Action Force Part 2: Selection

[Sundance]

Calw, Germany
Headquarters of the Kommando Spezialkrafte

Major Grant Campbell, 2nd Battalion the Parachute Regiment, wondered yet again why his leave had been cancelled at short notice and he’d been sent here, the home of Germany’s equivalent of the SAS.

He’d arrived a few minutes earlier and been escorted to a briefing room by an eager-looking young soldier. The sign next to the door informed Campbell that it was ‘Briefing Room A’ in German.

Glancing once more at his escort, Campbell opened the door and went in.

Sitting in the room’s ample rows of seats were three other officers. Campbell looked them over. One was a Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander. Oddly, he wore both a submariner’s dolphins and a surface officer’s insignia.

Two rows behind him and on the other side of the room sat a man wearing the uniform of a Captain in the Rifles. He didn’t have any insignia other than the regimental badge and his pips. Campbell guessed he was actually SAS.

The third man was sitting in the middle of the back row and wore a US Air Force officer’s uniform. He was a Major as well. His name badge indicated he was ‘Connors’.

“Mornin’,” Campbell said in his strong Scottish accent. “Any know what’s goin’ on?”

“Not a clue,” the American answered.

“Not me,” replied the Navy officer in a strong Welsh accent.

“Damned if I know,” replied the captain. He was English.

Campbell took a seat and waited. He didn’t have long to wait.

The door at the other side of the room opened and two British officers walked in. Campbell leaped to his feet, “Attention!”

The other three officers stood and snapped to attention. The captain was the slowest.

“Sit down, sit down,” said the first officer in, irritably. He was a Brigadier.

The four officers sat. Next to the brigadier was a Major. Neither wore their best uniforms, instead they were wearing cammies.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Brigadier Keith Nichols. This is my aide, Major Francis Munro-Deighton.”

“Mornin’,” the Major interjected.

“Right, we’ll start with introductions. Our Navy friend here is Lieutenant Commander Gareth Morgan. He’s a submariner turned diver. He’s also been trained by the SBS and has spent time with the US Navy as well. Tours of duty include a hitch on board HMS Ocean when she evacuated civilians out of Lebanon a few years back.”

Morgan nodded politely.

“The American lurking in the back is Major Charles Connors, US Air Force. He’s an Eagle driver, specifically, the ‘Strike Eagle’ version. He’s served tours in Kosovo and Afghanistan.”

“Hi,” Connors said. “Call me ‘Chuck’.”

“The chap in the sanitised uniform over there is Captain Charles Buckingham of the SAS. Full service history is classified naturally, but needless to say he’s been to Iraq and Afghanistan as well as Sierra Leone and got a grab-bag of medals in the process.”

Buckingham nodded.

“Last, but not least, we have Major Grant Campbell, from 2 Para. Also got a bunch of medals and been on several tours in Afghanistan and was also in Sierra Leone.”

Nichols paused. “I take you two never met?” he asked looking between Campbell and Buckingham.

“Nope,” Campbell replied.

“Well, now we’ve got that out the way, let’s get down to business,” Nichols said, perching on the table at the front of the room.

“No doubt you’ve all heard about this terrorist group who attacked a German bank, an American secret base and Belmarsh prison in Britain. Well, they’re now being classed as the number one threat to NATO. As such, I’ve been put in charge of forming a unit to hunt them down. I want you four to lead the group.”

“Us four?” Connors asked.

“Yes. The unit’s being called ‘Action Force’ at the moment. The Major, here, and I are planning to create four squads in Action Force with a specific role. You, Major Connors, would lead the aerospace force.”

“Aerospace? You make it sound like we’ll have rocket-ships.” Connors snorted.

“Well, actually, MI-6 managed to get an agent inside this group some time back when it was still forming. That agent has provided only limited intel, but what we’ve been told leads us to think the leader, some guy calling himself ‘Baron Ironblood’, maybe pursuing space-launch capability. To that end, the US government has agreed to provide a pair of Boeing’s prototype X-78 single-stage-to-orbit space-planes. They’re also going to provide twelve of the new F/A-24s that Lockheed Martin are building. If you agree, Major, you’ll command that group.”

Connors looked surprised at the news and didn’t say anything.

Nichols turned to Morgan. “You, Commander, would be commanding our naval group. The Poles are going to provide four of their new two-man submersibles they’re developing.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up. “The ones that can do forty knots and have a hundred nautical mile range?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m in.”

Nichols smiled. “We’re also getting some fast-attack boats from the Italians. You’ll need to train up crew for them.”

“No problem.”

“What about us?” asked Campbell pointing at himself and Captain Buckingham.

