse.

Andrew Hunt sat comfortably in a chair while watching the men perform their tasks. Unfortunately for him, he was enthralled in a past event at the moment. He was thinking back to 1988 when he was in Caracas and his glassy eyes stared straight ahead to that fateful date in November when he vectored in an F-18 Hornet onto a stadium.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

November 26, 1988 - 09:45 [UTC-4]
Caracas, Venezuela
(10° 29' 28.48" N, 66° 53' 8.23" W)

The Venezuelan Insurrection was just thirteen days old and its end was in immediate sight. Fighting broke out early on the morning of November 13 in Caracas, Coro, and San Fernando when twenty thousand rebels claiming to belong to the Free Venezuelan Movement coordinated a number of strategic and tactical missions, capturing key government and military positions around all three cities. By dawn, they had achieved military success with little losses but they were far from damaging the will of the Empire. Throughout the night, aircraft, artillery, and armored units from the Imperial Layartebian Military counterattacked against the rebels but the surprise attacks by them had obviously worked until the Empire's might was finally brought to bear. Aside from a single carrier battle group in the south Caribbean Sea, the Empire committed a full infantry and cavalry corps to the fight, over fifty thousand men. They outnumbered the rebels more than two to one and fifty thousand soldiers weren't anywhere near the full capacity of the Empire. More forces would have been committed to the fight but generals felt that they were unnecessary in this instance, a gamble some would say but, to them, it was a decision based on analysis. The Empire was gearing up to invade Guyana and Surname in the early months of 1989 and that was a far more important objective. Tasking forces away would cause unnecessary delay and the Layartebian Empire had not been founded on delays nor would it be achieved through delays.

The rebels were mostly green recruits, coaxed into fighting by barely a few thousand veterans of the Venezuelan Civil War. The leader of the group was a notorious individual who had fought and escaped capture from the earliest days of the Venezuelan Civil War, more than twenty years earlier. He was the government's number one fugitive and the Republic's as well until the civil war forced the Republic to withdraw. When the Layartebians returned, he was once again the number one fugitive but still, he evaded capture, even as the full might of the Imperial Layartebian Military laid waste to the country, annexing it officially in 1983. He had gone underground since, keeping in contact with the rebel leaders that survived the wars, rebuilding his force, waiting for the time to strike. He calculated November 1988 as that time but he was a fool. His window of opportunity had long since passed. When the Republic of Layarteb withdrew its military in 1977, it had lost almost twenty-four thousand soldiers and its total size was just eight hundred thousand in total or almost one percent of the total populace of the Republic. The Venezuelan military at the time was almost as big and, combined, the rebels weren't gaining much ground until the Republic withdrew. The fighting continued for years until the Empire came in the early 1980s. It came with a combined force more than both the Republic and Venezuelan military combined. Now it was more than four times larger across all of its branches. Fifty thousand people wouldn't be much for Empire now.

The FVM forces had fared well on their own, when it was a surprise attack but when the Imperial Layartebian Military came with a full corps of soldiers from the army, a full carrier air wing and carrier battle group from the navy, hundreds of aircraft from the air force, and a few hundred special forces soldiers from all of the branches. They reinforced a division of soldiers from the defense corps already on the ground fighting the rebels. Armored vehicles and tanks rolled off LCUs onto the shores of Venezuela quickly thereafter and the FVM rebels were immediately on the defensive. By the 26th, thirteen days later, they were reduced to just over twelve thousand and they were rapidly being driven out of all three of the cities. Coro was being bombarded by both Layartebian and North Germanian forces from the air, land, and sea. They had already been driven out of San Fernando, where the FVM forces took most of their casualties. In Caracas, they still had some tactical control but they were being surrounded by the Empire. On the ground, intelligence operatives from the Ministry of Intelligence recruited locals to help them determine targets of value. There was plenty of support from the locals who wanted an end to the war and were generally satisfied by what the Empire had done since 1983.

One of those locals was a Layartebian, by birth, who joined the military in 1975. He served with the Layartebian Army during Layartebian involvement and was brought back when the civil war in the Republic broke out, where he fought for the government. He retired shortly after the fall of the Republic and moved to Caracas. Now, he was an asset with the Ministry of Intelligence, being paid lucratively for information he had of rebel movements and locations. Only the day prior, he had passed on a vital piece of intelligence about rebels storing ammunition inside the main stadium, Caracas Stadium. The stadium was located in the center of the city not far from the Caracas University, where asset who went by the name of Andrew Hunt. It was a fictitious name that he gave the agent and they had paid him §10,000 up front for intelligence. Passing on the bit about the stadium guaranteed him §150,000 if the intelligence turned out to be right. Reconnaissance confirmed it before dawn on November 26 and the navy was ready to strike. Perched atop the highest floor of the college's library, he overlooked the stadium with a pair of binoculars.

Thirty miles to the north, a Nimitz class aircraft carrier and its battle group patrolled a set area where it could keep close to the shore. Not far to its west was a Wasp class amphibious carrier and its battle group, vectoring in trouble to Coro. Aboard the carrier, flight operations were running non-stop thanks to the war. Just before 09:00 hours, local time, a pair of F-18C Hornet multirole fighters took off for a specific strike mission against the stadium. Armed for the specific mission, the two aircraft were carrying some of the most potent weapons in the conventional arsenal of the Imperial Layartebian Navy. For extra fuel, they both carried a three hundred and thirty gallon drop tank on their centerline hardpoint, a pair of AIM-120 AMRAAM and a pair of AIM-9 Sidewinders missiles for self-defense on their fuselage and wingtip hardpoints, and four AGM-183B Zombie missiles. The Zombie was a new missile built on an old airframe. Thousands of existing AGM-45 Shrike anti-radiation missiles, which had been replaced by the AGM-88 HARM were modified to be large, unguided rockets for use on CAS and strike missiles. Removing the guidance system of the missile and its fragmentation warhead, the Layartebian Defense Corporation added either a two hundred and fifty pound incendiary or high-explosive warhead to the supersonic missile. Unguided, it could fly as fast as Mach 2 and as far as ten miles. It had been used to glorious effect by the Imperial Layartebian Military on multiple occasions and the eight Zombie missiles the two Hornets carried were all loaded with high-explosive warheads.

Both helicopters rocketed off the deck of the Nimitz and climbed right away to twenty thousand feet, leveled off, and steadied at four hundred miles per hour. They were over Caracas moments later, barely having used much of their fuel. There was a blanket of fog over the city that was one of the many obstacles they were going to face that morning. Given a radio to contact the incoming aircraft, Andrew Hunt waited atop the library, looking out of the window. The library had been spared most of the effects of the war but bullet holes did riddle its lower floors. Regardless, ten stories high, it was a perfect overlook point and that was why he chose it when he woke up that morning, hours before dawn. He observed the stadium and watched people go into and out of it all morning long, all of them armed. Reconnaissance had estimated it to be the largest ammunition cache in the city and its destruction was paramount. The two Hornets remained above the city while the fog stayed. They would loiter for another half hour before it dissipated enough for them to attack the target. Because of the nature of their weapons, they had to have a visual identification of the target, they couldn't fire through the fog using their FLIR or radar. That wasn't an option and the rules of engagement were specific to that end.

At 09:35 hours, the lead pilot switched frequencies to the radio that their asset on the ground had. "Lion. Lion. This is Devil 1-1 we're over the zoo. Requesting status." Andrew's radio buzzed and he was alone in the library, making it easy for him.

"Devil 1-1. Lion. The bird cage is primed and ready. Awaiting the feeding."

"Roger that Lion. We're rolling in hot." Both Hornets assumed the formation overhead, starting out twenty miles from the target. They were separated by a mile and a half and sped up to five hundred miles per hour. With their master arm switch engaged, the Hornets were dangerous foes for the rebels, who had no idea they were there. The lead pilot rolled in, diving onto the target from ten miles away and twenty thousand feet. He centered his aiming reticule on his HUD right on the stadium and watched the range to the target decrease. One hand was on the throttle with the other on the flight stick. Ready to fire at just five miles to the target, he pushed down on the button atop his stick. "Coming down!" The lead pilot said as the first two missiles, each weighing four hundred and eighty pounds, shot away from his aircraft's wing pylons. They traveled just a half mile before he fired the second pair, depleting his air-to-ground armament. Now his attention was elsewhere, slamming the throttles to the maximum setting and yanking the aircraft up into a climb. The second aircraft came right behind him, repeating the routine.

The target below stood no chance against the eight Zombie missiles, which easily pierced through the thin roof of the stadium, exploding inside of the stadium. They were moving at twice the speed of sound with enough energy that allowed them not only to cut through the domed roof of the stadium but also into the stadium below. The combined force of the eight missiles and two thousand pounds of high explosives was enough to ignite the cache within the stadium. The explosion was so powerful it subsequently blew a hole in the roof and lit the whole stadium inside ablaze. In an instant, sixty-four hundred FVM rebels, the bulk of the Caracas fighting force were incinerated along with tons upon tons of ammunition and arms. One hundred and sixty-two civilians who were using the stadium as a shelter from the air attacks were incinerated as well. Of those one hundred and sixty-four, only eight weren't women or children. They stood no chance.

Both Hornets climbed hard away from the target as the flames and smoke rose into the air. On the ground below, Hunt watched everything and covered his face as the windows of the library building shattered from the massive force of the explosion. The whole building rocked so violently, he was worried that the explosion would cause the library to collapse, despite it being more than a half mile from the target. He picked his head up in time to watch several surface-to-air missiles lift off the ground from locations near the stadium. They streaked upwards, trailing white smoke, gunning for the two Hornets above. Hunt counted four of them and they were small enough that they were definitely fired from a man-portable, shoulder launcher. They would be limited in altitude, range, firepower, and effectiveness but that didn't excuse them as threats. Calling back into the radio, Hunt called what he saw. "Devil 1-1. Lion. SAM Launch! SAM Launch! Count four! Take evasive action." The pilots acquired them visually and immediately took their own defensive action, dropping flares right away and pulling hard maneuvers to jink away from them.

