Action Force Part One: Formation

[Sundance]

Helmand, Afghanistan
Six months ago

The six-man SAS team jumped down from the deuce-and-a-half truck and carefully moved up to the entrance of the cave. A local tribesman had informed a patrol that Taliban fighters were using the caves as a base.

Major Vaughn used hand signals to direct the other five troopers into position. Another signal and they threw flash-bangs into the cave. As the thunderous boom echoed in the dark, Vaughn and another trooper leaped into the cave, UMP sub-machine guns at the ready.

The cave held no Taliban fighters, but it wasn’t empty. Several crates were piled up along one side, while a radio rested on a rickety looking table. A smaller cave was visible through a hole at the rear. Another flash-bang was tossed in and then Vaughn’s partner jumped in.

“Clear.” The soldier relaxed somewhat. “More crates.”

“Move in,” Vaughn called to the four troopers waiting outside. His terse tone was matched by the growl he called speech.

The squad’s bomb disposal expert began checking the crates carefully. More properly known as explosives ordinance disposal, bomb disposal was a career with a bright future in this country.

“Nothing, no trip-wires, no motion sensors, nothing,” he reported after a moment.

“Open one up, Saunders,” the major ordered. The trooper pulled out his combat knife and pried the lid off a crate.

The soldier whistled in amazement. “Wow, check this out.”

Inside were large quantities of drugs.

“That’s a hell of a stash,” Saunders commented. “Got to be worth a couple hundred grand on the street.”

At Vaughn’s direction, the troops opened the other crates, finding a large sum of money in American dollars, Japanese Yen and Euros, as well as several assault rifles, a few sub-machine guns and a lot of ammo. Another crate contained several fake passports and other identity cards from a variety of nations.

“Take it out to the truck,” Vaughn ordered. “No sense leaving it here. Deny the enemy materiel and the means to acquire more. Good job lads.”

Once the crates were secure, Vaughn faced his men. “Good work,” he repeated. “It’s a shame to say goodbye. I’ve enjoyed working with you.”

Confused looks greeted his pronouncement.

Vaughn flicked the safety off his UMP, raised it and fired a long burst. Three of the SAS troopers fell before they could even react. A fourth tried to leap behind the truck but was hit in the face. The fifth tried to raise his own weapon before Vaughn shot him in the chest.

Vaughn put the safety back on, changed the magazine in his sub-machine gun and then calmly got into the truck and drove away.

Lying on the dirt, SAS sergeant Mark Floyd struggled to breathe. He managed to pull out his radio. His chest was on fire. He knew he was probably dying. He activated the radio.

“Sabre Two-Six.” He broke off, coughing. “Betrayed… Vaughn… Need Medevac…” He coughed again and dropped the radio.

Camp Bastion

“Sir, I’ve just received a brief transmission, no authentication signal, from Sabre Two-Six,” one of the radio operators reported.

“Say again?” asked the officer in the room.

“Transmission from Sabre Two-Six, sir. No authentication.”

The officer frowned. “What did it say?”

“ ‘Sabre Two-Six, betrayed, Vaughn, need Medevac.’”

“Who the hell are Sabre Two-Six?” the officer wondered.

He turned toward a lance corporal who’d just entered. “You, corporal, run over to the special ops guys and ask them if they know a unit call-sign ‘sabre two-six’.”

“Sir!” the non-com ran out the tent as the officer turned to another radio operator.

“Corporal, call over to the air wing and get them to scramble a Chinook for a possible Medevac. I think Major Campbell’s team should be ready to back them up if needed.”

“Yessir.”

Germany
Today

The branch of Metzler Bank was quiet at ten thirty. The few customers were being served with typical Germanic speed and efficiency as the business world continued to struggle in the economic crisis gripping the industrialised nations.

It seemed like any other day until the doors crashed open and armed men poured in the doors. The customers and staff screamed in terror as two of the red-clad figures fired bursts of bullets into the ceiling.

“No one move!” the figure leading the charge shouted in German. “Stay where you are!”

One of the red clad men on the right snapped, “Move away from the alarm, fraulien!”

When the woman didn’t move, the man simply shot her.

The bank supervisor, Heinrich Muller couldn’t believe the gunman could be so callous. As he watched terrified, the group of gunmen parted and another man, this one wearing a white jumpsuit, emblazoned with a skull and crossbones design, and an odd looking black helmet stepped forward.

“You overstep your orders, Kurt,” the man in white said.

The red-clad man turned toward him, straightening to attention.

“She was going for the silent alarm, Herr Baron,” Kurt replied.

