High-Powered Capitalism [PMT - IC]

[Arcerion]

High-Powered Capitalism

Rules of the IC

I. I am the OP. I am God as long as you're in the RP.
II. Realism is key. Casualties happen, vehicles blow up, things happen. Deal with it like an adult, and keep fighting.
III. Keep the posts well done, grammatically and spelling-wise.
IV. No actions without means. Therefore, there is no need for a suicidal kidnap mission to the Presidential compound off the bat.
V. I reserve the right to make small edits to your posts if I feel the need to.
VI. People will die. People will bleed. Deal with it, but act like humans out there.
VII. Every post should be a readable-length. Even just conversations, The English language is beautiful, so neglect it to one-liners and your operators will have intimate encounters with RPG rounds
VIII. Extended conversations should be sorted out via TG or OOC before insertion into a post, to keep the posts flowing and the bullets flying.

Note: Ensure you use the proper formatting banner to indicate time and location for your post. Code is below.

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[Arcerion]

Date: April 22nd, 2031
Time: 0800
Location: Paris, France

The light music playing in the lobby during the intermission was slightly muted by the dull tones of human voices. The interior lights of the Palais Garnier were dim, the foggy yellow light giving the atmosphere a distinguished tone to match the guests currently mingling in the annals of the powerful. Of the many members there were Ambassadors, Senators, members of the French Parliament, business professionals, modern socialites, and even a smattering of the more dignified celebrities. However, amongst the many at the Palais to see Beethoven's Fidelio, a specific individual came with an additional agenda than listening to the tragic tale of imprisonment. Ironically it aligned with the mission he had set out on. Onyx Tactical was often seen as a refined organization, revered for its class and poise within what was generally viewed as a brutish community of common thugs. Hence why their executives had a complimentary box at the opera, compliments of a benefactor with his all of his sons properly returned from a risky vacation to Macau.

Waylon Gervase had grown up in places such as this. His father had been an executive banker, his mother a well-placed socialite thanks to a storied family history. His brother had introduced him to private security when he left the Belgian army. A university graduate working in banks, his brother quickly helped him shake the proper hands and treat the proper politicians to dinner. After founding Onyx, the world, specifically Africa, had become his oyster. However today, the wonderful rendition by the opera company aside, Waylon was required to force a politician to conduct most would believe unsavoury.

Gervase took his vodka neat, and from his aide, who quickly returned to their tablet managing after work business or pre-evening leisure, he couldn't tell with technology nowadays. Not that he cared, as his assistant always ensured that the work was done. A second aide nodded towards the man that was his 'target' so to speak. The man in question was Senator Gaspard Baptiste, a high-placed member of the French Senate, and also a member who had close ties with the European Coalition Territorial Police. The Gendarmes currently had three Onyx operators sitting in a jail somewhere in Monaco, with no formal arrest and no charges laid against them. By all accounts of the members of their party that had escaped, the methods used to obtain said men were physical and decidedly outside the law. Now, Gervase was going to get his men back. The bodyguard attached to the Senator saw the cadre of bodyguards assigned to Waylon, with their Onyx corporate pins, expensive suits and wolf-like eyes, and was cowed into relenting his protection. Gervase approached him with a warm smile, and extended his hand. "Senator, as always a pleasure seeing you. I was not aware you were a fan of the opera?" he poised, with hidden intent.

"Ah, Monsieur Gervase, I see you and all of your men have managed to find me." The Senator responded sarcastically.

"I see that is the way we are discussing business tonight Gaspard." Waylon said with lightly veiled menace, his Belgian accent weighing heavily on his English, and his patience. "You are part of the financial oversight for the Territorial Police, and everyone knows you weaseled the current Commissioner into his seat. Lie to me and tell me you don't know where my men are."