All four SAMs missed and a job well done for the navy and Andrew Hunt who vacated the shaken and shattered library building shortly after the Hornets egressed from the area. It was a mission that went down in the books for the navy but it when it was revealed that civilians, particularly women and children were among those killed, the negative press the military received was quite phenomenal but it was a military operation that was justified quite easily by the brass and the media was quickly shut up when the insurrection ended less than two weeks later thanks to the overbearing might of the Imperial Layartebian Military.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 21:44 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 35 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(2° 48' 5.98" N, 77° 3' 55.24" W)

"Fourteen miles. Fourteen miles." The pilot of the helicopter announced on the helicopter's intercom system. All five of the soldiers and the two gunners were wired into the intercom system and they could hear perfectly, even over the noise of the helicopter, whose engines and main rotor were only a few feet above their heads. Alvarez didn't say anything back nor did any of the other soldiers. Both gunners looked out of their windows in silence, looking for possible hostile targets. The terrain of Colombia here was rough and rugged and they were flying between valleys experiencing a good amount of turbulence. It was normal but it was still unsettling. the two pilots and gunners were no stranger to it and neither were the soldiers in the cabin but they weren't as used to it as the helicopter crew. They were preparing for the mission of their lives and there was a lot of mental activity for them to do before they stepped out of the helicopter and while they did it, the fuselage bounced back and fourth, up and down.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

September 5, 1995 - 11:00 [UTC-5]
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
(35° 8' 21" N, 78° 59' 57" W)

The temperature was rising, the humidity declining and Force Tiger was in high spirits. Only two hours earlier, a Dingo drove up to the Shed and dropped off what one would call a package but this was no parcel. The Dingo belonged to the motor pool and it was being driven by a private who knew better than to go anywhere near the Shed. Had Alvarez not been in the seat next to him, he would have never done it. Nervous as it was, the teenagers' hands shook as he drove, sweat falling from his forehead. Alvarez had climbed in next to him and addressed the private right off the bat, "Private, are you familiar with the Shed?"

"Yes sir." He responded, addressing the officer properly. "I am aware."

"Do you know where it is?"

"I do sir."

"Describe it."

"Sir. Four klicks west of the secondary rifle range and two klicks south of the Delta barracks."

"Delta barracks? Private, I wasn't aware of any unit referred to as Delta."

"Sir. Sorry sir! I mean two klicks south of the Development and Training Center for Unconventional Warfare."

"Very good. What do you know of the Shed?" Thus far, the private had yet to start the vehicle. Unsure where the officer was going with this, he sat at the wheel, nervous, shaking.

"Sir. I know that nobody is allowed within eight hundred meters of the location."

"Why eight hundred meters?"

"I was not explained why sir."

"Private. The reason why eight hundred meters is chosen is because that is the average, effective range of a seven point six-two millimeter round fired from an average rifle."

"Sir. Thank you."

"Are you aware what will happen if you go within eight hundred meters of the Shed?"

"Yes sir."

"What will happen then private?" Alvarez maintained the discipline and officer would display in such a grilling and the private was taking it like a soldier. He had not disappointed yet and had he, Alvarez would have kicked him out of the truck and driven himself, which would have eventually required him to return the vehicle to the motor pool. If the private was smart, he would pass the test.

"Sir, I imagine I would be shot."

"Is that so? You imagine?"

"Sir. I know I will be shot."

"Very good. You would be."

"Yes sir."

"Drive to the shed. Now!" The private's face went blank. Nobody, not even Colonel Maris himself dared go near the Shed. There was only one explanation, well two if the private was bold. The first was that Alvarez was crazy and wanted a suicide mission or he was a resident of the Shed. The private froze. "Something wrong with my order private?"

"Sir. The Shed is off-limits."

"What part of 'Drive to the shed. Now!' did you not understand private? I do not want to repeat myself, is that understood?"

"Yes sir." He quietly blessed himself and started the Dingo, almost forgetting how. All he had to do was turn a switch from "OFF" to "STBY" to "STRT" but it took him the better part of thirty seconds to realize it. When he finally got it started, he put the vehicle into "DRIVE," the main gear. He pulled the Dingo out and began the drive towards the Shed, obeying the posted speed limits of fifteen and thirty miles per hour, when they were present. Ten minutes later, he approached the first warning signs, that told of impending death should one continue. "Sir?"

"Keep driving private or I'll personally shoot you myself." The private swallowed his tongue almost and continued, now on a bumpy, unimproved road with craters the side of people. The speed of the Dingo slowed and the truck bounced around as the private did his best to avoid the bumps, pot holes, and craters. Minutes later, he pulled up in front of the Shed, his hands shaking still. "Put it in park and sit here. Don't go driving off now."

"Yes sir." His voice nearly cracked. The private was barely eighteen, fresh out of boot camp, assigned to mail duty at Fort Bragg. He had not done very well during basic training and barely graduated. Because he wasn't very fit for combat duty, he was given a rear echelon position to serve his two years.

Alvarez got out of the vehicle and went inside. Seconds later, five men and Alvarez emerged from the front door of the ramshackle barracks with grins on their faces. "Alright let's get the crates inside now." The crates were really just long, wide, and heavy plastic cases designed for punishment and there were three of them. Quickly unloaded from the back of the Dingo, they were carried inside and Alvarez walked over to the driver's door of the Dingo. The window remained down, the private nervously shaking behind the steering wheel. Alvarez's sidearm was at his hip and the private saw him walk up to the door through the side mirror. "Private you are going to return to the motor pool. If anyone asks who I am, what you carried, and what you did you will respond that you have no recollection of such an event. I don't care if Colonel Maris himself asks. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Disobey and you'll find yourself in excruciating pain for the rest of your life."

"Yes sir."

"Get out of here." The private practically gunned the engine to redline with it in park he was so eager to get away. As the Dingo exited the area, Alvarez took out his sidearm and fired a single shot in the air. The private heard it and jumped, speeding the truck up as he finished the rest of the exit. Back inside, the men had opened up the cases and were smiling even more than they had been when they unloaded them. "Gentlemen, our weapons have arrived." Alvarez said as he returned to the building, reholstering his sidearm.

"Someone fire a pistol?" Ramos asked as he eyed Alvarez putting his pistol back in his holster.

"That private will probably need to change his shorts." They shared a laugh and eyed their weapons. "Gentlemen, as requested. Three M30A3 Carbines for myself, Peña, and Castillo. One M42A2 Squad Automatic Weapon for the Cuban. And one M36A1 Sniper Rifle for Mr. Mendoza. I hope you're happy gentlemen. These weapons come straight from the LDC. Never before been fired except before they were shipped by quality personnel. The modifications we requested have been made and we have all of the accessories we need as well. Shall we try them out?"

"I thought you'd never get to it." Peña said as he greedily handled his M30A3 Carbine. The weapons had been specifically produced just for them and just for this mission. They had been produced without any serial numbers and no part on the weapons could be traced back to the Empire.

The M30A4 Assault Rifle was a lightweight modification of the M30A2 Assault Rifle. The M30 was the standard issue weapon for the Imperial Layartebian Military; although, there was talk about switching from 5.56x45mm caliber to a newer caliber such as 6.8x48mm or something else. Equipped with a sixteen and a half inch barrel, the M30A4 weighed just six pounds, three ounces and came with a folding stock not unlike that used on the M4 Carbine. Extended, the weapon was three feet long but with the stock retracted, the weapon was a little under thirty-three inches in length, roughly the size of the M4 Carbine and slightly heavier. It used a gas operating, rotating bolt action and was capable of firing up to nine hundred and fifty rounds per minute. The soldiers had requested that the trigger group be modified from semi-automatic, three-round burst, and automatic to semi-automatic, two-round burst, and automatic. Additionally, the weapon came equipped with a full rail system and they received a number of accessories that included a forward handle, an infrared designator and illuminator, a sound suppressor, bipod, a scope, and an M48A3 Grenade Launcher, that could fire 40x46mm low velocity grenades as far away as four hundred meters. However, with the grenade launcher fitted, they wouldn't be able to use either the handle or the bipod, not that they would need either in that situation. The M42A2 Squad Automatic Weapon was a modification of the M41A1 Squad Automatic Weapon. A light machine gun, the M42A2 fired the same 5.56x45mm round as the M30 and at up to seven hundred and fifty rounds per minute. It was equipped with a folding stock and a rail system and its trigger group had been modified to include semi-automatic and five-round burst, as well as automatic fire. It used a sixteen inch barrel and weighed almost thirteen pounds. Heavy, it could carry up to two hundred rounds in a box magazine or fit the thirty-round clips of the M30. Like the M30s, it came with a number of accessories that included everything the M30 had except the grenade launcher. However, its bipod system was integrated to the front of the weapon, allowing for stability and without using the lower rail system. However, the real winner was Mendoza, the sniper. Handed a brand-new M36A1 Sniper Rifle, he nearly broke down in tears. He had only ever used either the M40A1 or M40A3 or the M41A1 in combat and never the M36A1, the most accurate rifle in the Empire's inventory. Originally built from the Witzgall SR-160, it boasted a .2MOA and an effective range of just over one thousand meters using a 7.62x51mm round. Bolt-action, its rate of fire was as fast as its gunner and it carried ten rounds in a detachable magazine. Built into its stock were specialized recoil reduction systems that included a mercury ballast and a tension device. It came equipped with a flash suppressor, standard but the add-on suppressor for the weapon was what really made it deadly, hiding its visual signature completely and reducing its aural signature significantly. It came with a bipod and a rail system that allowed for mounting a scope, an infrared designator and illuminator, and even a visible laser but that would not be necessary or even desired here. At nearly four feet in length, it was the largest weapon and at thirteen and a half pounds, it was also the heaviest. Its barrel was just a little over twenty-eight inches but it was all by design. The weapon was perfect in every way and when Mendoza unpacked his scope, he knew that he and the rifle were meant to be together.