“That doesn’t matter, Kurt. I told everyone that.” With that, the man addressed as ‘Baron’ drew a pistol from his own belt and shot the gunman in the head.

As the gunman collapsed, dead, to the floor, the tension in the air seemed to thicken to Heinrich.

The Baron turned to his fellows, “Landline,” he said in English. “Come here.”

The gunmen parted once more. Stepping forward, slightly reluctantly, was a man in a different outfit.

Heinrich noted that most of the gunmen, in their red helmets, long red coats and black boots looked like soldiers. This man, apparently known as ‘Landline’, was dressed in black ‘cargo pants’ as the Americans called them, black sports shoes and a red t-shirt with the same insignia that the Baron wore on the chest. Landline wasn’t wearing a helmet, instead he wore a red scarf across his mouth and nose, like some old-fashioned Baader-Meinhoff member, and spectacles.

“Get to work, Landline,” the Baron ordered.

Landline took off a backpack and removed a laptop. He quickly set it up on the counter-top and began work. Heinrich couldn’t see what he was doing, but he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be anything good.

“Firewall’s bypassed,” he announced after minute or two. “Searching for the accounts you specified.”

That definitely wasn’t good, Heinrich realised.

“Okay,” Landline announced five minutes later. “Got the account numbers. Transferring the money now.”

“You broke in here and shot that poor woman just to hack the accounts?” Heinrich blurted out. “Why?”

The Baron turned toward him, flinty eyes glowered from the helmet pitilessly. “Because your bank’s security is easier to penetrate when my hacker here can access your wi-fi network directly, without having to in through hard lines and your internet security.”

Heinrich swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit as the Baron continued to stare at him.

Sirens suddenly sounded in the streets outside.

“Baron!” called one of the soldiers near the doors. “The police are here!”

“How long?” the Baron asked Landline.

“Five more minutes, tops,” Landline answered, tension in his voice.

The Baron removed a small radio from his belt. “Red Jackal, this is the Baron. The polizei have arrived. Provide us with our exit, please.”

“En route,” Heinrich heard the other person answer.

Heinrich turned toward the wide windows at the front of the bank as the police cars from the local police arrived. As the vehicles skidded to a halt and blocked the road, the Baron turned toward the soldiers at the doors.

“Cover fire, please, gentlemen.”

The four soldiers immediately raised their weapons and fired long bursts into the police cars. The cars windows shattered, the tyres burst, the engines were torn apart. The police were killed.

Suddenly loud engines could be heard roaring down the street. Then, Heinrich watched in astonishment as four six-wheeled vehicles, each armed with two large machine guns, crashed through the shattered police cars and pulled up outside.

The Baron checked his watch. “Landline?”

“Ninety seconds, Baron. Last transaction’s going through now.”

The Baron turned to the soldiers. “You four, remain here with me and Landline. The rest of you, join Red Jackal in the Shadowtraks and prepare for our departure.”

Eight of the gunmen darted outside and leaped aboard the vehicles, Shadowtraks apparently, and took up positions ready to fire.

Heinrich stared at the dead soldier. The Baron looked at him and then followed his gaze.

The Baron turned to one of the remaining soldiers. “Luke, kindly collect our garbage. It wouldn’t do to leave it behind. Landline?”

“Shutting down, now, Baron. Mission accomplished.” Landline folded his laptop closed and shoved it back in his backpack.

“Good work, Landline. Let’s go.”

The three unencumbered gunmen led the way out the doors. The Baron and Landline following, whilst Luke, the dead body of Kurt over his shoulder, brought up the rear.

They boarded the vehicles and sped off as Heinrich, to his shame, lost control of his bladder.

Central United States
Exact location classified
One week later

Most people these days know about Guantanamo Bay, and the terrorist detention facility there. Some have even heard of Fort Leavenworth, the military prison in Kansas. No one outside of the US military has heard of Camp Zulu. Zulu is used to house prisoners that the American government doesn’t even know it’s detaining.

Located in the middle of nowhere, the camp looked like a small farm of some kind. The barns, however, were the cellblocks, and the large farmhouse was actually the guard barracks.

The camp’s key defence was its secrecy and its out of the way location.

When those were blown, so were most of its hopes of surviving any kind of attack.

Baron Ironblood watched the camp from the road overlooking the ‘farm’, nestled in a small valley. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to midnight. He turned to look up at his armoured group commander, Red Wolf.

“It’s time, Red Wolf,” Ironblood intoned in his accented English. “Move out.”

“At once, Baron,” Red Wolf replied.

The soldier ducked inside the turret of his Hyena tank and the engine roared to life seconds later.

