Project Warfighter - Operation: Mirror Force(IC)
Posted: Thu Jun 16, 2016 11:25 pm
Undisclosed Location
Six Months Ago...
The mansion really was extravagant. Four floors, fourteen bedrooms, and nine bathrooms. It was a bright star of architecture in this desert of a third-world country where nothing was as beautiful or as well-developed. The fact that this mansion also had a full swimming pool and a helipad in the massive backyard meant nothing to an outside observer. They would even be able to get close enough to see it. The entire property was walled in and the one driveway that went up to the house was gated and protected by a guard post that had an armed contractor at all times standing watch. The fact that cameras were everywhere went without saying; everything was recorded here, even the guest bathrooms. For security purposes.
A full complement of thirty armed security watched this mansion in eight-hour rotations. A small barracks in the back corner of the property gave these men and two women access to everything they needed to live a comfortable, and well-paid, life for the year they would be here. They were all private contractors. Some working alone and some in small groups, but none of them were from a large company to avoid suspicion. They had little idea who they worked for other than that he was well protected here because even on top of them, the man had four personal bodyguards who never let him out of his sight. That was one reason why none of the contractors had ever gotten a look at him, but none of them paid it much mind. Half a million dollars each was the price to work a fairly easy patrol for a year, and then they could ask to be contracted again. Some of these small-time mercenaries had a five-year plan to work for this rich benefactor and get enough to retire on.
None of them knew they were working for one of the world's most wanted criminals.
The man had made sure his name had never appeared on any legal document, and any that had existed when he was a child he'd made sure had been scrubbed. Nothing linked this man to any event anywhere, but his dealings were obvious. He was a man of immense wealth, immense power, and immense influence. He had changed his appearance multiple times as necessary to get in with local populaces and meet with various representatives and workers, but that didn't matter. One nickname had stuck. The nickname he'd gotten working as a radical religious leader in some backwoods Arab Muslim country where he'd been using low-tech terrorists to strong arm his way into oil deals. The Prophet.
Even now, his bodyguards jokingly referred to him among themselves as this, but he made no outward reaction towards it when he heard it, and he didn't ask them to stop. But deep down, the word infuriated him. It was the mark of his first failure, his first mistake. It was the name that Task Force Atlas had gotten information on and had used to track him relentlessly. Now, it seemed, they were at every turn he made, making his life and his dealings difficult. But that was about to change.
The Prophet sat in a leather reclining office chair. His black hair was short, but stylish, and he kept a neatly trimmed beard. His complexion was light enough that he could pass as a local who had just returned from a sunny vacation in most Caucasian countries, but it was dark enough he could be a Latin or an Arab or a passing Greek. His grey Armani suit was flawless, and the maroon silk tie he wore brought it all together. Across from his great solid oak desk sitting in front of him was only one of his advisers, his "doers."
"It can be done, sir. I assure you of that," began the assistant, "It will just take time and resources to find those who are qualified, as well as to equip them and train them for the task you want them to accomplish."
The Prophet nodded. He knew all of this, but he felt no need to reminding his assistant of that. "All that matters is that it can be done. I have patience, and I have the funding. I only ask that you and your people find the best."
"We will, sir, there is no doubt of that. We just may want to avoid recruiting in nations where our presence could be felt."
"You mean where they are?" The Prophet did not refer to Task Force Atlas by name, especially around his underlings, who had their silent fears about being woken up in the middle of the night to a gun barrel pointing them down.
"Yes, sir. We don't want your plan to be revealed early on. Surprise is key."
"Of course it is. At first, I had been hesitant to do anything. They were merely a nuisance that I could circumvent. But I was wrong. They must be dealt with, and in order to do that, we must go no the offensive."
"Yes, sir."
"So gather up whatever you need. I'm giving you a blank check to accomplish this task that I've given you. They must be destroyed."
"Yes, sir."
Outpost Training Camp #3, Chitzeland
Five Days Ago...
Working for Task Force Atlas wasn't always a glorious job. The various governments, organizations, alliances, and corporations with their hands in the pot focused on one thing for Task Force Atlas: The special operators. The special mission teams with all their fancy gear and their interpersonal drama.
But nobody cared about the staff. The bass staff, the troops tasked with flying the task force aircraft and driving the task force vehicles. While the majority of the base personnel were from whatever country the base was in, the personnel of the assets were more diverse, and the majority of them were from the Garrison Air Corps and the Rapid Reaction Force.
Corporal Arin Brookes was one of these, and he had quite some time ago concluded he worked in Hell.
It was said the best station of a TFA trooper was Fort Bragg, the HQ of the task force. Most of the special operators spent a majority of their time there, and it had the best amenities for regular staff as well. Diego Garcia was also apparently nice, though it was warmer there, but apparently DG had come to become primarily a naval outlet for the Task Force Mobile Fleet, which was a fleet of nine ships that supported TFA. DG was home to a lot of the Task Force's assets due to that.