The scopes used on the M30s were ACOGs that provided up to 4x magnification that was specifically made for the 5.56x45mm round and the M30 Carbine. The ACOG on the SAW was the same although modified slightly for the different weapon. However, the scope on the M36 was an animal unto itself. Made of strong metal and surrounded by thick, rubber it was more than just durable. It was specially made just for that rifle and round and allowed for magnification range of one to twenty-four times the human eye. It had controls for elevation, range, windage, and included a bullet drop compensator too. It could also include a small adapter that made it night vision capable. Mendoza would have fun with it as he attached the scope to the rifle and popped open the caps. He pointed the rifle ahead of him and looked down the scope, right out the front door of the Shed. "Let's go play." He said with a smile as he watched a squirrel climb up a tree four hundred meters away.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 21:50 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 23 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(2° 43' 1.40" N, 76° 52' 36.42" W)

Both Seahawks swooped out of a valley and rapidly ascended a mountainside as they approached the insertion point at the top of a small hill. They had not let up on their speed and with less than sixty seconds to go before they reached it, the five men were ready. They first dropped their night vision goggles over their eyes, donned their gear, and picked up their weapons. They disconnected themselves from the intercom system of the helicopter and the doors were flung open. The gunners of the two helicopters were more than ready now, their gloved hands tense on the triggers of the weapons. Pitch black, the gunners and the soldiers looked out of the helicopters with their night vision goggles, hoping to see nobody. This was the biggest and most crucial of all black ops the Empire had conducted in Colombia since Venezuela fell and while their mission was to eliminate the drug cartel, they wanted to have a silent insertion. They wanted absolutely nobody at the insertion point, not even Manuel José Vargas, the biggest target.

Their weapons were all suppressed and their scopes uncapped, ready to engage anything that might be there. Based on the principle of a lightning attack, both helicopters used the terrain to hide themselves, even though their engines and rotor blades echoed for miles in the valleys. They would zoom up the mountainside, which was really more of a hill than a mountain, at maximum speed and then level off at its peak, stopping practically on a dime. Quickly, the pilots would drop the helicopter into a hover just two feet above the ground, its wheels close enough to grab. The five soldiers would jump out, take cover, and the helicopters would be gone, flying out of Colombia faster than they flew in, making feet wet by way of a totally different escape route, returning to the carrier easy enough afterwards, without opposition. The mission would be deemed as much of a failure of the helicopters were brought down as it would if any of the soldiers were captured or killed and their bodies taken by the enemy.

Both helicopters rose over the hilltop and would have scared away even the baddest of Mother Nature. They yanked upwards and flattened themselves out, the gunship holding its position a hundred feet off the deck as the other Seahawk rapidly dropped to the deck. The pinpoint, precise maneuver was done flawlessly and it left the helicopter hovering just twenty-seven inches from the ground. The downwash from the rotors pushed the tall grass from vertical to horizontal and the five men were out of the bird in less than a few seconds. Four of the five, including Alvarez, jumped out the minute the helicopter went into a hover and the fifth, Peña, was out of the door moments later. The Seahawks quickly exited the area, side-slipping back over the hilltop, into the valley, and out of Colombia.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

October 18, 1995 - 02:00 [UTC-6]
Río Blanco, Nicaragua
(12° 56' 0.51" N, 85° 14' 20.44" W)

Force Tiger had arrived at Río Blanco Airfield in Nicaragua just ten days prior aboard a C-17A Globemaster III flight. Ferried to their destination by the Imperial Layartebian Air Force, they entered and exited the plane staying inside a large shipping container the entire time. Not even the crew on the Globemaster III knew that they were there. The airbase was a small one that served two squadrons of fighters and a contingent of aerial refueling aircraft. It wasn't a very active base at all but it was a military base and five soldiers on it would definitely get noticed. That was why the elaborate plan, worked out by Andrew Hunt had to be carried out with utter precision. The container was taken from the C-17 to a warehouse on the far end of the base, checked in, and left. The instructions stated for it not to be opened at all until dawn the next morning because of the cargo. The instructions, although bizarre, were followed accordingly. By the time the container was opened the next morning, the five men of Force Tiger and everything they brought with them was long gone. They were carted off to a special section of the base, far away from the runways, hangars, storage structures, fuel drums, control segment, and anything else that had people. There, at that section of the base, the five men linked up with their MOI handler, Andrew Hunt, who had returned from Colombia the day before after a four day visit to Popayán, where he made sure that the command center was up and ready to go. The Ministry of Intelligence had already begun to record data on the cartel in advance of Force Tiger's visit and Andrew Hunt needed to make sure that it was all ready. There could be no delays once the men landed in Colombia and that was in less than a month's time.

Secluded from the rest of the base, the five men occupied a specialized section of the base reserved for special forces. It was empty at the time of their arrival, thanks to heavy preplanning and nobody else at the base dared go there, not much different from the Shed at Fort Bragg. The five men continued their training, adjusting and acclimating their bodies for the new environment. It would take some time for them to become adjusted with it. Fort Bragg was an uncomfortable climate but Nicaragua was far worse. A perfect environment for training, the five men of Force Tiger trained by day and by night, sleeping here and there, honing their skills in the thick jungles of the country. They went out for hours at a time, slept in the wilderness and returned at random. Everything they did was in preparation for their mission in Colombia, which loomed ahead of them. Then, on October 17, Andrew Hunt burst into their barracks just before 15:00 hours, a folder in his hand, his face covered in sweat. He revealed a new assignment, one that involved actual combat. The Ministry of Intelligence had picked up actionable intelligence that was too good to pass up and too good to ignore. Following the fall of Managua, three essential military figures, who were crucial in organizing the fight against the Empire's troops escaped. They were high value targets that the Empire needed to capture but they were smart, too smart. Using their inherent knowledge of the terrain, they escaped from the city under the cover of darkness and elaborate diversions to the countryside. They had been quiet, staying off the radios, using runners to transport messages to whatever remained of the resistance. The resistance remained but they were largely ineffective. Now they had been found, located in a villa just eighteen miles northwest of the airbase. Nobody expected them to be that close to an Imperial Layartebian Military facility, which was what made their location so desirable. Hunt explained the details of the villa, its surroundings, and what not to the five men and finished off by saying, "You're the only five men close enough to act fast enough. They could be gone tomorrow. They could know we're here already." The men agreed, it would be a chance for them to act as a military unit against a known, hostile force.

Now they were in position around the villa, weapons in hand. For this mission, they had taken completely different weapons than the ones they would use in Colombia. It was for good reason too. They couldn't leave any traces. Most of the mission was close quarters so they opted for submachine guns, suppressed, M43A4s, which were essentially MP5SDs with a collapsible stock. The five of them were covered in black clothing and black paint, nothing but the whites of their eyes being visible in the darkness, which were also covered by night vision goggles. With plenty of magazines, attached two together, they would have enough ammunition to take the villa, regardless of who was inside. While they were primarily tasked with capturing the three generals alive, they had to entertain every possible scenario. Not very large, the villa was in the middle of the jungle, covered by trees and foliage. It was the perfect place to hide and they would have done the same if they were in that situation. Quietly, they stalked the outside of the villa, watching the windows. Shades were drawn and it was difficult to see if there were lights on or not. They had the full layout of the villa in their heads and they crouched outside with their eyes on their watches. At 02:00 hours, they would go. That time had come and the five men split into two teams. The two former Force Reconnaissance Marines stuck together and left the Delta operators and SEAL to their own team. The Marines would go through the back, breaking through a sliding glass door while the other three went through the front door. Two, small, explosive devices were placed on the two entry points and blown up accordingly.

The five men were inside the villa in less than six seconds, weapons raised. They watched through their night vision goggles as the villa's interior stood in front of them. They had infrared lasers fitted to their weapons that would allow them to aim and fire quicker and also to see where one another was. The villa was only one full floor with a small upstairs and a basement. The two Marines headed for the basement while the other three swept through the first and second floor. Their entry was loud and that was the purpose. They wanted to be loud, to rouse the generals, to get them on the defensive. They figured that they would make a mistake that way and they were right. The two bodyguards assigned to the villa barreled down the stairs, weapons in hand, only to meet their enemy head on but before they could react. Alvarez and Ramos put them both down with single shots and then proceeded up the stairs, using a Flashbang grenade to light it up, closing their eyes as they looked away. The burst of the grenade was loud enough to make their ears ring a little bit but the bright flash wouldn't harm them. They were up the stairs in seconds, watching every possible corner. The three generals, bewildered and victims of that Flashbang and two others sat motionless on the floor with Alvarez, Peña, and Ramos over them. The three men said nothing and, instead, reached into their pockets, withdrew three syringes and injected them with a powerful narcotic that would render them unconscious for hours. In the basement, the Castillo and Mendoza located a radio station and hundreds of pages of intelligence. Collecting what they could, they bolted out of the villa with their colleagues and their cargo. Andrew Hunt was waiting for them a mile down the road in a Dingo. In their first, combat mission they had acted perfectly and precisely, just as they had been trained, how they had trained, and now Hunt had trained them.

[Layarteb]

November 9, 1995 - 22:00 [UTC-5]
Pacific Ocean, 23 nautical miles northwest of Popayán
(2° 43' 1.40" N, 76° 52' 36.42" W)

Manuel José Vargas had been sitting outside of his hacienda, a finely rolled Cuban cigar in his mouth, a glass of eighty-five year old brandy in his right hand around the time the five men of Force Tiger landed in the thick grass atop a hill just fifteen miles away. He wasn't alone outside either. Sitting with him, just a few feet away was his chief of security and, roving within ten feet were two bodyguards, within fifty feet were ten bodyguards, and within a mile were nearly a hundred bodyguards. The air was cool and a light breeze swept through the trees and over the grass. The two men were talking. One of their shipments of cocaine, totaling nearly forty thousand pounds had been seized at the border of Venezuela by Layartebian border guards. Vargas's massive cartel had just lost §15.8 million in a single day, the worst ever loss for his cartel in a single day. The border guards had been lucky and the truck had been overloaded by a few hundred pounds, which was why they investigated what was being carried. Vargas wanted whoever was responsible in front of his face so that he could personally execute him. His chief of security, Hector Valdez was narrowing in his search on who was responsible but it wasn't fast enough for Vargas, who was an impatient man. As they talked, the echoes of the helicopters rolled over his estate and Vargas looked up at the air above him. "Calma. ¿Oye usted eso?" [Quiet. Do you hear that?] Hector nodded.

"Los sonidos como un helicóptero." [Sounds like a helicopter.] Hector said, taking the cigar from his mouth and holding it in his hand. The brandy had been left on a small table by his chair. He had been in the army in his youth, serving for seven years in total and six of those seven years were spent being shuttled around, from battlefield to battlefield on well-kept but antiquated UH-1H Iroquois helicopters, which had been in service by then for more than twenty years. They had thousands of flight hours on their airframes, long past allowable limits.