"Your men are hopefully rotting like the criminal brutes that they are. However I assure you it is not in any of our facilities. Yes, most assuredly." Baptiste was now sporting a grin, and the house lights dimmed twice, signalling an end to the intermission. "A pleasure, Monsieur Gervase, as always." He turned on his heels, expensive leather shoes trailed by a scuffed pair of cheap ones as his bodyguard continued with him, shoulders cowed. Waylon cursed under his breath, and returned to the box, bodyguards clearly furious, their eyes ablaze with anger over their imprisoned comrades.

Well into the second act, Waylon had his solution. Covertly, he had an intelligence asset call in several favours in the French DCRI, the internal agency, and had received some emails alleging the location of three "international terrorists". Judging the French for their penchant to drama, Waylon had authorized a surveillance and infiltration team to the location. Sure enough, by the end of the opera, they had confirmed that there was a black site somewhere East of Marseille. Waylon left early, and had his men park his limousine directly blocking the SUV belonging to Senator Baptiste.

The Senator was preluded by his bodyguard, who began to draw his weapon when he sighted multiple shadowy figures emerge blocking the car. Then he saw the Onyx pins, and reviewed his decision. Baptiste looked at Gervase, now sitting inside the car, stepping out slowly, a lion exiting its cave lair, and approached the increasingly nervous politician. "It's Marseilles. You have one hour to have them on a flight to The Hague. Any further discussion and you'll be meeting with Board of Ethics." It was Waylon's turn to swivel on his heel, and without further word the car door shut and the expensive vehicle slid away silently. From the front passenger seat one of his bodyguards spoke up, "Well played, sir."

"Thank you Markus, back to the airport please. Monsieur Raymond has requested my presence for breakfast tomorrow."

"At once, sir."

Date: April 29th, 2031
Time: 0600
Location: Djibouti, East Africa

"Sentry's back." As if on cue, a barrel shifted next to him. "Tracking target." A pat on the elbow was all that was necessitated. The Infiltration/Reconnaissance/Intelligence team, more commonly known as the IRI had been in place on the rooftop for almost three days. Sixty-eight hours, nine minutes, and fourteen seconds according to the team leader's watch. They were tracking an individual believed to have been involved with a bombing in Sudan against a Canadian mining operation. Six wounded, two still critically. The Canadians themselves were furious, and demanded better protection. They turned to the New Commonwealth, who in turned contracted the mission out as part of their campaign against the Islamic insurgents threatening their interests daily. Now, the time to strike back had finally come. "Lupus Bravo this is Orion One Actual, we are sending the intelligence packet your way. Standby. Over." The voice was hoarse and low, gruff from days with a dry throat and a lack of water. The brown fatigues were still caked with dirt and mud, the brown mottled shroud flapping slightly in the early spring winds. "Lupus Bravo standing by for packet. Over." A clear, Germanic voice, rang back.

The team leader left his shroud slowly, taking several minutes to do so, ensuring he wasn't detected. The small six-man team was stiff, hot, and smelled like the people that populated this slum, but they knew their job was almost done. Team Leader finally approached Signals Operator, and got himself right next to his ear, to make the least amount of noise possible, as the ambient noise of the slum had not risen yet. "Send them the intel, and then request exfil." Team Leader shuffled away, leaving Signals Operator to do his job. "Lupus Bravo, this is Orion One Sierra, uplink sent. Over."

"Copy your last, Orion One Sierra. Uplink received. Over."

"Transmitting. Over"

"Data received, Orion One Sierra. Over."

"Copy that. Requesting exfil, will mark landing zone once advised of Alpha unit in holding. Orion One Sieera, out." Signals Operator moved to a crouch, and whispered silently to Grenadier. He nodded and moved off. The team rallied at the ground floor, weapons raised. Through his pale-green HUD, the markers of his men appeared, Team Leader noting their positions and states. personally he wanted viewed name, rank, weapon, and pulse. Everything he needed to know. As a team they left the building, brown and black fatigues melding well with the slum enveloping them on all sides. IRI teams were skittish, they disliked contact and they were vehemently opposed to it. However, provoked they were quick to finish fights, but rarely started them. They grouped together, shuffling through the slums until they were over three kilometers from their target building.