“You, Major, are getting a promotion to lieutenant-colonel and command of the armour, artillery and airmobility unit. You’ll have a minimum of six tanks eventually, provided by Britain, at least two missile-tanks that the Americans are developing, as well as Eurocopter utility helos, GKN Westland attack copters as well as jeeps and motorbikes.”

“Okay,” Campbell answered.

“Captain, you’ll be promoted to Major and command of a commando assault team. A platoon size element of sneaky buggers who can get in and get out without being seen.”

“I’m in,” Buckingham said.

Nichols looked at Connors.

“Alright,” the American said. “I’m in.”

“Good. We’ve already got a few volunteers coming in a few days for selection. It’ll be up to you four to devise how you’re going to select personnel. We’ll mostly be based here, for the time being, but pilot selection’s largely going to be handled at Ramstein since you’ll have simulators there to use.” Nichols stood up.

“Welcome to Action Force, gentlemen.”

The four officers stood and saluted. Nichols returned the salute.

“The Major here will provide you with further information, I’ve got to get to a meeting in Belgium. I’ll see you when the first volunteers arrive.”

Nichols left the room.

Major Munro-Deighton looked them over. “Okay, who wants to tell me what they need first?”

A C-130 Hercules transport
Orbiting over KSK HQ
Five days later

Major Buckingham stood at the front of the plane’s cargo hold, looking at the men he was commanding. Two days ago, his first exercise had begun. There had been a hundred and twenty volunteers for his group. Now, there were forty. Half the group had been washed out on the first test, which had required the troops to score 98% accuracy at 300m with a G-36 assault rifle.

Another twenty had failed to make the grade on a pair of timed exercises, storming a train carriage in twenty seconds or less and storming a simulation of a freighter in two minutes. This was the third parachute jump. The soldiers needed to land within thirty feet of the target mark to qualify. At the plane’s rear, a Belgian paratrooper was conversing with the transport’s loadmaster. The Belgian was leading the way in this exercise. Buckingham had thus made him jumpmaster for the final two jumps.

“One minute!” the Belgian hollered over the roar of the turbo-props.

The soldiers stood and checked each other’s parachutes, before the Belgian, Sergeant Peter Van der Berg, checked them again.

“Ten seconds!” shouted the loadmaster, as the rear ramp whined down. The plane got even colder as the wind whipped in. The dark sky outside was visible beyond the plane’s tail.

“GO! GO! GO!”

Buckingham watched as the commandos raced off the ramp, Van der Berg bringing up the rear. Then Buckingham followed him.

Captain Buckingham enjoyed the sensation of freefall for a few seconds, before pulling his ripcord. The others continued to drop through the darkness without deploying their chutes for a little longer. Finally, they deployed and began floating down toward the landing zone, which was marked by blinking strobe lights.

Buckingham steered his parachute around in a circle, watching as the soldiers slowly landed. Van der Berg had managed to land squarely in the centre of the LZ. The others were scattered around him.

Buckingham steered his chute into a clear area and landed fairly smoothly. Another nighttime jump and he’d be washing out another dozen or so candidates, he decided.

Ramstein Air Force Base
Germany
The next day

Major Connors stood in the control room at the simulator centre at Ramstein AFB. He chewed his thumbnail as he watched the monitors displaying the current exercise he was running his twelve candidates through.

The pilots had been split into two groups of six. Each group consisted of three ‘interceptors’ flying the F-15C and three attack pilots flying the E-model.

The ‘blue’ group had to stop the ‘red’ group from destroying a bridge across a river, whilst also attempting to destroy a tank laager, which the ‘red’ group was defending.

Connors watched as two of the pilots, a Canadian and a Norwegian, flying the E-model F-15 dashed toward the tank laager that was their target.

Two of the red force F-15Cs dived out of the sky toward them and opened fire with their Sparrow missiles.

The attackers broke away, popping chaff as they fled.

The defenders chased after them.

Then the third blue force F-15E screamed over the laager at low-level and super-sonic speed, dropped a number of cluster bombs, and exited the area before the red force could respond.

The simulated tank laager exploded into a shower of pixelated debris. Connors smiled. The third F-15E, which was now decelerating and turning around for a second pass over the area, was being flown by one of the three best pilots in this group. Brian Windsor, a British RAF Tornado pilot, was beating out the two American pilots in the group.

Connors turned his attention to the displays showing the three blue F-15Cs, if they were able to fend off the attacking F-15Es from the red force, they would win this exercise.

Connors was putting the pilots through the wringer, having them run simulations against helicopters, bombers, enemy interceptors; both in intercept and attack missions. Windsor was the best, so far, but he had stiff competition from Tariq El Shafei, an Arab-born American who’d recently completed shuttle pilot training with NASA. The pair were easily head and shoulders above most of the other candidates.