Ironblood stepped clear as four of the blood-red coloured tanks sped down the hill. They were followed by four Shadowtraks. A fifth Shadowtrak pulled up next to Ironblood. The Baron climbed into the assault vehicle next to Red Jackal.

“Hold position here, Jackal.”

“Yes, Baron.”

Ironblood lifted his binoculars once more.

The Hyenas sped straight toward the camp. The flimsy razor-wire fence was easily bypassed by the tanks.

Inside the lead Hyena, Red Wolf took over the controls of the twin 20mm machine guns mounted on the turret.

“Firing,” he announced quietly before suited deed to word.

The bullets ripped through the wooden farmhouse. Several of the camp guards were shredded by the machine gun fire before they even knew what had happened.

Inside the control centre, disguised as a stable block, the duty officer hit the alarms and the searchlights. Then he grabbed the landline to the nearest military base.

Outside, two of the Hyenas traversed their turrets toward the stable and opened fire. Red Wolf was still hosing the farmhouse with automatic fire, while the fourth Hyena had dashed back to the metal gates and smashed through them. The four Shadowtraks raced into the camp. Two men alighted from one of the vehicles as the others dashed toward the barns.

Atop the hill, Ironblood watched, his satisfied smile hidden behind his black helmet as he watched Shrapnel, his army’s most skilled grenadier, unsling an M-203 grenade launcher and fire a 20mm high-explosive grenade into the stables. Shrapnel then snapped open the launcher, slapped in another grenade from the bandolier across his chest, and fired into the building again.

Next to him, his partner Bombshell was looking at the building with a set of night-vision goggles. “Looks clear,” Bombshell announced.

The roar of engines split the air and Bombshell turned toward the noise.

“Two Humvees,” he reported. “Perimeter patrol.”

The burly dark-skinned man stepped away from his partner, flipped up the goggles and hefted the FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank rocket launcher he carried. In seconds, Bombshell locked on to the lead Humvee and fired the first rocket. It hissed as it shot away from the launch tube into the air. Then the rocket motor ignited with a roar. The warhead was thrust into the air, arced over and dove into the top of the jeep. The resultant explosion shredded the vehicle, killing the soldiers inside instantly.

The second Humvee was following too closely to avoid the wreck. It slammed into the burning vehicle at speed.

“Allow me,” Shrapnel said, loading a fresh grenade. “Save the eighty grand one of those suckers costs.”

Bombshell grunted in acknowledgement. Shrapnel fired the grenade into the crashed Humvee.

Over at the barn, the Red Shadows that had dismounted from the Shadowtraks were facing gunfire from inside the large buildings as the guards defended themselves.

Bombshell walked over to the Shadowtrak he’d driven and swapped the Javelin for a Russian RPG-29. He loaded the launcher and then fired the rocket-propelled grenade into the barn doors. The explosion tore the doors away, and one of the Hyenas advanced and sprayed bullets into the barn.

As Ironblood’s Shadowtrak entered the farmyard, the Red Shadows were dashing into the barn. Moments later, four returned, escorting a dishevelled looking brown-haired man.

Ironblood looked him over.

“Jovo Mladic?” Ironblood asked.

“Yes?” Mladic replied in a thick Serbian accent.

“I understand you are an excellent sniper. Would you be interested in joining my organisation?”

Mladic regarded the Baron steadily. “If I refuse?”

“We’ll leave you here, with no vehicle and American troops no doubt on their way.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Generous.”

“Who do you want me to kill?”

“My enemies.”

Mladic shrugged. “Alright.”

“Capital,” Ironblood said. “Welcome aboard. Oh, one thing.”

“What?”

“Your name. You are now known as ‘Kill Shot’. You no longer answer to Jovo Mladic. Clear?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“My name is Baron Ironblood.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

The newly named Kill Shot climbed into Ironblood’s Shadowtrak. “Got a drink?”

Red Jackal smiled and handed over a bottle of cheap vodka.

“Thanks. Haven’t had drink in ten years since NATO caught me.”

“Why were you in there?” Red Jackal asked.

“I was responsible for killing a number of Croat and Muslim leaders during the war. I also shot and killed some UN peacekeepers. I also killed some American troops when NATO entered Kosovo in ’99. A SEAL team captured me.”

“Good shot are you?”

“Every person I hit between the eyes from distances over seven hundred metres.”

Red Jackal looked suitably impressed.

“Enough chatter,” Ironblood commanded. “Move out.”

“At once, Baron.”

Nuclear weapons disposal facility
Russia
Two weeks later

The facility was going about routine business, dismantling the warheads of Russia’s outdated ballistic missiles. It was a normal day.

Until four strange aircraft screamed over the sprawling complex at high speed and low altitude.