Across the market lay an open patch of dirt. The rusted poles indicated some form of soccer field, but the lack of grass and bleachers did not assist the notion. Air Coordinator opened the tablet on the front of his chest, marking their landing zone, and in relation with his HUD saw that the Drachen III was still several kilometers away. He sidled up to Team Leader, and flashed four fingers. Four minutes. Team Leader nodded, and toggled on his wrist the formation change to perimeter defense and crouched, and on cue the HUD relayed the message and the team took up their positions. In the distance, the low hum of their transport became louder until it sounded like a pair of washing machines welded together was overhead. "Marking LZ with additional IR marker." Grenadier took the cue and swiveled, his bullpup rifle's grenade launcher giving a soft thunk as the IR round was sent tumbling into the field. "Eyes on marker."

The team grouped up and moved in column, weaving through the still awakening market. The few vendors there with thin wares paid them little attention, simply averting their gazes. Ahead, a child chewed on a stick, soccerball at his feet and stared, ragged and dirty clothes hanging off his emaciated body. The large Western soldiers moved by, wraiths of the slum, and entered the brown dappled craft. The chin-mounted autocannons swiveled with the pilot's vision, and the crew chief and door gunner both remained behind blast shields, remotely operating their own chainguns. The IRI embarked on the spacious, two-engined craft and felt it strain against gravity as the pulsejets lifted it airborne. It stayed at low altitude, swerving through the few apartment buildings that the city had. The data would be integral to the raid that followed in days to come.

[West Aurelia]

A small village in Ethiopia, 0200 hours local time, April 29, 2031

---

"Hold position. Dog around the corner. Proceed with caution." The thick Scottish accent was annoying at first, but you got used to it.

Captain Marcus "Ghost" Jones paused and activated the IR mode on his helmet, switching from NV. On the other side of the low brick wall was a heat signature curled up on the floor. A German shepherd by the looks of it.

"Hostile or non-hostile?" he whispered.

"Hostile. No one in the village can afford one of these. Except Suleiman."

"Eliminate the threat."

"Aye."

Five hundred meters to Jones' right, First Lieutenant Robert "Parasite" Vass lay camouflaged on the top of a small hill. He peered through the scope of his suppressed M25 sniper rifle and lined up the dog in his sights. He took a breath to steady himself. Sorry about this, buddy.

A powerful 12.7x99mm round exited the barrel of the rifle and crossed the five hundred meter distance within a blink of an eye. It buried itself in the dog's skull, sending fragments of bone, skin, tissue, and brain matter onto the wall.

"Threat eliminated. Proceed and stick to the shadows."

"Copy that."

Jones switched back to NV mode and rounded the wall. He continued forward, not even bothering to look in the direction of the dog. The target building, codenamed Icepick, was forty meters ahead. It was definitely built better than the low huts which comprised the rest of the village, but not much better so as to avoid drawing too much attention. Inside was Dean Suleiman, codenamed Jackpot. He was a messenger for the Islamic Caliphate of Africa and Yemen, or ICAY for short. The group had ravaged East Africa and ruled under a brutal interpretation of sharia law, much like its failed predecessor, the Islamic State.

Jones was almost at the building when the Scottish accent assaulted his ears once more. "Hold position. Two sentries just exited Icepick."

Jones pressed against the wall of a nearby hut and dropped to one knee. He raised his suppressed M32 modular assault rifle and used its infrared laser sight to line up the sentry on the left. The two men couldn't see it, but Jones - and anyone else wearing the appropriate gear - could. One second later, another laser appeared on the second sentry's forehead.

"On my mark. Three… two… one… mark."

Two bullets - a 7.62x51mm round exiting the barrel of Jones' M32 and a 12.7x99mm round exiting the barrel of Vass' M25 - sped towards their targets. The sentry on the left dropped a millisecond before the sentry on the right.

"All call signs, this is Able 3 with Able 5. We are in position at breaching point Bravo. Awaiting orders, over."