The major watched as the exercise continued to unfold. He’d be putting the pilots through live-fire exercises in a few days time, running simulated attack exercises against dummy tanks, triple-A and even a few dummy ships out in the North Sea, but Connors was sure Windsor and El Shafei would be his first two pilot recruits.

Eastern Germany
Armoured warfare training centre
The same day

Lieutenant Colonel Campbell raised the binoculars to his eyes once more as the German Army helicopter hovered over the tanks. The group of three tanks fired in near-unison at the targets. The shells slammed into the decrepit old vehicles, splattering yellow paint over them.

“Not bad,” Campbell muttered. The three tanks then raced off, heading for the next waypoint they had to reach. The helicopter followed.

He’d already overseen exercises for six candidate snipers and put three volunteers for the job of Explosives Ordinance Disposal, or EOD, through their paces. Now, he was running his second group of tank crews through their third exercise.

The Greek crew were speeding in front of the Portuguese and Italian crews. The helicopter zigzagged above the three Leopard II tanks as they raced into a fake village.

Campbell watched as they darted along two streets, the Greek crew evading a jeep armed with an anti-tank rocket, which scored a hit on the Italian tank. These guys, he mused to himself, were nearly as good as the American Marine crew who’d been in the first group. The lieutenant commanding the Greek crew, one Andreou Stalkis of the Hellenic Army’s 1st Armoured Calvary, seemed to know his stuff. They weren’t quite as good as the British crew from the Desert Rats, who’d aced the selection course in group one…

As the three tanks accelerated out of the dummy village, a German Tiger attack helicopter, armed with paint-warhead missiles, popped up from behind a nearby copse and fired.

The Greek tank was going to fast to get hit, but as Campbell watched, the Portuguese tank was hit by two of the pigment warheads. The Italian tank narrowly avoided the third missile, but was hit by the fourth.

Campbell sighed and activated his radio.

“Group Two, exercise leader, endex, endex, endex. Tanks 1 and 3 are classed as killed. Tank 2, you’re the winner.”

The anti-tank helicopter had finished off the French crew in the first group.

Two more of these exercises and then he was going to be dealing with the first group of candidates for the helicopter company…

Hamburg, Germany
The same day

Lieutenant Commander Morgan watched as the six prospective candidates for his diving squad suited up at the harbour side. Each wore a high-visibility yellow wetsuit, closed-circuit underwater breathing apparatus, or CCUBA, and had flippers and gloves to don as well.

“All right, boyos,” Morgan said. “Here’s the deal. That German warship’s been sabotaged, right?” He pointed to a frigate sitting nearby.

“Limpet mines attached to the hull. Each of you will have three minutes to swim out there and locate and remove a mine.”

Morgan pulled out several pieces of paper and shuffled them in his hands. “Random pick of who goes where, okay?”

The naval officer handed out the pieces of paper. The group consisted of three Americans, two Brits and a German. The two Brits, Jamie Maclaren and Peter Ford were leading the exercises, with Mike Turner, one of the three US Navy SEALs in third.

Each diver took the sheet of paper, read the message on it and then stuffed it into a see-through pouch on their sleeve. In rapid succession, they put in their mouthpieces, pulled on their goggles and then stepped off the pier into the murky water.

Morgan pulled his sleeve back and started his wristwatch’s stopwatch.

Morgan sighed as he waited. No way was the German kampfschwimmer going to get selected. He’d proved to be no match for the SBS frogman Ford, the Navy diver Maclaren or the American SEAL commandos. Turner was easily the best of those three. The two Danish divers weren’t any better.

He checked his watch. Ninety seconds gone.

Morgan bounced on his heels and whistled though his teeth. On the two-minute mark, Maclaren and Ford surfaced and began to swim across to the dock wall. Ten seconds later, Turner surfaced. Right on the two-minute twenty mark, the second American surfaced.

The Danes appeared just after the three-minute mark. The German arrived after them.

Morgan waited for them to climb out of the water.

As the divers all pulled off their masks and wetsuit hoods, he spoke.

“Larsen and Petersen, you’ve failed too many exercises. You’re out. Hauser, you’ve got two more exercises before I scrub you. Lake, you need to improve as well.”

One week later
KSK HQ

Brigadier Nichols returned the salute of the four officers as he entered the briefing room once more.

“At ease, gentlemen. I have some news for you. First of all, the agent the British have inside Ironblood’s organisation has managed to get out another report. Ironblood knows NATO has something in progress aimed at thwarting him. It seems he has his own intelligence operatives. As such, it’s necessary, for the sake of your families and ourselves that we adopt code-names. No more real names, particularly in public.”

The Brigadier looked at them, waiting for a response.