If Private Georgi Petrov were to describe them, he decided the easiest description would be ‘looking like a skull between the wings of a TIE fighter in that American movie Star Wars.’

As the young soldier watched, the aircraft split into pairs and looped around, back toward the base. He could see what looked like engine pods positioned at each end of the vertical panels. The panels were rotating as he watched, finally ending at a forty-five degree angle. The four skull craft slowed down, and then hovered in the sky overhead. They looked like something out of a horror movie. As he ran toward the command post, he heard the crackle of automatic weapons fire. Off to his right, one of the watchtowers at the gate was shredded by the bullets. The second followed seconds later.

Georgi Petrov reached the door to the CP as the colonel came out.

“Petrov! What the hell’s going on?” the colonel demanded.

“Look!” Petrov cried, terror lacing his voice, “Up there!”

The colonel turned from the clearly agitated soldier to look up as the four red skull craft began to slowly drift across the facility, spraying gunfire into buildings.

“What in the…?” the colonel gasped.

After a moment, the officer dashed into the CP. “Gorski, get on the radio, call the Air Force and tell them we’re under attack from unidentified aircraft! Get some MiGs out here fast!”

The colonel then grabbed another radio set. “This is Colonel Brekhov, get the Strelas out and shoot those bastards down!”

Outside, Petrov’s attention was drawn away from the strange aircraft when he heard the sound of approaching tanks.

He turned toward the gates just in time to see a blood red tank with two guns on its turret crash through them.

The turret turned and sprayed the CP building with automatic gunfire. Petrov managed to recover his senses and fired back at the tank with his AK-74.

The bullets bounced off the tank’s armour.

The tank ignored his counter attack, such as it was, and sped forward, deeper into the complex.

Seconds later, three more of the red tanks raced through the broken gates, followed by several large six-wheeled vehicles Petrov didn’t recognise.

The enlisted soldier did his duty, raising his rifle once more and opened fire at the lead vehicle.

A soldier in a red uniform the private hadn’t seen before stood up, levelled an AK-47 at him and fired.

The Red Shadow trooper leapt down from the Shadowtrak and hurried toward the burning command post. Ignoring the dead soldier, the trooper leaned through the door, then pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it inside before running back to the Shadowtrak.

The grenade detonated as the soldier swung himself back into the vehicle.

The Shadowtrak was now the last vehicle in the column as they sped into the centre of the complex.

In the Shadowtrak that was now trailing the Hyena tanks, Baron Ironblood looked up at the four Roboskulls as they cruised overhead.

Smiling behind his helmet, Ironblood turned to his right-hand man.

“Major, remind me to complement Red Condor when we return to base. His unit has performed well.”

“Yes, Baron,” replied the man in the black uniform.

The convoy of vehicles arrived at the large warehouse where the warheads were being stored prior to dismantling.

Ironblood and the Major got out of their Shadowtrak, with Red Jackal close behind. The Red Shadows had dispersed through the building under Red Wolf’s command, securing the area.

“Secure two warheads for transport, Major,” Ironblood ordered. “I want to be back in Algeria by tomorrow.”

“Yes, Baron.”

The Major began issuing instructions to the Red Shadow troops, whilst Ironblood and Red Jackal watched.

“He’s been a valuable addition to our cause, Baron,” Jackal commented.

Ironblood turned toward him. “Indeed. However, you are still unconvinced as to his loyalties, aren’t you?”

Jackal looked down. “Yes, Baron.”

“He will prove himself when we begin the next phase next month. Or, he will die.”

Jackal nodded. “Yes, Baron.”

A Red Shadow carrying a radio ran up, “Message from Red Condor, Baron. He reports radar has detected multiple Russian jets inbound.”

Ironblood took the radio. “Red Condor, you may engage at will.”

“At once, Baron,” Condor replied.

Overhead, the four Roboskulls streaked away at high speed.

Red Condor was an old man for a combat pilot. Nearly sixty, he’d fought in Vietnam before leaving the US Air Force shortly after the fall of Saigon. He’d joined a group of pilots who left American service and become mercenaries. During the 1980s they’d been employed by Saddam Hussein during the Iran-Iraq War. He’d ended up sitting out the Gulf War in ’91 in Iran. Finally getting out of that country, he’d then been employed by the Serbs to fly for them in the Balkans War.

After 9/11, Condor had returned to America. The Baron had found him in a bar in Louisiana. Tempted by a large payday and the promise of training pilots to fly a new type of aircraft, Condor had eagerly signed on.