"¿Quién vuela un helicóptero en este momento?" [Who is flying a helicopter right now?] Hector stood up to listen to the sound better. He identified a number of things about it, by the way that the sound echoed and by the way it had been there and gone in such a short amount of time.

"Viene de los valles. El título lejos. Alguien dirigiendo lo tiene habilidad. Ellos necesitarían visión nocturna. Yo no tengo ninguna patrulla en el área. ¿Quizá ejército?" [It's coming from the valleys. Heading away. Someone piloting it has skill. They would need night vision. I don't have any patrols in the area. Maybe army?]

"¿Quizá ejército? ¡Yo no le pago para 'quizá'!" [Maybe army? I do not pay you for 'maybe'!"] Vargas yelled. He had been displeased with the answer that Hector gave but what answer could Hector really give. Vargas may have led the cartel but Hector was the muscle behind it all. Vargas gave the orders, made the deals, and ran the operations. Hector, on the other hand, was his enforcer, his eyes, and his ears. Vargas may have yelled at Hector on more than one occasion but Hector sometimes yelled back. Vargas would have been insane to order his execution and though Vargas was an untrusting man in general, he was no fool.

"¿Cómo soy supuesto saber? Yo me paro aquí trata de resolver un asunto. ¿Tengo yo un radar en el bolsillo? Yo le dije que yo no sé. Basado en mi conocimiento es un helicóptero de ejército." [How am I supposed to know? I am standing here trying to solve one issue. Do I have a radar in my pocket? I told you I do not know. Based on my knowledge it is an army helicopter.] Hector pushed back and Vargas had his moment of pause.

"¡Averigüe que es!" [Find out who it is!] Vargas took his cigar and his self back into his hacienda, leaving Hector outside with the two bodyguards. His brandy remained on the table.

Fifteen miles away, the five men of Force Tiger had finally begun to move. They had hit the ground and instantly gone prone, hiding in the tall grass. They had to ensure that nobody had seen them land on the ground and, anyone who came snooping could not find them. They didn't need contact with their enemy just yet and dead bodies at a landing zone was a clear indicator that someone who wasn't supposed to be there was. Some tacticians would have suggested immediately exiting the area but not them, they had been trained to get down and stay down. Had they run out of the area, the chances of them being seen and caught were significantly higher than if they were just to lay down and stay quiet. Now, with ten minutes passed, nobody had come. It was time to get out of the area but not loudly. Alvarez drew himself up to a low crouch and eyed his men. Using just hand signals, he indicated that they were going to move out, to the east, towards their first target, thirty klicks to the east. They kept low and moved through the grass on their bellies, which they would for at least a half of a klick and it would take some time but time was on their side. They had all the time in the world that they needed.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

November 1, 1995 - 15:00 [UTC-6]
Río Blanco, Nicaragua
(12° 56' 0.51" N, 85° 14' 20.44" W)

"Gentlemen," Andrew Hunt began. This would be his last speech to the men as he was boarding a plane for Popayán in just three hours. He would be flying down there to assume his role in Operation ANACONDA, which was to be its handler in the field. "Let's see. It's been five months and I've taught you everything there is to teach you except one last thing but give me a moment for that, please. I have trained you to become an invisible force ten times your own size. I have trained you to make bombs out of soap, to literally skin another human being. I have taught you to walk through a banquet hall and pickpocket eighteen people without ever been noticed. Gentlemen, you have actually become one of the most cohesive unit ever formed in this man's military. Good job gentlemen. Now there is one last thing I must teach you and that is to finally change your identity one last way. Do you see this metal sphere?" Hunt said as he stood next to an otherwise ordinary metallic sphere.

"Alvarez. Place all ten of your fingers on this sphere, at the same time." Alvarez stood up and walked over to the metal sphere, which was connected to an electric column underneath it. It wasn't unlike a science experiment device from high school. Alvarez, as instructed, grabbed the sphere with all ten of his fingers and less than a second later, sprang back with a yell.

"Holy shit! What the fuck is that?" He demanded as he looked at his fingertips. Looking at them, there wasn't much to see but the searing pain that radiated up through his hands was definitely visible as his body tensed up in pain. His brain was inhibited from sending any other signals to his hands and though he wanted to wiggle his fingers they weren't moving.

"For the next thirty days you won't have any fingerprints. Who's next?" Hunt said with a smirk. Alvarez looked back at his fingers to see that his fingerprints had actually been seared off and left just his fingers. He eyed his second in command, Peña and nodded. One by one, the four men stood and seared off their fingerprints. When they were all done, Hunt unplugged the device and looked back around the room at the five men of Force Tiger. "Every three weeks I would suggest you repeat the process only this device won't be there. It's specifically tailored for this and other purposes and uses extremely high heat for maximum effect without long duration. In the field, I'd suggest a glass bottle heated up from a fire. While not necessarily as easy as this device, it will do the trick. It'll hurt a lot more though but it'll work. Now. Let's get going." Hunt had one last exercise for them.

[Layarteb]

November 10, 1995 - 06:35 [UTC-5]
Morales, 21 miles north of Popayán
(2° 44' 50.81" N, 76° 36' 31.52" W)

Before they had left Nicaragua, Force Tiger was given their first and only preplanned assignment. It was imperative that they start off the Empire's clandestine war against the Cacua Cartel with the right attack. They couldn't strike too small or go too big, it wouldn't be believable either way. Something too small would be dismissed and something too big would give away the game. They would know that their foe was too powerful to be a rival cartel. It had to be enough to send the message and get noticed. It had to make the rival cartels wonder who was responsible and put all of them on the defensive. Hunt had worked for days, analyzing potential targets and their impacts. The Empire had lucked out on the truck stop the previous day and that was huge. The attack he had planned had been done weeks before and when he heard the news he smiled inside the safe house in Popayán. What he had planned was perfect. With the seizure of the truck and its worthy cargo, the Cacua Cartel's leadership was on edge. The Empire had won out and Hunt knew that the leadership was wondering if they had been sold out, if someone connected to it was playing for the other side. With his attack planned for the following morning, not long after the sun rose, Vargas would know that something was definitely up and that it was no joke.

The five men of Force Tiger were prepared to carry out that attack. They had traveled throughout the night, walking thirty kilometers through rough terrain up hills and down into valleys. They had to snake through the jungle carefully to avoid giving anything away. Several times along their walk they were forced to stop and take cover from possible foot patrols. The sounds of the jungle at night were plentiful and they couldn't be too careful. They opted for a slower travel time because it meant that the chances of them being located and seen were far less likely. Their target was one of the Cacua Cartel's small airstrips. Hidden in a valley a little over three quarters of a mile south of Morales, it was nested in where few would find it. The only reason it was known was because the Ministry of Intelligence had done their homework and they also had plenty of people within the Cacua Cartel and several other cartels as double agents. With the information in hand, Hunt chose the airstrip as the target and when Force Tiger deployed to Colombia, everything was timed perfectly. Alvarez agreed to the mission only on the assumption that the intelligence was right and he was not disappointed when he looked through a pair of binoculars that morning.

The five men were in five separate positions overlooking the airstrip. Alvarez was lying down on the edge of a cliff, his ghillie suit obscuring him from view. He lay absolutely still on the ground and peered to his right and left. Peña was about fifty meters below and to the right of him while Ramos was even lower, practically at the base of the hill. Castillo was at the base of a tree above and to the left of Alvarez, providing overlook for the whole team. Mendoza wasn't far away, staring down the scope of his rifle to the airstrip way below. He had a round locked and loaded in the chamber, ready to soar towards any potential target. The airstrip was small, a runway big enough for only a small, single-engine, propeller plane, nothing else. Until 05:45 hours, the airstrip was empty except for a single tent. It was occupied by two sleeping cartel soldiers, each one holding an assault rifle in their sleep. Empty beer bottles sat around a smoldering fire just outside of the tent. They had sat up most of the night, drinking and were sleeping it off when the plane touched down. It startled them right out of their sleep and they had shot out of their tent with their rifles when the plane touched down. The five men of Force Tiger couldn't hear what they were saying but they watched as the plane slowly taxied to a position underneath a wooden enclosure, hiding it from satellite. The airstrip barely looked like one from where Alvarez and his men sat but that was the genius of it. It was close enough to Popayán that the Cacua Cartel used it to ferry drugs from its small facilities in Popayán to larger areas where they could be moved out of the country.

The plane that had landed was a Beechcraft Baron 58, a twin-engine, light aircraft capable of flying as far away as eighteen hundred miles weighing up to fifty-five hundred pounds. While it couldn't carry more than sixteen hundred pounds of cargo, including the pilot, it could move quick and low, under radar coverage. The cartel's pilots were fully trained in flying through the valleys and had been doing it for years. They knew it would be nearly impossible to be tracked in the valleys by radar and even harder to be chased, especially by a Layartebian fighter. Flying low and fast in the valleys, the cartel pilots were untouchable and they knew it, perhaps not the best attitude for them to have. With the aircraft parked underneath its shelter, the pilot shut down the aircraft and watched out his window as the two guards sloppily put heavy blocks that acted as wheel chokes in place. He yelled at them to do a better job but when he got out of the aircraft he wound up fixing them himself. Scolding the men, he smacked them and they cowered back to their tent. Despite that they had assault rifles and the pilot only a pistol, he was higher on the ladder than they were and he was to be listened to, always and under all circumstances. He wore aviator sunglasses and dressed like he was worth millions. He walked like he owned the airstrip and waited around just ten minutes before a jeep arrived. It was driven by two more soldiers with assault rifles and, smoking cigarettes, they stepped out of the jeep and loaded the plane with several dozen bricks of fined refined and well packed cocaine. The pilot did nothing but supervise, yelling occasionally. It took them until 06:30 to load the plane and when they were done, the jeep drove off, the pilot seated inside of it, leaving the airstrip alone to the two soldiers sleeping in the tent. Satellites were passing overhead and the pilot needed to report back to his own superior. He had flown for most of the night to the airstrip, avoiding radar and fighters. He had done well, arriving on schedule.

Alvarez waited until the jeep was gone and the two soldiers back inside their tent. "Viper. You're in play." He whispered, his throat microphone picking up what he was saying. It transmitted through his radio and to the other four soldiers. Though Peña carried the main radio, they all carried smaller, two-way radios that operated on encrypted but listenable frequencies. They had all given themselves codenames using snake types. Alvarez was "Rattlesnake," Peña was "Adder," Ramos was "Viper," Castillo was "Python," and Mendoza was "Anaconda." Their names would change after the first three weeks. Every time they burned off their fingerprints they would change their names and they had hundreds of names to choose from and plenty of themes that they could use. Ramos pushed in on his throat mic and he was ready to go.