The Firebases, while smaller, were apparently not bad, though Brookes had heard various gripes. Firebase Echo in the URA's colonies was hot as fuck, and it was staffed by mercenaries that apparently didn't like the TFA pilots and drivers. Firebase Amethyst was quiet, and the TFA staff there said the Vanconians kind of creeped them out. Firebase Valkyrie was apparently like living in an old nationalist military adver tisement. Firebase Alamo had no Internet connections outside of the command post, and since it was in a temperate climate, the Emmerians had decided it was cheaper to not install heating or air conditioning in the barracks.
Brookes had decided that they all had it easy, since he was staffed at the most out-of-the-way and desolate of the locations available. He'd been appointed to work at Outpost Training Camp #3, in Chitzeland. Now, despite the descriptive name, not much training actually happened, here, since most of the operators kept away from OTC3. The Hurtis and the Namenians had briefly done training stints here, but that was all Brookes could remember. Now, when the specops weren't around, that usually meant a vacation for the staffers: No training missions for them, so they didn't have to fly or drive the stuck-up pricks anywhere, and they didn't have to set their training routes or killhouses up. Perfect.
Too bad at OTC3, it sucked no matter what. Chitzeland, and specifically this part, was desolate wasteland. He'd heard comparisons to Monfrox. The air here wasn't really safe to breathe, and it was slightly radioactive, meaning if you were on outside duty, you had a mask, and when you came in, you had to scrub down. To add to that, the water tasted like shit because it had to go through such an intense purification process. Mix that with the lack of proper air-conditioning, no Wi-Fi, and the fact that electricity was spotty sometimes since the water purifiers took power priority, and it made for a shit existence.
The base staff was only around twenty, at least. OTC3 was more like a forward operating base than anything else, and it showed it. There weren't even any runways, only a few flatter areas for helicopters. Brookes didn't fly though, he was a driver. On base, there were four MH-60s, 2 A-164 Wipeouts, and 2 Apaches, and on the ground, there were 2 MRAPs, 4 Hummers, and 6 four-wheelers. Most of that was GAC and RRF property, but the ATVs were courtesy of the URA, and those got used the most for perimeter patrols, which is what Brookes did. He did them a lot, since there wasn't much else to do in this hellhole...
The vibrations in the handlebars of his ATV made his hands go numb as he circled around OTC3 about a kilometer out. It was nearing dawn, which didn't matter since they rarely saw the sun from the dust and clouds in the air. Brookes could taste the putrid dust through his mask and even though he wore goggles, it still got in his fucking eyes. Brookes volunteered to take as many patrol shifts as he could, since it beat sitting on his bunk playing with himself. He'd need to basically scrub his skin until he bled to get the irradiated dust off, since he was now out on his third shift in a row, but he pushed that thought from his head and gunned the ATV, doing a small jump across a dune.
Maybe when he got back, he could try and get Todd and Sperry to spit up more of their money in another game of-
Bbbbbrrrrrt!
The flash of mushrooming light and smoke caught his eye, and the vibrations hit himself and his four-wheeler almost immediately afterwords. An explosion at the the camp. What the fuck happened? Did someone set off the armory? A second explosion in a different part of the base made him stop his ATV hard. That explosion was the command building. Brookes watched as the communications array fell over off the building as the realization struck him. They were being attacked. Brookes gunned his ATV and turned towards OTC3 to see what he needed to be done.
"Abaddon, Azrael, copy. Charges are green."
"Azrael, Abaddon. Light them up on mark. Three. Two. One. Mark."
Another explosion rocked the ground as yet another building went up. From his location, Archangel watched as his teams went to work. It had been months since Archangel was first contacted by the man others knew as The Prophet. And since then, it had taken Archangel some time to assemble these men and women that worked for him, but he'd done it nonetheless, and he'd done it faster than the time frame the Prophet had given him, which surprised Archangel's benefactor. They'd also trained and were now accomplishing their first mission much faster than expected. Task Force Atlas had grown complacent, and destroying this, their smallest base, had been too easy.
Archangel had assembled thirteen teams of four. Azrael, Abaddon, Zephon, Camael, Gabriel, Israfil, Michael, Maalik, Samael, Ariel, Wormwood, Uriel, and Zaphkiel, and finally, his own team: Lucifer, which included himself and three others. In total, that made fifty-two operators that had been assembled and organized in record time to do this did.
"Sir, incoming spotted on four-wheeler." Archangel turned to see one of his teammates looking through a sniper scope.
"Fire when you can."
"Yes, sir." Archangel watched the marksman breathe in, his body rising slowly, before a quiet puff sounded from the barrel of the silenced sniper rifle. In the distance, Archangel saw the headlight of the four-wheeler suddenly begin to slow and veer to one side. "Target down." Archangel simply nodded in silence.