“We’ve got to use aliases?” asked Campbell.

“No, something completely different. From now on, I am simply ‘The Commander’. My aide is now ‘Major Flagg’. It’s up to you to pick your own code-names,” The Commander replied.

“Call me ‘Skip’,” Campbell said.

“I’m ‘Eagle’,” Buckingham chipped in.

“Damn, Charles,” Connors said. “I was going to use that.”

“I’ll go with ‘Dolphin’,” Morgan said.

“Fine, call me ‘Sky Raider’,” Connors said.

“Good, glad that’s settled. You better tell the rest of your men. Show them in.”

Eagle went to the door and called in the men outside.

The Commander returned the salutes the soldiers offered.

“Alright, for security reasons, you’re going to have to leave behind your real names. Each of you needs to choose a code-name to identify yourself with. Try not to pick something you’ll regret.”

“A code-name?” asked the German commando Eagle had recruited. “You mean like in a comic-book?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Call me ‘Leviathan’,” announced Jamie Maclaren.

“I’m ‘Undertow’,” announced Ford.

“I choose ‘Fathom’,” said Turner the third of the divers.

“You can call me ‘Spitfire’,” said Brian Windsor, an RAF Flight Lieutenant.

“I’m going with ‘Moon Dancer’,” said Tariq El Shafei.

“Blades,” said one of the three helicopter pilots Skip had selected.

One by one, the others added their chosen code-names, Trax, a British tank commander; Saxon and Warrior his driver and gunner; Jarhead, a US Marine tank commander; Powertrain and Muzzle his driver and gunner; Sandstorm, an SAS desert warfare expert; Tracker, a Spanish recon specialist; Chopper, another helicopter pilot; Whirl, a British helicopter pilot; Sabre, an SAS trooper; Sparrowhawk, the Belgian HALO expert; Steeler, the Greek tank commander; Spartan and Trojan his driver and gunner; Playback, the German KSK radio expert; Beaver, a Canadian swimmer-canoeist from JTF-2 and Sureshot and Bolt, a pair of snipers.

“Right, the other thing is, we need names for the four groups,” the Commander said.

“We’ve discussed that,” Dolphin said. “I’m calling my group ‘Q Force’.”

“I’m leading Z Force,” Skip announced.

“So we don’t get muddled up with any local air support, I’m calling my group ‘Aerospace Force’,” Sky Raider said.

“Yeah, well, you need more pilots in your space force, mate,” Skip laughed.

“Not my fault the rest didn’t make the grade.”

“True,” interjected the Commander. “But Skip’s got a point.”

“What about you, Eagle,” asked Dolphin. “What’s your team called?”

“SAS. My group’s made up of people who are either in the SAS or an SAS-modelled group, so that’s what I’m going for.”

Sky Raider snorted derisively.

“Now, the other news I have is very important. More volunteers are coming. You can get them started on selection. There’s been another attack in Russia. Ironblood’s right-hand man, this guy they’re calling ‘the Black Major’, led an attack on a Gazprom pipeline and demanded a couple of million dollars not to slag it. The company tried to negotiate, but it was a ruse to allow a Spetsnaz team to move in. They were the one’s who got slagged. Russia’s now hopping mad and called a UN Security Council meeting. They might know about AF, so I’ve been told to attend the meeting by NATO. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Three days later

The Commander called Eagle, Skip, Dolphin and Sky Raider in to his office. The four had left their senior NCOs in charge of the selection process. Major Flagg was already present.

“News from the UN, gentlemen,” the Commander said. “The UN has passed an emergency resolution. Resolution 7833, passed with backing from Russia, China, the US, UK, Australia, Japan, South Africa, Argentina and France authorises the NATO military task-group codename ‘Action Force’ to operate in any nation world wide in pursuit of the terrorist organisation known as the Red Shadows and their leader ‘Baron Ironblood’. The resolution also enables us to operate without notification of a government if such notification may threaten operational security, but must be given within three hours of commencement of operations. Resolution 7834 followed that, stipulating that Action Force selection should be open to volunteers from any nation, NATO member or not.”

The four officers exchanged glances.

“Wow,” Skip commented. “We’ve got a license to go any where?”

“Indeed. Try not to abuse it, though, Colonel.”

“Aye, sir.”

“We’re getting candidates from Russia?” Eagle asked.

“Possibly.” The Commander nodded. “We might also get some from South Korea, Japan, Sweden, Oman, China and Australia. I’ve spoken to some defence officials from all of those countries.”

“That’s going to play merry hell with security, sir,” Eagle commented.

“I’m sorry, but that’s something you lot are going to have to sort out. If need be, put them through preliminary tests of some kind before you allow them near the sensitive kit.” The Commander sighed. “I don’t particularly like it, either.”