Now, as he checked his radar, he saw four MiGs inbound. He flipped a switch, activating the experimental laser detection and ranging gear, or LADAR, that the Baron had had his scientists develop. The battle computer then compared the LADAR snapshot with its database and identified the MiGs as Fulcrum-D MiG-29s. They were the most advanced and deadliest of the MiG-29s.

Condor activated his radio. “This is Red Condor, switch to helmet-mounted sights and use your missiles. Fire one missile only.”

The other three pilots acknowledged the order with terse repetition of their flight number, two, three and four.

Following his own order, Condor flipped the monocle targeting system down in front of his eye and locked on to one of the onrushing MiGs. He switched from his 20mm guns to the missiles mounted on the wing-panels and fired.

Seconds later, the other three Roboskulls opened fire as well. The missiles streaked across the sky toward the fighter jets. The MiGs immediately began evasive manoeuvres and fired chaff and flares. The counter-measures did little good. The missile Condor had fired flashed through the cloud of metal foil and turned to follow the Fulcrum it was chasing, ignoring the burning flares. The missile detonated several feet from the left wing. Metal shards shattered the wing, sending the plane into a spinning dive. The pilot ejected as the aircraft plummeted ground-ward.

Two more of the MiGs fell to the Roboskulls’ missiles. The fourth managed to evade the missile by accelerating past the strange-looking aircraft and out of the pilot’s sight.

The Russian pilot threw his fighter into a tight, high-G turn, grunting with exertion as he brought the plane around, locked on with his infra-red seeker, and fired an AA-11 Archer heat-seeking missile.

The short-range missile quickly covered the distance to the closest Roboskull and detonated next to its wing panel. The explosion sent red-hot fragments into the aircraft’s engine nacelles and the other missile on its pylon. The engines and missile exploded, ripping the wing-panel off and sent the Roboskull into a dive.

Condor had learned to fly helicopters during his mercenary days. It was one of the reasons Ironblood had sought him out as an instructor. He knew how to steer the aircraft in ways no plane could match.

Condor rotated his wings, slewing the Roboskull around on its axis, lined up his machine guns and opened fire as the MiG-29 raced toward him.

Twenty millimetre bullets tore through the cockpit canopy, the engines and the tail fins as the Fulcrum shot past.

The pilot was riddled with bullets, the engines exploded and the high-tech jet plunged toward the ground trailing fire and smoke.

NATO Headquarters
Brussels, Belgium
Three weeks later

Brigadier Keith Nichol sat at the back of the room, watching as the North Atlantic Council, NATO’s principal political body, discussed an item left over from the previous meeting.

Finally, the Secretary-General called him forward.

“Brigadier Nichol is here to brief us on a proposal for dealing with the new terrorist threat, that has emerged,” the Secretary-General announced. “Brigadier?”

“Good morning. As you are all aware, six weeks ago a group of gunmen entered a German bank and launched a cyber-attack, stealing 16 million Euros from a number of accounts. One week later, the group, led by a man identified only as ‘Baron Ironblood’, attacked an American facility, killing a number of soldiers present. Two weeks ago, they’re believed to have attacked a Russian base, possibly a nuclear facility, but the Russians are admitting nothing. There have been three attacks since, including an attempt to free prisoners held in Belmarsh prison in London, an attack on a French naval yard and a battle between Polish troops and the gunmen at an airfield.

“In each instance, the group has exhibited an excellent grasp of tactics, heavy firepower, including armour and air support, and killed several people. I know that the governments of several member states are clamouring for action. I am here to propose a means to carry out such action.” Nichol paused and cleared his throat. No one interrupted.

“My proposal is simple; the formation of a military task-force to take action directly against this group. A task-force of soldiers, sailors and airmen recruited from all member nations and empowered by this body to take whatever action is needed to locate and capture this terrorist and his group.”

Nichol went on to outline the form this task force should take; four specific sub-groups to handle covert ops, maritime action, air support and armour, artillery and airmobility. Each member to be a veteran NCO or junior officer specialised in a set task, the entire group forming a NATO special army.

It took another two hours for the council to agree, particularly since France insisted the group not be under American command. America’s representative wasn’t happy about that, but the German, Polish and Belgian delegates agreed. Nichol was appointed force commander. The group was given the temporary code-name ‘Action Force’.

[Malcolm Orr]

I really enjoyed that! Great start!

[Sundance]

i'm glad someone likes it.

once I've figured out how selection's going to work for and i'll start work on Part 2: Selection.

[Red Laser]

That was great I could see it play out in my mind like a film which I think is always a good sign of a thrilling story

[Sundance]

thanks that's how i write it. with it playing out in my head.

be sure to read parts 2 and 3!

[mark]

Excellent Sundance, a modern rise of the Red shadows!