"Roger." Ramos immediately began to crawl towards the airstrip below. He was only a few hundred meters away and he kept his SAW close to him as he moved through the thick brush. It would take him some time to get to the airstrip below but it was routine. He crawled out of the brush with his weapon ready to go, just in case. He wouldn't be the first to fire though, Mendoza had the long-range rifle and the better shot angle. While Castillo watched the airstrip as a whole, Mendoza kept his weapon trained on the tent and the two soldiers inside, who had practically fallen onto the ground in drunken stupor. They were no where near sober yet, which worked to the advantage of the five men of Force Tiger. Ramos, the SEAL of the bunch was also the demolitions expert and he moved towards the airstrip below him at an otherwise slow pace. He crawled until he got to the edge of the airstrip and, before he popped up from the ground, he listened to his radio.

"No birds overhead Viper." Castillo reported and Ramos had his cue. He popped up into a crouch and put his SAW around his back, drawing his suppressed pistol from its holster. Quickly, he moved across the airstrip, his pistol in hand, ready to shoot at anyone who stood in his way. If they were smart, nobody would get in his way as it would be the last thing they did. Unopposed, he moved across the airstrip, using everything he could find for cover, making quick but short dashes. Mendoza kept his eye on the tent and Castillo on the whole area, both of them making sure that nobody was paying attention to the ghillie-suited man running across the airstrip with a pistol in hand. The whole ordeal, from the moment Ramos began crawling to the time when he finally got to the parked airplane was twenty minutes, most of the time spent crawling. From there, things were simple. He had gone across the airfield with only his pistol, his main weapon, and a single block of explosives. He left his pack where he had been lying. It weighed him down and he had to move fast.

At the plane, he attached the explosive block to the airplane's outer skin. A strip of highly adhesive tape on the back of the one and a quarter pound block of C4 allowed it to stick to the plane. The tape used would allow the block to stick to any flat, clean, dry surface above 32°F. Those conditions were met and Ramos worked quickly. He armed the detonator by pushing a red button on the device and extended a small antenna. The device was ready and he moved back to his hiding position quickly and effectively. The two men in the tent had no idea he was even there and when he darted back into the thick vegetation, he made his way back to his hiding spot with ease. Hunt, twenty-something miles away listened to the radio as Ramos reported back that he was done. Everything used code words and the men, ready for the blast that was about to come, braced themselves while Ramos took out the detonator. It was small and he extended its antenna. The detonator had two lights and a single button and the green light was lit and he angled his thumb over the single button. He pushed down on it and instantly, a radio signal shot out of the antenna of the detonator and to the charge's receiver, a few hundred meters away. The result was instantaneous. The one and a quarter pound block of C4 plastic explosive, equivalent to a little over a pound and five-eigths of TNT, suddenly detonated. That was more than enough explosive power to shatter the plane, instantly causing it to buckle under the strength of the pressure wave, which moved at over twenty-six thousand feet per second. The whole airplane became engulfed in flames and the shelter's roof partially collapsed under the force of the explosion. The whole airplane was destroyed in a matter of seconds and the explosion damaged the shelter as well. Both soldiers sleeping in the tent were thrown from their sleep and when they balanced themselves on their feet, they came out with their assault rifles ready.

The fireball climbed over the tree line and was visible for miles away, meaning that the five soldiers had overstayed their welcome. Quickly, they formed up and exited the area, keeping low but moving very fast. They used the terrain and whatever natural cover they could find to get out of the area safely. Vargas would be furious and the seeds of distrust would be more than planted. All they needed was a little water and fertilizer and Force Tiger was going to give it to them.

[Layarteb]

Chapter II
First In

November 23, 1995 - 09:35 [UTC-5]
Popayán, Colombia
(2° 26' 33.54" N, 76° 36' 15.92" W)

Andrew Hunt snuffed out the butt of a cigarette in a glass ashtray that sat on the table next to him. The rainy season was coming to an end in southwestern Colombia and Hunt had woken up early that morning as thunder cracked outside the window of his eighth floor safe house. He had a commanding view of the city, which dated back hundreds of years. Most of the city was occupied by small buildings, a story or two high. Fewer buildings reached three stories and all but four exceeded eight. Hunt's safehouse was in a nine-story building. While not the tallest, it was located centrally in the city and offered a perfect view of the north and west, including the city's airport and its single, two thousand and fifty meter runway. Too small to accommodate something like a Boeing 737, it was perfect for regional aircraft but it could handle the Embraer E-Jets. On a daily basis, at least two flights to the airport were conducted by such jets while the rest were regional aircraft, mostly propeller planes. Despite waking up early, he wasn't tired. He had spent most of the night in the safe house, listening to the radio bands. Force Tiger had struck early when they destroyed a plane on the runway at an airstrip thirty kilometers from where they were inserted late on the evening of November 9, two weeks earlier. Since then, they had communicated over the bands just twice and there had been silence since. The last communication was on November 15 and while Hunt was certainly not nervous, he was beginning to wonder what the schedule was for them. He had left the safehouse a few hours after he woke up and strode down to a small café a few blocks from the building. The rain continued and while the humidity stayed high, the temperature was low. Dense thunderclouds above had grown silent by 08:45 hours but they were dark and foreboding. More thunder and lightning was going to come, Mother Nature hadn't finished just yet.

He had ordered a coffee when he arrived and sat comfortably, watching the rain from the covered patio outside the café, a paper resting half open by the cup. He was set to meet with an asset embedded within the Cauca Cartel that morning. Not particularly high up in the cartel, this particular asset had turned to the Empire after the fall of Bogotá, realizing that the Empire was the new "king of the hill" and the end for the cartels was inevitable. The cartels were fierce, brutal, and unforgiving but the Empire was overbearing, patient, and merciless. The cartels had little chance against them in the long run. Going by the name of "Max," the asset was all too willing to be a double agent for the Ministry of Intelligence within the Cauca Cartel, especially because of the pay, more than §50,000 just for cooperating and another §50,000 as a bonus if the cartel was defeated. Hunt played with his Zippo lighter on the table. Sitting near the edge of the overhead awning, he was splattered with water occasionally. He had finished his coffee already and his stomach grumbled with the desire for food. His waitress trotted by, a cute, young girl who probably should have been in school rather than there. She looked tired and there was more to her story than just what was obvious. "¿Querría usted algo más?" [Would you like something else?] She asked. She was definitely under seventeen, Hunt could tell by her voice.

"Dos huevos, trepado y la salchicha." [Two eggs, scrambled and sausage.] He said as she wrote it down. She nodded with a smile and looked back at him, wondering if he wanted another coffee.

"¿Otro café?" [Another coffee?]

"Por favor." [Please.] She stepped away and back inside, towards the kitchen inside of the café. When she opened the door, music echoed out, onto the patio. The music wasn't very loud but it was upbeat, enough to wake anyone up if they stayed there long enough. Hunt covered his mouth as he yawned, returning to the paper. It was a local paper, written for the entire Cacua state and even had a few stories from Bogotá, Medellín, and Calí in it, the three largest cities in the country. There were more than fifteen million people between the three cities whereas Popayán was still under a half million. He had bought and read the paper every morning since his first deployment into the country, focusing on any clues that could give him more targets for Force Tiger. The airplane bombing had been omitted from the paper when it occurred but that was a good thing for Hunt. He knew that the cartel worked underneath the radar that they had people in the paper's office. After reading a story about new efforts of the Empire to stabilize the country, he heard rustling near him. Knowing it was too soon for his breakfast, he glanced upwards and saw his contact, standing before him, bloody and sweating. "Usted es tarde. ¿Qué sucedió a usted?" [You're late. What happened to you?]

"He conseguido problema." [I've got trouble.] His contact said in a whisper, his eyes too shifty for him to not be in trouble. He remained standing, in front of the man, looking into the window of the café. He was being cautious but anyone who was watching him could easily see that he and Hunt were talking.

"¿La clase de problema que usted necesita para conseguir el infierno fuera de aquí le agarraron problema o su amiga enroscando la hija del vecino?" [The kind of trouble that you need to get the hell out of here trouble or did your girlfriend catch you screwing the neighbor's daughter?] Hunt said, his hand ready to grab the suppressed pistol on his hip, concealed underneath his shirt.

"Yo no soy seguido pero nosotros no podemos encontrar ahora." [I'm not being followed but we cannot meet now.]

"¡Entonces consiga el jode fuera de aquí! ¡Yo no tengo dinero para usted asshole! Consiga un trabajo." [Then get the fuck out of here! I don't have any money for you asshole! Get a job.] Hunt returned to his paper while his contact took off and headed towards some unknown destination. He didn't say a word as he left, his gait obviously showing that he was ashamed of himself. He had made a big mistake trying to come to Hunt and could have compromised everything but, true to his word, he had not been followed. Hunt had made sure of that, watching everything for the next half hour, carefully eating his food to make sure that he noticed everything there was to notice. When he left, he left quietly and went to a secondary location, rather than the safe house, just in case.

The secondary location wasn't so much a safe house as it was a stopover location. It was a dingy apartment building in the poor part of the city, up a flight of steps to a low hill. The stairs were falling apart and the rain had flooded the base of them making Hunt jump over the small but deep puddle. He could hear music and people arguing from open windows as he entered the building. Though it was just a visual trick, the building looked lopsided and most of its exterior was crumbling off, in some parts exposing the structure underneath. This was "el barrio," the slums and it was a good place for a temporary stopover location. The police were paid by the cartel to stay out of it and the Cacua Cartel was so confidence in the neighborhood that they didn't have spies posted. They considered it their strong point and people knew enough to stay out if they weren't supposed to be there. "Es Miguel. Abra. " [It's Miguel. Open up.] Hunt said as he banged on the door of 3C. The apartment building smelled of roasting pork, rice, and beans. Some of it smelled rotten while most of it smelled really good. Had he not just eaten, he would have been hungry for some. He knocked a few times, talking into the peephole of the door. Inside, a fat, balding, disgusting man who snorted as he walked, came up to the door and looked through the peephole. Grease stuck to his chin and his mustache was filthy with crumbs and more grease. He hadn't showered in days and Hunt could almost smell him through the door.