Ramstein Air Force Base
The next day

Whirl leaned against the nose of his Eurocopter Bobcat helicopter, fiddling with his red beret and its black Z badge. Skip had ordered the badge’s creation and issued them to all Z-Force troops, along with red berets. Next to Whirl, Chopper was leaning with his arms folded across his chest and chewing gum. Blades was pacing back and forth in front of the three Bobcat helicopters they’d flown from Calw.

“So,” Whirl suddenly said. “What’d you think of the helo?”

“Not bad,” Chopper commented. “I prefer something with a few anti-tank missiles hanging on it though.”

Whirl grunted. “I quite like it. Not as fast as the Lynx, but decent enough.”

“You flew Lynxes?” Chopper asked.

“Yeah, up ‘til about four years ago, when I switched to the Apache. What’d you fly?”

“Apaches, both of us,” Chopper said, waving languidly in Blades’ direction. “We served together in the first of the two-twenty-seventh Aviation Regiment.”

“Oh, right.”

Before they could continue the conversation, the rumble of engines filled the air. Lumbering out of the sky was a massive Russian Air Force IL-76 transport plane.

The three pilots watched as the plane landed and rolled down the runway before taxiing off on to the parking area. Whirl pulled his beret back on.

“Come on. Better go and greet them.”

Blades and Chopper exchanged glances and then followed him.

When the trio reached the massive plane’s rear cargo ramp, it was already down and a Russian Army colonel was barking orders at the soldiers on board. Whirl walked up to the colonel and saluted.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Whirl said, hoping like hell the guy spoke English.

The colonel turned toward him. Saluting quickly, the colonel asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Whirl, sir, helicopter pilot with Action Force. We’re here to collect your men and take them on to Calw,” the pilot replied, pronouncing the German name as ‘calf’.

“I am Colonel Alexei Sergeivitch Ivanov. I am here to supervise the candidates and act as translator.”

“Translator?” Whirl asked. “Sir, Action Force requires all personnel to be fluent in English.”

Ivanov frowned. “I’ve got a hundred men here, to try out for this group and you’re telling me seventy of them are ineligible, simply because they don’t speak English? No one told us that!”

“Well, Colonel, no one was entirely expecting you. We were only sent over half an hour ago.” Whirl noticed neither of the American pilots was getting involved. “I believe the Commander was planning to contact your defence ministry with the entry requirements soon.”

“I want to see this Commander of yours. As soon as we arrive in Calw.”

“Fine.” Whirl turned away, “We’ve got three helicopters over here. We’ll fly you and your men out there in three flights.”

Ivanov glowered at him, but said nothing.

Twenty minutes later, Ivanov was in The Commander’s office at the KSK barracks.

“So, you mean to tell me, you want all of this unit’s troops to speak English and you never told us?!” Ivanov snarled.

“That’s what I said,” the Commander replied. “As Whirl informed you, I was planning on contacting the defence ministry in Moscow later today with our basic-level requirements for facing selection. It was decided that English would be the unit’s lingua franca since the senior officers are all native English speakers, but that the English-speakers all had to be at least bilingual.”

Ivanov glared at the Commander. “And what languages do you speak?”

“Well, actually, Russian, German and Arabic,” the Commander replied in Russian. “Would you like to hear more?” he added in German.

Ivanov frowned. “I have thirty troops here who are English speakers,” he finally said.

“Fine,” the Commander replied, switching back to English. “They’re welcome to try out at selection. If I had an opening for an officer of your rank, I’d ask you to try out, Colonel.”

Ivanov glared and snapped off a sloppy salute. “With your permission, Commander, I will return my men to Ramstein.”

“Sure,” the Commander replied, casually.

Two weeks later
Ramstein AFB, Germany

Sky Raider stood looking up at the F/A-24 fighter jet in quiet awe. It was superficially similar to the Northrop YF-23 prototype from the 1980s, but had several significant differences, not least of which was the Pratt and Whitney F-119 engines and the small laser designator built into the nose. The Lockheed jet was also fitted with more up-to-date electronics and, unlike the YF-23, capable of air-to-ground strike missions.

Behind the American pilot, the other members of his squadron, which everyone now persisted in calling ‘Space Force’, were also looking the jet over. The squadron now had another five members, making eight in total. Spitfire was conversing with his fellow British pilot, Afterburner. Next to them were Australian pilot Blast Off, New Zealander Kiwi and the two Russians, Raven and Hot Jets. Moon Dancer was standing further off, drinking in the plane’s sleek lines.

“So, what do you think of her?” asked the ferry pilot standing near Sky Raider.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

“Yeah, wait ‘til you fly her,” he commented.

Sky Raider tore his eyes away. “What’s she like?”