"This is Able 1. Hold position. I am approaching breaching point Alpha, over."

"Roger, Able 1. 3 out."

"Able 1, this is Able 4. Rendezvous imminent, over."

Leaves crunched in an alleyway to Jones' right as a man appeared from the shadows - Second Lieutenant David "Alcatraz" Knight. Each member of the 1st Special Operations Element had approached Icepick from different locations, taking out any targets along the way. Jones motioned for Knight to follow. The two ex-DEVGRU operators crossed the distance between them and Icepick within five seconds.

"All call signs, this is Able 1 with Able 4. We are in position at breaching point Alpha, over."

"This is Able 3. Ready to breach, over."

"This is Able 1. Ready to breach, over."

"This is Able 2. Area is clear. Proceed to breach, over," Vass said after a sweep of the village through his sniper scope.

"Roger, Able 2. Breaching on my mark. Three… two… one… mark."

Knight grabbed the handle and twisted, using the extra strength provided by his Warrior Tactical Combat Exoskeleton (WTCE) to break the lock. He pushed the door open and entered with Jones following close behind. He swept the small living room they had entered.

"Clear."

They had rehearsed the assault multiple times in a mockup of Icepick back at their training facility in the Dutch countryside. They knew exactly where to go. Jones took a right into a narrow corridor.

"Clear."

On the left side of the corridor was the kitchen, which was accessible from the rear door. This was where Able 3 and 5 - Second Lieutenants Michael "Lancer" Cross and Isaac "Karma" van der Vaart - had entered the building. The two entered the corridor via the kitchen. At the end of the corridor was a door leading to the single bedroom where Suleiman slept.

Cross, who wielded a suppressed M18 assault shotgun, took the lead. He grabbed the handle and twisted, breaking the lock. He pushed the door open and entered with his shotgun raised. Lying on the bed were two figures, covered by the blanket. They were both sound asleep.

The four operators stayed silent as Jones walked forward. Removing the blanket slowly, he lifted the first figure's palm and placed it on his TACPAD - a detachable wrist-mounded tablet which provided real-time mission data. The TACPAD scanned it and confirmed that it was Suleiman.

"Jackpot."

He glanced across at the second figure and froze. A look of disgust crossed his face. It was a young girl, no older than fourteen.

"The fucking bastard," Cross muttered.

"Let's just hope his daughter had a nightmare," van der Vaart said, even though everyone knew this wasn't true. Suleiman was unmarried and had no confirmed children.

Jones shook his head and focused on the objective. He pulled out a suppressed M6 machine pistol. Its magazine was loaded with specialized tranquilizer rounds. He aimed it at Suleiman's arm and pulled the trigger. The powerful drug took effect immediately. On top of however many hours he had left to sleep, he wouldn't wake up for another four hours. Jones placed a black hood on Suleiman's head and handcuffed him. He walked around to the girl and tranquilized her as well. He wouldn't risk her waking up and alerting someone.

Next, Knight attached his M32 to a magnetic weapon holster on his back. He reached down and lifted Suleiman up and onto his shoulders. Wearing the Warrior made it easy.

"Citadel, this is Able 1. Package is secure. Proceeding to LZ, over."

"Copy that, Able 1. Exfil chopper is en route. Citadel out."

"Alright men, we're Oscar Mike. Able 2, meet us at RV point Alpha."

"Copy that, Able 1." Vass got up from his sniper position and began heading towards their designated meeting point.

Jones led the three other men out through the back door, noting the two dead sentries.

In the interest of time…

The black MH-70 Hunter utility helicopter appeared over the trees. The five operators, plus the sleeping Suleiman, emerged from the tree line. The MH-70 touched down in the clearing. Four Warrior-less soldiers emerged and scanned the area, their weapons raised.

"Move!" Jones yelled as they ran towards their ride.

Knight climbed in first, setting Suleiman down on the floor. The other four operators climbed in, followed by the four soldiers. The helicopter took off immediately and headed into the distance.