"¿Quién es?" [Who is it?] The fat slob said from behind the door, looking through the peephole.

"¡Miguel usted jodiendo pendejo! Ahora abra." [Miguel you fucking asshole! Now open up.] Hunt said, which was all part of the process.

"Yo no sé que nadie denominó Miguel." [I don't know anyone named Miguel.]

"Como el infierno no lo hace. Su hermana sabe quién yo estoy ahora abierta la puerta antes que tome un mea en la perilla." [Like hell you don't. Your sister knows who I am now open the door before I take a piss on the knob.] Hunt said the last part of the puzzle and the fat slob from behind the door opened it, staring at Hunt in front of him. "Maldito usted repugna. Quítese de en medio yo necesito para mear." [Goddamn you're disgusting. Get out of the way I need to piss.] Hunt walked in, past the slob and traveled down the filthy hallway into an equally filthy living room. He passed by both a bedroom and a kitchen, both filthy too. Clothes, none of them washed, littered the floor in the hallway and bedroom. The sink in the kitchen overflowed with dishes so filthy that not even flies clung to them. The stove was covered in burned food and the refrigerator had no handles on its door. He had a table but no chairs and his windows were covered in grime. Hunt didn't even want to look into the bedroom. He saw enough walking by and then went into the living room. "Jesucristo este lugar es una pocilga. Yo le apuesto ha conseguido cucarachas en sus cojines en vez de espuma." [Jesus Christ this place is a pigsty. I bet you've got cockroaches in your cushions instead of foam.]

"Fuck you man!" The slob responded, switching to English. The front door was shut now and he had followed Hunt into the living room. "Why are you here? It's too early for shit to go south man." His English wasn't perfect, more like sloppy and accented like he was a stereotypical spic in a movie.

"Shit's not south but I had a little problem today," Hunt walked into the bathroom. He expected to smell urine and see shit all over the side of the toilet but was shocked to see it pretty clean, save for the shower, which was black with mold. Its fixtures were rusting and he thought he should hang a sign warning of possible tetanus. "Cleaning lady hit here huh?"

"Something like that. What kind of problem?" The fat slob plopped himself down in an armchair that was molded to his hairy, swampy ass. "Anything I need to worry about?" He picked up a pump-action shotgun that was leaning against the chair, hidden from view but easily accessible. It was a Remington 870, black and stainless steel, loaded with five, twelve-gauge, double-ought buckshot rounds. He had sawed down the barrel from sixteen to twelve inches, leaving him with enough room to put one round in the chamber and four in the magazine below. He had taken off most of the stock too and he could have hid it in the chair itself if he wanted but that was unnecessary for the moment.

"I had a visit with 'Max' this morning," he had used the name "Max" for every male contact he had and a different name for female ones, keeping all of their identities unknown. Not even the fat slob knew Hunt's cover name, Miguel was the only name he knew him by and that was a fake name, which he used only for certain people, who were bound to deal with each other. "Said he was in trouble but he wasn't being followed. I didn't see anyone but I decided to shake them off here. I'm going to use the back way out when I leave." He finished, zipped up his fly, and flushed the toilet. With a quick run of the faucet, he wet his hands but preferred to dry them on his own shirt and pants rather than pick up a filthy, encrusted towel.

"Which 'Max' is this one?" The fat slob shoved some potato chips into his mouth and the crunching sound echoed throughout the living room, even over the television. Hunt emerged into the living room with a disgusted look on his face.

"You're despicable man. There's only one."

"Fucking liar."

"That I am. Open up your ears and see if you hear anything about the cartel finding a double agent or something. I'm getting out of here before I catch malaria or something."

"Fuck you." Hunt entered a closet in the hallway and shut the door behind him. Despite it being his first time there, he knew the "back way out" of the apartment. He had been briefed extensively on all of the safe and layover houses in Colombia for his mission and this one was the easiest and his favorite. Unfortunately, he had no clue how dingy it really was. When the door closed, it unlocked a mechanism built into the wall, which allowed for a trap door in the back wall to be opened. Once open, Hunt climbed into it and shut the door behind him, resetting the spring-loaded mechanism that recocked the mechanism. Space inside was tight but he could fit between the two walls, which led to a break in the interior wall where there was a ladder. It dropped down the whole building from the third floor all the way to the basement and then to a storm drain that ran through the hill. Minutes later, he would emerge from a remote location. By the time the sun fell on Colombia, he was back in the safe house, listening to the static on the encrypted band.

[Layarteb]

December 4, 1995 - 17:20 [UTC-5]
Pendamó, Colombia
(2° 38' 27.10" N, 76° 31' 36.81" W)

Mendoza and Castillo had been crawling on the moist, uncomfortable, warm ground for thirty hours already. The field was full of thick brush and grass varying in height of a few inches to a few feet. They had left the majority of their gear at a small base camp the team established a few days earlier, north of Popayán, taking with them only their rifles, a set of binoculars, their ghillie suits, which they had yet to take off since arriving in country, crackers, canteens, a compass, their radio, and ammunition. Castillo had the binoculars and his assault rifle, a suppressor still fitted to the end of the muzzle. Mendoza took his sniper rifle, a suppressor fitted to the end of it as well. Their pistols stayed by their sides and they set off from the base camp in the middle of the night, three days earlier. When they arrived at the field, they went prone and began making their trek, the most dangerous part of their mission. The field they were crossing was in a ravine and it ran the length of more than a mile. Above the ravine, perched atop the cliff side was another hacienda that belonged to Victor Enrique Escobedo, one of Vargas's right hand men. He was their target and they were crawling through this field and soon up a cliff wall to get into position to assassinate him. Their superior skill and ghillie suit camouflage made sure that anyone looking out for them wouldn't be able to find them too easily. The only way they could be seen would be if they made a mistake. If they moved too quickly or made movements that were too erratic, a lookout could find them without effort and there were plenty of them posted along the ravine, some in towers, others manning gun nests. All of them were armed with radios, assault rifles, binoculars, and just about everything else that could help them keep a close watch on Escobedo.

Escobedo had come up through the cartel his entire life. He got involved as a kid, running packages around Popayán, delivering drugs and money. Over the years, he began working at a factory, eventually running a factory. Now he was in charge of every factory in southern Colombia and regularly met with Vargas to discuss operations. In some way or another, Escobedo was the chief operating officer of the Cacua Cartel and Vargas, the chief executive officer. The cartel was run like any corporate business. There were executives, vice presidents, managers, and associates. Everything ran smoothly and profit and loyalty were pushed, in a business when both were absolutely crucial. If the cartel began to lose money, it would lose power and thus its end would be inevitable. If its members weren't loyal, the other cartels would know factory locations and where the leaders lived and how to beat their security. The cartel's survivability hinged strictly on how strong they appeared to be and appearances were everything in this game. Force could be overcome but perception staged everything.

All five men had ghillie suits and while they had seasoned them in Nicaragua, they had put the finishing touches on them once they landed in Colombia. They rolled around in mud, attached twigs and leaves from the jungle, and even, in some cases, applied a little animal feces. They were tailored by the manufacturer to the five men's physical dimensions but they tailored them for the jungle all by themselves. They could lie on the ground, face down, and have a soldier walk right by them without ever being noticed. With that in mind, they continued to crawl through the thick grass, one pull at a time. They kept their heads down and their rifles cradled in their arms, pulling their bodies, dragging their feet along the field, past bushes and shrubs, melting into the ground around them. In thirty hours, they had done three quarters of the way, making the most progress during the night, shifting their weight only slightly when they wanted to go to the bathroom. They wore throat microphones, allowing them to talk to each other while whispering but they rarely did, silence being the ultimate key. Separated by forty-five meters, they couldn't see one another but they both knew that the other was out there, moving just as slowly too. They had made little progress in the past two hours thanks to a pair of overzealous soldiers guarding the cliff above and to their right. They had seen an animal of sorts and were taking their turns trying to shoot it, for whatever reason. Their first shots into the ravine brought the attention of everyone guarding it and everyone in the hacienda too and the radios came alive. Castillo wondered if Mendoza and had been located and vice versa until they both keyed into their microphones that they weren't the one being engaged. They didn't care to find out what had spooked the guards above but they definitely stayed still. Everyone's attention was on the ravine and they wouldn't dare move, not even an inch. The chances of them being spotted now, simply by mistake, was just too great to risk and they stayed still, baking in the sun as the temperature inside their suits rose to well over 100°F.

Mendoza checked his watch and saw that it was twenty after five, in the evening, 17:20 hours. They had until dawn to reach the spot and they knew that, throughout the night, they would be moving quickly but they had a long way to go, considering that they were crawling. If anything, they wanted to at least be at the part of the cliff that they climb by the time the sun went down but that was not a possibility. Lying there, prone, silent, motionless, sweating, the men dared not even to sip from their canteens. Instead, they put their heads down, resting them against the ground, their eyes ahead of them. They kept themselves awake fearing that, if they fell asleep, their bodies would make some sort of involuntary movement and give them away. No matter how trained and seasoned any individual could be, the mind was its own animal once that person was asleep. Would they get the "falling dream"? Would they toss and turn? There was no telling just what they would do in their sleep and that was a risk that they would only take at night. Left to their own thoughts, the two men were all alone in the ravine, by themselves. The other three men of Force Tiger had waited back at the base camp and would wait until the two completed their mission, which they would hear about from Hunt, who had a man inside Escobedo's hacienda. Once the kill was confirmed, the man would make the call, informing an unknown party to be on the lookout for an assassination team from a different cartel. He would really be calling Hunt and the distress call that he would send wouldn't get too far but, then again, he wasn't going to be the only one making the phone call. His would go unnoticed in the grand scheme of things and the mission would be a resounding success, so long as Castillo and Mendoza made it back alive and avoided capture.