“You flew Eagles, right?”

Sky Raider nodded.

“Well, she’s faster, smoother and lighter than the Eagle. She should out-fly just about anything in the air.”

“Even the Raptor?” Sky Raider asked.

“Even the Raptor,” the pilot acknowledged.

Sky Raider knew that was some claim. Finally, he turned toward the other pilots. “Alright, kids, let’s get geared up and take them for a spin.”

Spitfire, Afterburner and Blast Off sprinted toward the locker rooms like children eager to get to a toyshop.

Action Force temporary barracks
KSK HQ
The same day

Several of the SAS Force commandos were lounging around in the common area of the barracks room. Selection had finished on the next group of commandos and the first two groups were talking things over.

“You hear about the new guy who did the train and cargo-ship exercises with a pistol?” asked Tane, one of the two New Zealanders.

“Yeah, did it faster than some of the guys using UMPs or MP-5s, and he only had a P-220,” replied Anzac, and Australian.

“I know the guy,” said Sabre. “He was in my troop back in Britain. He’s competed in the Bisley shooting competitions before now.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw him on the range the other day,” commented Sparrowhawk. “He’s really average with the G-36 and the sub-machine guns. But as soon as you put a pistol in his hand, he’s magic.”

“What’s his handle?” Beaver asked. “I haven’t met him yet.”

“Double-Tap,” Sabre said. “It’s because that’s how he hits his targets. A double-tap between the eyes.”

Beaver let out a low whistle.

In the next barracks building over, the soldiers of Z-Force were staring at the new arrival in their unit.

“Um, I don’t think you’re going to be able to stay, Lieutenant,” said Short Wave, one of the new signals experts.

“Yeah,” Roadhog, a jeep driver, agreed. “I don’t think it’d be right.”

“Not that we have a problem with you,” Spartan added. “It’s just…”

“I’m a woman,” replied the new arrival. “I’m Triage, the medic. Believe you me, you boys have got nothing I haven’t seen before. I don’t have a problem sharing with you.”

“Well, medical necessities aside,” interrupted the Norwegian known as ‘The Doc’, “It’s not exactly seemly.”

“What? A woman living in the same building as twenty guys?” Triage asked. “I’m not going to be trying anything with you lot. You’re not my type.”

“You don’t date soldiers?” Tracker asked.

“No, I don’t date MEN, you idiot,” the brunette replied.

“Oh. Wow.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Are there any female quarters around here then?”

“Not that I know of,” Short Wave answered. “As far as I know, you’re the first woman in this outfit.”

“Great.”

“Well, we are only in temporary accommodation. I think we’re supposed to move somewhere permanent next month,” Spartan said.

Major Flagg walked into the barracks at that point. “Lieutenant Triage? Could you come with me?”

“Yessir,” Triage replied, grabbing her kit bag off the floor.

The doctor followed the major out the door as the other Z-Force soldiers exchanged glances.

Outside, Flagg led Triage to a smaller barracks building.

“Sorry about the mix-up, Triage,” Flagg said. “The Germans are doing everything they can to help us, but some how female officer accommodation got overlooked.”

“There’s going to be more women officers?” Triage asked.

“Possibly. There’s a Swiss woman being interviewed by Skip tomorrow for the Intelligence officer position and we’ve got a woman trying out for the SAS as well. She’s a South Korean from their 707th Special Missions Unit. She’s only a sergeant, but I expect she’ll be quartered with you if you don’t object.”

“No,” Triage replied.

“You’ll have to make do here, I’m afraid. This is an old officer’s barracks that’s actually due to be replaced soon.”

Triage looked around. The place was a dump, but she’d slept in worse places.

“I take it you haven’t served at Camp Bastion, Major.”

“Uh, no. I’ve been at NATO for most of the last five years and before that I was stationed at Colchester.”

“This is the Paris Hilton compared to Bastion. It’ll be fine.”

Flagg nodded and left.

When the Major got back to the Commander’s office, he found the Brigadier had changed out of his normal battle-dress and was wearing his service uniform.

“Has NATO called again?” Flagg asked.

“No, I’m heading for Miami. Apparently the FBI has apprehended someone we might have a use for.”

Flagg blinked. “Oh?”

“Here, read this. I should be back in two days at the outside. Keep things ticking over, alright?”

“Yessir.” Flagg took the proffered file and opened it. The Commander plonked his officer’s cap on his head and headed out.

The file Flagg held was labelled with a lot of classification and security stamps, which he ignored. Finding the meat of the file, he saw it pertained to one Chico Rodrigues, an Argentine soldier.