After fifteen minutes of listening to the reports of the teams at the Task Force Atlas encampment, Archangel smiled and called upon the twelve team leaders, "Archangel to Team Leads, reports." Twelve reports soon came back, all positive, all successful. Outpost Training Camp #3, a Task Force Atlas base, had fallen quickly. "All teams, egress to exfiltration point. Make sure none survive on the way out." Twelve squelches reported affirmatives. Archangel looked to either side as he rose from the dirt of the small rise of dirt, "Come on, let's go." Three other shadows in the night rose with him.
The Prophet had paid Archangel and his "Task Force Logos," as Archangel had jokingly called it, to destroy Task Force Atlas. The Prophet promised a large amount of money for this, and Archangel had painstakingly recruited only the most skilled, most determined personnel he could find to fill the ranks. They came from all over, and had all skill sets, but they were all the best of the best that could be found and bought. Archangel was proud, really, though he'd never say it, for he'd created the perfect enemy of Task Force Atlas: Their own kind. The problem with the Prophet was that he underestimated these Task Force Atlas types. They couldn't be dealt with using angry villagers with thirty-year-old assault rifles. Nor could a backwater military force of conscripts defeat them. No, they had to be put down using their own methods, destroyed by soldiers as skilled as they were. Task Force Atlas needed to be destroyed by Tier-One operatives. And Archangel knew that only too well.
Archangel now knew his team's abilities. Time to hit a bigger target.
Task Force Atlas would fall, come Hell or high water.
Fort Bragg, Oranized States
Earlier Today...
Fort Bragg was a large base, one of the main operating bases of the military in the Organized States. However, a section on the base was cordoned off. Behind the fences, the walls, and the guard posts was a section of Fort Bragg that was dedicated to specific personnel: The men and women of Task Force Atlas. Fort Bragg was the headquarters of TFA, and due to this, the majority of TFA's assets were stationed at Fort Bragg, as well as most of the Task Force's command and control structure and information-gathering ability. The only base near the size of the TFA component at Bragg was Diego Garcia, across the planet. Diego Garcia was the main station of the Task Force's joint task fleet as well as the rest of the of Task Force's ground and air assets, with small smatterings of personnel and assets spread among the Firebases and OTC #3.
Currently, the large majority of the Task Force's special operations personnel, seen by the base personnel as equal parts snobbish prick, drama queen, and demigod, were in the large briefing room on the first floor of the Task Force Atlas Operation Control center. The room was large enough, but even now, the fifty of so folding chairs were filled and there were people standing around the room against the wall. Everyone had made an appearance for the emergency briefing that was being given. Uniforms of all patterns and colors were present.
In the corner of the room, near the double-set of doors to the room stood Chell Jackson and Vlad Lenin, the Hurti and Namenian half of the TFA field command staff. Both had looks of concern on their faces, though with Vlad, it was generally hard to tell this apart from his resting facial expression. In the opposite corner at the front silently stood the Director of Task Force Atlas, a rare sight seeing as the Director rarely left the safety of the Control Center or the R&D department. His salt-and-pepper hair was a mess, as it usually was. Some of the researchers assumed he must stay up for days at a time doing whatever it was he did; No one was really sure exactly what he did. Standing at the front of the room, standing behind a lectern and in front of a projector screen stood Lennox and Jolly, the Emmerian and Remnant commanders, marking as quite the comparison. Lennox was tall, dark-haired, and in what could only be his prime. Jolly, in contrast, was shorter, his hair thoroughly greyed, and looked every bit the old, grizzled, special forces warrior he was meant to be. Lennox had a sheaf of papers in his hand from which he was reading while Jolly stood beside him with his own copy of the briefing.
"Roughly five days ago, at 0600 local time," Lennox began, "Communications with Outpost Training Camp Number Three ended unexpectedly. Less than one minute after communications were lost, the emergency beacon was sounded from OTC Three. Ten minutes after that, the beacon was shut down."
Jolly cleared his throat, "Four days ago, satellite feeds showed that the location of OTC Three appears to have been attacked. Three days ago, a S and R team was sent in; no survivors were found. All personnel are considered KIA."
A couple sighs and expletives were heard in the crowd.
Lennox continued, "Our intelligence analysts have been poring over this information and how it happened. There is little information on the subject. The only information they've dredged up are several references encoded to what we think is Diego Garcia. We think this may be an indication of an attack."
Jolly picked up. "Due to this, and due to the unknown nature of the attackers of OTC Three, we will be mobilizing all teams," Jolly swallowed and nodded. "The majority of our teams will be heading to Diego Garcia in fear of the threat while other teams will be sent to the Firebases in Emmeria, the URA, the DEN, and Vancon. You all have ninety minutes to pack your bags for an indeterminable scramble period, so pack light and pack efficient, especially the Diego Garcia-bound teams. That's a 13-hour flight. I'll be staying on base to manage from here..." Jolly glanced at the Remnant team in the group, noting that Koopa was still absent. Jolly nodded as he ever so slightly looked down and his shoulders slumped imperceptibly.
"Dismissed."