Both of them waited another forty-five minutes for the sun to start dipping and another hour before civil twilight. By then, the guards had stopped paying attention to the ravine and the gunshots fell silent. The men started crawling again just after 18:00 hours and moved slowly for the next twenty minutes as the sun dipped further and further below the horizon. At 18:17, civil twilight ended. Half an hour later, at 18:43, nautical twilight ended and, finally, at 19:09 hours, it was astronomical twilight's turn to end. Night was moments away and the men had crawled to within four hundred meters of the cliff point where they would make their ascent. They would be going up a steep cliff but the point they had chosen was a point that could be easily ascended. With the night in full swing, the men moved quicker, using the shadows that the cliff side created, continuing to crawl but in short bursts that were quick enough to gain a few dozen meters here and there. By 03:30 hours, they had reached the cliff side and began their ascent. They had thrown their weapons around their backs and made the first stages of the climb quickly, grabbing the rocks and using every natural platform available. They had to go at least eighty feet but that wasn't an issue, they were trained to climb even higher, without any ropes. This was no challenge to them, especially since there were plenty of foot holes and natural platforms with which they could use to climb. It took them less than a half hour to get to the top of the cliff and they went back to lying on the ground, crawling for another two hundred meters before they found the spot that they wanted. They dug themselves into the ground, finding thick brush, a perfect hiding spot. They lay down next to one another in the hiding spot and used the last bits of night to complete their setup.

Mendoza first extended the bipod of his rifle and put it comfortably on the ground, dug into a spot where the ground was hard enough to provide a stable footing. Castillo set up his binoculars and the two of them were ready and waiting. They rested off and on as best as they could for the next few hours, the sun rising over the horizon. Ninety-three million miles away, the sun's warmth began, traveling eight and a half minutes before reaching earth. The light was already that old by the time it was seen and the heat changed the weather pattern. A breeze picked up and Castillo noted the speed and direction. Mendoza uncapped both ends of his scope and Castillo uncapped his binocular lens too. They had fitted a dull piece of paper over the glass, giving them a narrow field of view but it would keep the glass from reflecting light, which was a sure indication of a sniper. A simple reflection of light could lead to their discovery and either death or capture, neither one desirable, one much less than the other. Every morning, Escobedo came out of his hacienda and had a cigar before breakfast. A feared and respected man, few people ever told Escobedo what to do except Vargas and one or two other superiors and even they did so respectfully. However, Mrs. Escobedo, his wife, was always in charge. Victor rarely argued with her and the two of them had an arrangement. If he were having a meeting, cigars were allowed inside but otherwise, he was to be outside whenever he was smoking. She detested the smell of it and those were her rules. She'd never embarrass him in front of his superiors or subordinates but, alone, she was the boss. A strong willed man, Victor had sought out an even stronger willed woman to be his bride twenty years earlier and though he had been unfaithful here and there, he never once crossed his wife. She had bore him children and he did love her, even if he chose, on occasion, to sleep with a much younger, far prettier, weak willed woman. He hadn't in years but the urge remained.

"Range?" Mendoza whispered. He had acquired his target, the doors from the bedroom to the porch. They had studied a layout of the house before they ever left Fort Bragg and refreshed their memory in Nicaragua. The sheer amount of information the five men had memorized since first being picked was phenomenal. They memorized floor plans to every one of Vargas's homes, his entire estate, the floor plans to all the homes of the higher ups in the cartel, weather patterns, code names, and so on and so fourth.

"Niner-zero-zero to the railing. Niner-zero-five to the door." Mendoza dialed in the range, setting his scope to nine hundred meters. Firing a 7.62x51mm match round, weighing one hundred and sixty-eight grains, at eight hundred and eighty meters per second, the M36A1 had a maximum, effective range of one thousand and fifteen meters even though, after eight hundred meters, the predictability of the round came into question. Even still, the round could go much further but its speed and drop made it ineffective. "Wind is eight miles per hour to the east."

"Got it." Mendoza set the windage and watched through the scope as the porch remained empty. During its ballistic flight, the bullet would climb to a maximum height of one hundred and thirty-three inches above the center of the crosshairs, falling back down to strike the target dead center at nine hundred meters away. The bullet would drift more seventy-six inches over the course of its flight and it would take more than a second and a half to reach its target and it would still be supersonic when it struck. Everything was dialed into the scope of the rifle and Mendoza checked to ensure that he had a round loaded. He unlocked the safety and put the buttstock of the rifle against his shoulder. The shock absorber would take the bulk of the force and allow him to quickly recycle the bolt, reloading another round, ready for a second shot if he needed one. A quarter after seven, Victor stepped out of his bedroom and opened the door to his porch. He had his cigar in his hand and a lighter in the other. Dressed in a bathrobe, he wore dark sunglasses to keep the light from bugging his eyes too much as they were still adjusting. "Target sighted."

"I see him too. He's moving." Victor put the cigar in his mouth and took in a deep breath before he lit it, puffing away as the end of it caught fire and the tobacco inside began to burn. His cigars had come from Cuba and they cost a pretty penny each but they were the finest cigars ever made in the world. Still independent of the Empire, Cuba exported just a few thousand of these cigars per year, keeping the demand and thus the cost high. Victor settled himself from his pace and stood at the railing of his porch and slowly smoked his cigar. Mendoza put the center of the crosshairs on his face. Zoomed in as far as he could, Victor's head took up most of the scope and it was easy to put the center of the crosshairs right above his mouth. He wanted the bullet to go in and exit the back of his head, the perfect shot, right through his medulla oblongata. That part of the brain was responsible for the body's autonomic functions, such as respiration, blood pressure, and so on and so fourth. A shot through it would caused instant death. It would only take a single round to kill him and a single shot was always preferable. The suppressor wouldn't make the gunshot silent but it would do a number of things to conceal the shooter. It would hide the muzzle flash, which was the easiest way to find a sniper once he pulled the trigger. It would also lower and disguise the sound of the gunshot. "Alright, he's stopped now." Mendoza controlled his breathing and the rifle stabilized.

"I'm good to go," Mendoza was ready, his target acquired and his breathing set. It took only seconds after Victor stopped moving.

Castillo began a short countdown, saying the word "Fire" three times, spacing them apart. Mendoza matched the rhythm and when Castillo said "Fire" the third time, he squeezed the trigger, smoothly, in one, fluid movement. The firing pin inside of the rifle snapped forward, striking the round, igniting the propellant inside. The bullet left the barrel of the rifle before the sound was ever heard. Mendoza quickly recycled the bolt, ejecting the spent, sizzling, smoking, brass casing from the rifle. It landed next to him and a second round was ready to go but it was unnecessary. The first round met its mark, punching through Victor's two front teeth, shattering them into hundreds of pieces. The round nudged past the cigar in his mouth and found the soft tissue of his mouth and head unchallenging. It went through the back of his head milliseconds after blasting through his teeth. Victor's eyes instantly rolled into the back of his head and his cigar dropped from his mouth as he went limp and fell backwards, the air above him filled with a pink mist. "Confirm." They immediately began to back away from the area, slow, crawling away under the cover of the vegetation. The gunshot had echoed across the ravine and the area and it was unmistakable but nobody had seen its origin. Victor lay on the floor, motionless. His cigar continued to burn as it lay by his side. Body guards came rushing out of the hacienda and those manning the guard towers immediately started looking around. Nobody had seen where it came from and it took a few minutes for everyone to realize what was happening.

[Layarteb]

December 5, 1995 - 12:00 [UTC-5]
Hacienda de Manuel José Vargas, 6.5 miles south-southwest of Suárez
(2° 54' 16.32" N, 76° 45' 58.51" W)

Manuel José Vargas paced his living room, his ear pressed against a cordless phone. The room was lavish with imported furniture, glass tables, fine art, a big screen television with a ten speaker surround sound system boosted by nearly a thousand watts, expensive carpet, marble floors, and everything else someone with millions of shingrots could buy just for the purpose of having it. The living room was quiet, the television and its insidious sound system on mute, and the five men seated all silent. Manuel paced around the room, his cigar burning itself out in the glass ashtray by his seat on the biggest and most comfortable couch in the room. He yelled randomly into the phone, the other end of the conversation remaining unknown to the men in the room with him. They sat in silence still as their boss moved around the room, his face red, his blood pressure rising, his heart beating away. Anger welled up inside of him quite powerfully and quite quickly as the phone conversation unfolded and it ended with a loud slam of the phone on the table as Vargas sat back down on his couch. His cigar burned still and he lifted it to his mouth without talking yet. Puffing away, he unmuted the television and its monstrous surround sound, trying to calm his temper before he spoke.

"Victor fue matado esta mañana." [Victor was killed this morning.] Vargas said as he puffed continuously on his cigar. His face still bore rage although his voice was solid and calm.

"¿Cómo?" [How?] Hector Valdez said with a concerned look on his face. He sat comfortably on the couch, his legs crossed, hand against the side of his face with a cigarette in his own mouth. He knocked the ashes free in a glass ashtray and looked instead at Vargas instead of the television.

"El fue disparado en su balcón. Quizá por un francotirador." [He was shot on his balcony. Maybe by a sniper.]

"¿Un francotirador? ¿Quién hace?" [A sniper? Who would?]

"¡Yo no conozco a Hector! ¡Por qué hace no usted averigua! ¡Usted es mi jefe de la seguridad!" [I don't know Hector! Why don't you find out! You're my chief of security!]

"Haré algunas llamadas." [I will make some calls.] The conversation remained solely between Manuel and Hector. The other three men in the room were also members of the cartel, high ranking as well but they had no business talking. They ran various aspects of operations rather than anything to do with security. One of them would now take over for Victor Escobedo's role in the cartel.

"¿Usted hará algunas llamadas? ¿Dónde el jode fueron esas llamadas ayer? ¿El día antes? ¡Qué hace yo le pago para!" [You'll make some calls? Where the fuck were those calls yesterday? The day before? What do I pay you for!]

"Usted me paga por mantener su operación segura y hasta que ahora haya hecho un trabajo bueno maldito de ello. ¡Que tal usted permite que mí corra mi departamento! No hay algún instante abotona puedo empujar para decirme que hace esto a nosotros. Pienso que es un rival. Soy casi cierto que es un rival. Pero yo no tengo prueba que lo es un rival. ¿Cómo puedo presentar yo algo sin prueba? ¿Para enviarnos guerrear con otro cártel sin prueba? El juego no trabaja esta manera, no cuando usted es el jefe grande en el bloque. ¿Comprendió?" [You pay me to keep your operation safe and until now I've done a damn good job of it. How about you let me run my department! There isn't some instant button I can push to tell me who is doing this to us. I think it's a rival. I'm almost certain it's a rival. But I have no proof that it's a rival. How can I present anything without proof? To send us to war with another cartel without proof? The game doesn't work this way, not when you're the big chief on the block. Understood?] Hector yelled back, a rare display of anger in front of people but Manuel knew that he had pushed too hard in the wrong direction. He knew that things didn't come instantly but he was a man who demanded answers immediately and Hector had yet to give him any.