Intrigued, Flagg read on. Rodrigues had been a hotshot tank driver with the Argentine Army’s 1st Tank Cavalry Regiment up until three years ago. His girlfriend had been raped and murdered by a gang of drug-dealers.

Flagg’s eyes narrowed when he read that. The major flipped back and saw that although Rodrigues had been born in Buenos Aires, his family had moved to the Tri-Border area when he was a kid. The officer snorted. No wonder it was drug-related, he thought.

The file continued to describe how Rodrigues had learned of his girlfriend’s death, taken leave from the Army and then located and executed each of the gang involved. Rodrigues had then gone on the run, knowing he now faced a lengthy prison term for multiple murder in Argentina. He was believed to have crossed into Paraguay and then fled elsewhere.

Flagg frowned, wondering why the Commander was interested in this guy.

Miami, Florida
Federal Building
That afternoon

The Commander slumped in the chair in the interview room. Even though he’d slept on the plane for most of the journey, he still felt tired.

The FBI agent, Coulson, who was sitting next to him didn’t help. Coulson was particularly keen to see Sergeant Chico Rodrigues, late of the Argentinean Army, extradited back to his native country.

After five minutes of bickering with the agent, the Commander was glad when Rodrigues was finally escorted in. Typically for the American legal system, he was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and was shackled at the wrists and ankles.

“Buenos dias, amigo,” the Commander said.

“Buenos dias,” Rodrigues replied. He then demanded to know who the Commander was and what was going on in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Sorry,” the Commander said. “You lost me there. My Spanish isn’t that hot.”

“Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m the Commander of the United Nations special task-force charged with hunting down the terrorist known as Baron Ironblood. Have you heard of him?”

“Si, I saw the news about the attack on the bank in Germany, as well as the thing in Britain. You’re British, aren’t you? I recognise the accent,” Rodrigues replied.

“Only answer the questions you’re asked,” Coulson snapped.

“Coulson, shut the hell up, okay?” the Commander snarled. “In fact, why don’t you go fetch us some coffee or something?”

Coulson glowered at the Commander, but the brigadier had had longer to perfect his technique and the agent buckled.

Once the fed was out of the room, the Commander turned the tape recorder off.

“Okay, Sergeant, listen to me. I know your history. I heard all about you when you whacked those drug dealers from a friend in Brazil. When the UN sanctioned my outfit, I looked into your background. You were one of the best tank drivers Argentina’s produced. I could use a guy like you. But, you should also know, you’re a prime candidate for recruitment by Ironblood. He already busted one guy out of jail, here in America, to recruit him. It’s possible Ironblood’ll come for you.”

Rodrigues said nothing.

“You’ve basically got two options at this point. A, you come with me, I make you disappear from this building and you join Action Force. Option B, sit here, get extradited and wind up either in jail for the rest of your life or possibly get busted out and asked to work for the Red Shadows. And that’s an offer you don’t refuse.”

Rodrigues waved his shackled arms. “How’re you going to get me out of these?”

The Commander smiled. “Don’t you watch the movies?”

Rodrigues looked confused as the Commander pulled out a paperclip, unfolded it and picked the locks. Rodrigues kicked the shackles away and rubbed his wrists.

“Alright, how’re you going to get us out of here?” he asked next.

“Oh, that’s easy.”

Coulson walked back in the room. He saw Rodrigues was loose and started to pull his sidearm. The Commander grabbed his arm, pulled it away and removed the pistol from the agent’s shoulder holster.

He then span the luckless agent around and slammed the G-man into the wall, hard. Coulson slid down the wall, unconscious.

“Guy’s been pissing me off all afternoon,” the Commander commented casually. “Take his suit.”

Rodrigues complied, quickly stripping off Coulson’s shirt, jacket and trousers.

“Follow me and do exactly what I tell you,” the Commander said as Rodrigues finished buttoning the shirt and threw the jacket on.

The Commander stepped toward the door, then paused. “Oh, by the way, no one in Action Force uses their real name. Just call me ‘Commander’. You’ll need a name as well.”

Rodrigues frowned, “What, like in Comandos Heroicos?”

The Commander looked at him, “Never heard of it.”

“It was a toy line my older brother played with. Little toy soldiers.”

“Oh, you mean like GI Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, code-names, like that.”

“I’ll call myself ‘Gaucho’,” Rodrigues said. “It was a cowboy thing I did, killing those men.”

The Commander opened the door and slipped out. “I thought it was a damn good idea, personally.”

The newly named Gaucho raised his eyebrows at that, and then followed.

They quickly and quietly slipped along the corridor to the nearest exterior wall; the Commander forced open a window and the pair scrambled out into the car park.

“Over here,” the Commander said, leading Gaucho to a rental car he’d hired at the airport.

They got and the Commander sped out of the car park onto NW 2nd Avenue gunned the engine. The Commander slew the car across traffic on to the Ronald Reagan Turnpike and headed toward the Dolphins stadium.

“Where are we going?” Gaucho asked as the car raced around the junction on to Dan Marino Boulevard and screamed past the stadium.

“The airport.”

“Uh, we’re going the wrong way,” Gaucho pointed out.

“No, I’m going the long way.”

The Commander knew he was taking a risk since he was close to the speed limit, but he didn’t care. It was years since he’d had this much fun.

After several minutes speeding through and around traffic, the car entered a residential area and the Commander dropped his speed. He’d memorised street maps of the area before leaving Germany and knew where to go.

After several minutes of dodging through the quiet streets, they raced though a turnpike on to the I-75 and headed south.

Fifteen minutes later, the Commander slid the car around a turnpike on the Dolphin Expressway and raced west toward the airport.

After a short dash along the road, they took an exit ramp, then headed north and on to the perimeter road around the airport.

After The Commander had returned the rental car, he led Gaucho into the terminal and over to a luggage locker. The Commander retrieved two passports from the locker, handing one to Gaucho, who flipped it open.

The name inside said ‘Juan Ramirez’, with his nationality given as Paraguayan. The Commander then handed him a plane ticket to Atlanta.

“Why are we flying to Atlanta?” Gaucho asked.

“We fly there because it’s an internal flight. They’ll be expecting us to head immediately for a domestic one. Once we reach Atlanta, we’ll hop a flight to Boston, then on to Britain. The more hubs we pass through, the more traffic they have to cover.”

Gaucho frowned as he looked at the photo on his passport. “Where you’d get this picture?”

“Your Army records.”

They headed for the gate for their flight.

Calw, Germany
The next day

Once The Commander and Gaucho had arrived at Calw, The Commander introduced Gaucho to Skip and told him the Argentine was to be put through his paces operating the new ‘missile tank’ that had arrived from America.

The Commander now, though, found himself sitting in his office with Eagle and one of his newest candidates.

“Let me get this straight,” The Commander said. “You’re Scottish and proud of your heritage, so you want a code-name to reflect that.”

“Aye, sir. That’s correct,” the soldier confirmed in a thick Inverness accent.

“And the code-name you’ve selected, Eagle feels is unsuitable.”

“Yes, sir,” Eagle said.

“What’s the code-name?”

“Haggis.” Eagle glowered at the soldier as he spoke.

“Haggis,” The Commander stated flatly.

“Aye, sir.”

The Commander rubbed the bridge of his nose and briefly wished he was back in Florida.

“Eagle, why don’t you want this guy to call himself Haggis?” The Commander asked.

“Because it’s a bloody stupid code-name, sir. Because I feel it could lead to other stupid regional delicacy code-names.” Eagle paused. Adopting a fake Yorkshire accent, he continued, “’But Eagle, It’s a traditional dish o’Yorkshire. I can no’ see why I can’ be called ‘Yorkshire Pudding’.’”

The Commander nodded, “I see.”

“Or it could lead to other food-related codenames in general. Would you want to command a unit with a member called ‘Pie’n’Mash’ or ‘The Ice Cream Soldier’, sir?”

“Not really, no.”

“I don’t object to a Scots name in general, sir. I could live with, I dunno, ‘Claymore’ or something. But ‘Haggis’...?”

The Commander nodded. “I agree. You’ve got 48 hours to come up with something more sensible, or you get RTU, trooper.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The two SAS soldiers left and the Commander picked up a report from his desk to read. His phone rang before he’d even opened the card file.

The Commander picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Commander, it’s Flagg. You better get over to the ops room right away, sir. It’s Ironblood.”

The Commander slammed the phone down and dashed out of his office.

Minutes later, he dashed into the ops room. The main display screens had been switched over to Euronews, the international European news channel. Flagg was standing alongside several of the German operators of the room, watching the broadcast.

The screens showed a gun battle raging in a city street. Red Shadow troops were fighting what looked like police officers.

“What’s going on?” The Commander demanded.

“Ironblood’s launched an attack on the European Parliament in Brussels,” Flagg replied.

The Commander looked back to the screen as a police car was hit by an anti-tank rocket and exploded.

“Get hold of the Belgian MOD, tell them we’re available. Then get Eagle and Skip over here stat,” the Commander ordered.

“Already got the Belgians on the line,” Flagg replied. “Waiting for a response.”

The major picked up the phone next to him and dialled a number.

A short while later, as the gun battle continued, Eagle and Skip arrived.

“Get everyone you can airborne on the Bobcats,” The Commander snapped. “Get to Brussels, fast. Ironblood’s attacking the EP.”

The two men ran from the room at speed.

To be continued…