"Averigüe que hace esto. ¡Hoy!" [Find out who is doing this. Today!] Nothing more was said from the men inside of the house. They finished watching the soccer game being broadcast live from Bogotá, shouting at the television, getting their frustration out there while both Hector and Manuel pondered what their next actions would be and how they would react to the shooting.

[color= red]

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

[/color]

December 5, 1995 - 18:30 [UTC-5]
Popayán, Colombia
(2° 26' 33.54" N, 76° 36' 15.92" W)

Andrew Hunt looked out, over the city from the eighth floor of his nine-story building, where his safe house was located. The sun had already set and the sky was growing progressively darker as the various lights in the city came on here, there, and everywhere. He left his window open and a breeze came through his window, tickling the growing beard on his face. His radio had buzzed hours earlier and told him of the successful assassination that morning. It was a terrific blow to the cartel and the Ministry of Intelligence confirmed it just before the sun went down when they passed along some of the intercepts their satellites picked up over the course of the day. Hunt saw it as a resounding victory as he listened to the conversations and their frantic tones. The clearest one was made by Hector Valdez, placed an hour after he left Vargas' house. He demanded to know whatever people knew and he demanded action. There needed to be retaliation but there needed to be an object of retaliation first. At the end of the afternoon, after Hector made two dozen calls, he couldn't give any definite answer yet as to who was attacking the Cacua Cartel. They assumed that their main enemy was the Calí Cartel, situated north of them. They were the strongest rival in Colombia aside from the Medellín Cartel way up north. Those three were the primary cartels in Colombia. Their counterparts in Venezuela had long since been erased by the Imperial Layartebian Military and the Domestic Justice Agency. They cornered the market since, making untold billions each year, enjoying the monopoly they had on the drug market but they all had to know that those days were coming to some sort of close. The Colombian Conquest was not without its reasons and definitely not without its penalties.

Hunt, that very agent of chaos that the cartels feared would come to the country, now sat back and watched his plan unfold. He had spent months trying to convince his superiors that this plan of approach to the cartels was the proper approach. The military and Ministry of Intelligence wanted simply to take them on militarily but Hunt knew something about them that they didn't, something he had picked up while he lived in Venezuela all those years. The cartels in Venezuela were easily defeated by military action outright but, on the back burner, they remained in existence; albeit, they were very weak. In Colombia, the cartels would go underground and remain fiercely strong. They would unite together and form a coalition that the Empire would defeat, eventually but after expending so much unnecessary time, effort, and resources that it wouldn't matter whether they won or lost. They had to war against each other, to weaken themselves significantly and thus, after they were weakened beyond belief, the military could finish them off once and for all. He took in a deep breath just before he lit a cigarette, tasting the cool, sunset air on his pallet. This is but one war, he thought philosophically to himself. That I have total control of and yet I feel no fear and no shame. He pondered the decisions he had made thus far and not just in Colombia but in his career as a whole, focusing on the deaths that he ordered, the innocents killed from his orders and how they must have felt the moment before they died. Such thoughts had no place on the battlefield when they could distract and impair you but in the safe house, there were no bullets flying back and fourth. He had time now to think of the dead and what their ghosts must be saying, how they must be surrounding him, witnessing the deeds he carried out, shaking their invisible heads.

Hunt was the first one into the theater of conflict and he would be the last out, when it was all said and done. Nights like these with peace and serenity would be the worst of them. They would give him time to think about all that he had done and all that he planned to do. Left to his own devices who knew what would come of Hunt and he was almost relieved to hear the radio crackle half past 18:00 in the evening. It wasn't a scheduled contact time so the message could mean either one of two things: they had been found and were being engaged or needed an exfiltration or they had stumbled upon something that simply couldn't wait until 03:00 hours. "Stack. Stack. Go for Joystick." Hunt nearly fell out of his chair as he slammed the window shut and picked up the microphone on the radio, pushing it into privacy mode. The voices on the other end would only go into the headset so they could not be heard.

"Joystick. Go." Hunt looked again at his watch just to recheck the time. It definitely wasn't time yet.

"Stack, we've got a bag of M&Ms for you."

"What kind?"

"Dark chocolate."

"Glad to hear that's my favorite. I like the yellow ones."

"Green are my favorite." This was all useless dribble meant to confust the person on the other end. It meant nothing, there was no code to be had. Force Tiger was checking in just to throw off the schedule but there was business to be had and eventually they got to it, masking their codes to be completely undiscernable. The message was short but it was effective. The Cacua Cartel was going to be moving a supply of ammunition north to a battle area they demarcated near Calí and they were going to be using a specific highway. The arms shipment included a number of precision rifles, mortars, and mines and it would be moving out at 01:00 hours from a cache just outside of Popayán. They were going to intercept and destroy it before it reached the destination, along the highway. They had the spot picked out and were going to strike before the sun came up, having seized a few anti-tank rockets along their journey. Hunt never asked how they came by that particular bit of information and he would never find out, not even after the war ended and he escaped from Colombia. Hunt simply approved the attack not that they needed his permission.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

December 6, 1995 - 02:30 [UTC-5]
35 miles south of Calí
(2° 54' 35.24" N, 76° 33' 0.37" W)

Lying silently beneath the weeds and bushes alongside the road to Calí, the five men waited for the convoy to approach. It was still miles away, moving northward at just thirty-something miles per hour, mainly because of the state of the road and the complete darkness of the Colombian jungle all around them. Stars flickered overhead and a full moon illuminated the jungle from way overhead. What clouds existed in the sky filtered the moonlight every now and then, turning the moonlight to rays of silver. They had lined both sides of the road just fifty meters away from six Claymore mines, all tied together to enhance their lethality. They used infrared markers on the road to determine the ambush zone. Along with the mines, they also had a pair of M72 LAW rocket launchers. The green, plastic, collapsible tubes had been extended and readied for shooting. Inside each one was a sixty-six millimeter, unguided rockets with a muzzle velocity of just one hundred and forty-five meters per second and a range of two hundred meters against a stationary target and one hundred and sixty-five against a mobile target. They would be firing at less than fifty meters, using the rocket launcher to disable the first vehicle. Once people got out of the other vehicles, they would detonate the Claymores, killing everyone quickly and easily. The rockets needed at least ten meters to arm before they could do damage and they could punch right through a foot of steel or two feet of reinforced concrete or six feet of soil. They had magazine cartridges lined up in case they needed to unload bullets upon bullets to the bad guys.

The ground beneath them soon began to rumble as the convoy of three cars approached, their headlights in the darkened distance. The five men wore night vision goggles over their eyes to allow them to see and they had to alter the brightness because of the approaching vehicles and the moonlight overhead. In a full moon, their goggles were least effective than in any other night time condition aside from fog but they still worked. Staring out at the approaching vehicles, the five men instantly readied themselves for action against the convoy. To them it approached slowly and Alvarez kept his eyes on the infrared reflector on the ground. Once the vehicles were there, he would order Peña to attack the lead vehicle and, from there, he would wait, detonating the Claymores moments later. Because of the back blast of the LAW, Peña was on the other side of the road along with Ramos. The other three were on the other side of the road and while Peña fired, Ramos would be on the ground, keeping himself from being injured by the force of the LAW, which was lethal to fifteen meters in a thirty-degree arc behind the launcher. Out to forty meters, there would be considerable potential for further danger.

Finally, when the lead vehicle was in range, Alvarez yelled across the road, "¡Ahora! " [Now!] Peña heard him all too clearly and sprang up from the ground. He went from lying prone to crouching, the LAW on his shoulder. He had removed his night vision goggles to fire the weapon because they couldn't be used with the sight of the weapon, which was just a pop-up device, plastic with a bullseye on it. Peña sighted the center of the vehicle by looking between the headlights and fired. The rocket sprang forward with a bright flash and traveled the fifty meters to the car in less than a second. The rocket tore through the air, guided by its rear fins, and slammed hard into the front of the sport's utility vehicle. The car was unarmored and the rocket ripped through the grill of the car and its engine block like nothing. Inside the engine block, the warhead detonated and sent shrapnel through the air as all five men stayed on the deck, Peña dropping the moment he fired the rocket. The vehicle came to a sudden halt and its front dropped to the ground as a fireball hot enough to fuse skin to bone and bone to steel ripped through the firewall and the cabin, killing all four people inside before any of them could blink. The second and third vehicle ground to a halt ten meters behind the flaming wreckage of the first car. There were six more men to be killed, four in the second and two in the third vehicle. As doors were opened, the Claymores were detonated. Alvarez pushed down on the detonator for the Claymores three times. The radio signal ripped through the wires moving at light speed and triggered the fuses inside all six Claymores at the same time. Inside of each Claymore, a pound and a half of C-4 and ball bearings detonated and sent the seven hundred, eighth of an inch, steel ball bearings through the air at almost four thousand feet per second. The forty-two hundred ball bearings that flew through the air, tore the two vehicles and its occupants to shreds. The four people who got out of the second car were instantly killed and the two in the third vehicle were injured badly. They struggled to get out of their vehicle, which was peppered with the ball bearings. The driver carried a MAC-10 and the passenger held a Beretta pistol.

Both of them were bleeding from all over, head, legs, torso, arms, everywhere. The two men yelled into the night, "¿Quién es usted? ¿Dónde está usted?" [Who are you? Where are you?] He yelled out, seeing the wreckage all over the ground. They had been told about the ongoing assault on the Cacua Cartel by some sort of unknown menace and now they were standing in the kill zone. "¡Salga ahora!" [Come out now!] They came out but only after both bodies sat slumped against the truck. Working after the last two kills was easy for Alvarez had his team. They laid a few blocks of C-4 inside of the truck and quickly left the scene, leaving the reflectors and Claymore shells to be found. Half a mile away, they detonated the C-4 blocks and lit the jungle up with a bright fireball that shattered the truck into minuscule pieces. All of the arms inside were destroyed and the Cacua Cartel would find out before dawn what had happened, coming back when it was light out to investigate the scene.