<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #000000"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">Fort Bragg, North Carolina<br/>June 1, 14:22 </span></span></span></span><br/><br/>Monica had waited outside the building long enough for her to be rather frustrated. Three hours waiting under the gazebo nearby for smokers... And nothing. She'd been told to come 'Black'. No electronics; cellular devices, music players... nothing. All she had was her wallet. She tapped her foot on the ground, frustratedly waiting for someone to come and retrieve her. She already knew that the military had something planned. It was why she was summoned to Bragg, home of FORSCOM. She gritted her teeth behind closed lips, her hollow eyes focused on the greenery in front of her - the quiet whir of vehicles going by doing nothing to move her vision.<br/><br/>But the sound of the automatic doors certainly shook her from her trance. Her head jolted about, darting towards the entrance to the FORSCOM building. Sure enough, two men dressed in ACUs walked out towards the gazebo. One was armed, no less, with an M4A1. She stood as they came up to her, looking over them with her blank eyes. One shivered slightly, but continued their advance. Finally, they stopped in front of her.<br/><br/>"Sergeant First Class Kelvert?" One asked, before she nodded. A slow hand went to her back pocket, from where she produced her CAT card as proof. The soldiers in turn nodded back to her. "Right this way, Sergeant." The chimed, turning about, and beginning to head into the building. Dressed only in her civilian clothes she followed close behind. She walked through the automatic doors, and waited there. She knew the routine. She was frisked, re-frisked, and passed through three or four metal detectors. She'd not payed attention in a long time. It'd all been so very routine.<br/><br/>After the numerous checks from those under her rank, she finally was permitted entrance to a large, expansive room - and inside the walls was a singular man, standing next to a long redwood table. His gaze drifted up to encompass her, and she began to close the distance. She got six paces, before rendering a salute.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80">"At ease - You're in civilian's." </span>He retaliated.<span style="color: #FFFF80">"At ease, soldier." </span><br/><br/>He motioned for her to come closer, letting the woman in to stand beside him.<span style="color: #FFFF80"> "You look well, Monica. You look well. How's life been treating you since you were discharged?"</span>He asked. She only shook her head. "<span style="color: #BF0080">Shitty</span>." She responded simply. The man's smile dissipated, and he nodded.<span style="color: #FFFF80"> "Sorry to hear. Anyway, we have bad news. We've got a problem in the Middle East." </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">"Taliban?"</span>The woman asked un-enthusiastically. She'd had enough of the sand-crawlers to last a lifetime - and she'd been out of the war-zones of Afghanistan for eight months now.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80">"Nope. Would you believe me if I told you Russians?"</span>The man said, raising  an eyebrow. Monica only matched his look, shaking her head no.<span style="color: #FFFF80">"Well, so far, it looks that way. We've satellite images of them working over in Afghanistan anyway. Dunno what they want with him, but they've taken a prisoner."  </span>He reached over the table, fingering a folder on the far reaches of his grip, before pulling it closer, and sliding it over to Monica. She opened up the manila folder, and skimmed the pages.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">"An inventor?"</span>She asked, skeptically. "Scared they're in the market for giant robots?" She suggested, obviously not amused.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80">"Funny, but no. We have no idea what they want with him - but it can't be good. Mister Andrews is very well known worldwide - and I can only assume they want ransom money."</span>The Ranger said, taking the folder back from her. She shook her head.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FF0080">"Can't we just ignore it? Russians and an inventor certainly doesn't seem like priority. Who cares if they want money?"</span>She confessed her disinterest.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"> "We're Rangers - we lead the way. We have to know what the Russians are doing- why they want Andrews. This is just a recon mission. We might have to FRAG-O it down the road, but as of right now, we're just scouting."</span>The fellow informed her, sitting down.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">"Why me?"</span>She asked with a frown.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"> "We thought you might have a personal stake in this. Look here." </span>The fellow stated - pulling over another folder, and opening it for her. It display the front page - it didn't even need to stay open for long; she'd already jerked it towards her. A picture of a one-armed man in a trenchcoat, ordering Russians around instantly grabbed her interest.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">"Malcoms."</span>She said bitterly, her lip curling in distaste.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"> "Right. We knew you'd want to... amend your previous actions against your ex-commander... so we called you in. It can't be good in any way that he's involved."</span>Monica growled under her breath, nodding her head.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">"When do I deploy?"</span>She asked sternly.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"> "As soon as you're ready." </span>the commander said.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"> Afghanistan<br/>June 3, 0841 </span>[/color]</span></span><br/><br/>Monica lay prone, her tan camoflague hiding most of her movement. The sand blew up around her, clinging to her sweat drenched skin.  The sun seared her bodyâ€¦ but the woman was used to it. Her eyes were looking through a pair of binoculars - in her view, she saw the  unassuming facility in question.<br/>â€˜Intel better be right about this.â€™  She thought to herself.  The Commando pawed around her, grabbing up her rifle. She pulled her metal companion aside her, dropping her binoculars to look down the moderate power optics on her rifle. Through the crosshairs, she kept close eye on the facility, disciplined enough to slowly bake in the heat of the Afghan sun. She barely budged, other than to blink the sweat out of her eye.<br/><br/>After more than an hour of cooking, the blonde-haired woman was about to give up. Sheâ€™d been laying here since early morning. From the hours of freezing desert cold to burning desert hot, she had kept surveillance on the establishmentâ€¦ yet there was little activity. Unarmed personal with no distinction moving through, in out, back and forth. Nothing conspicuous in the slightestâ€¦<br/><br/>But just as she took a breath in, the door to the compound burst open,  a man kicking it outward. He, and several of his compatriots filed out, armed to the teeth. Kalishnikovs, grenades, and one even had an RPG-7. Monica fought her natural instinct to engage, fingering the trigger of her M107 carefullyâ€¦ but instead, moved her hand over her shoulder, clicking on her radio. Static greeted her, until she tapped her earpiece.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">â€œHellhound Main, this is Hellhound 2-4.â€ </span>She said softly into her headset.<span style="color: #BF0080"> â€œ Radiosec: Mike, Kilo, fow-er, two, two, tree.â€</span><br/><br/>â€œCopy Hellhound 2-4: Sitrep, break. Number of Romeo?â€ The radio responded.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">â€œSixteen - stop.â€</span>She said, recounting the number of people she now saw.<span style="color: #BF0080">â€œ Sixteen, confirm, over.â€</span><br/><br/>â€œRoger - do not engage, over. Hellhound 2-1 and 2-2 are en route. Charlie Mike.â€<br/><span style="color: #BF0080">â€œCharlie Mike. Out.â€</span>She hastily replied.<br/>Sure enough, it wasnâ€™t long before a Bradley rolled in behind the dune she was perched atop, the low engine noise making the insertion stealthy enough for her. From the back of the vehicle poured out eight men, armed with carbines and shotguns. The last man out stood up, darting up the hill.<br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œGet a final LACE report before we move out.â€ He said, before turning around and darting up the hill. Monica waited for him to get to her, where he crouched down. </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œSergeant Major Klissick.</span>â€ The man introduced himself. She nodded to him, finally putting down her rifle, and taking to a kneel herself, her knees digging into the blazing sand. â€œSergeant Major, youâ€™re sure this intel is right?â€ She asked.<span style="color: #BF0080"> â€œMalcoms is extremely cunning - he wants this asset, then heâ€™s going to try and take it. He probably already has people back at CASCOM at his side, feeding him intel. Iâ€¦ â€œ </span><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œWe have a piece of the puzzle that he canâ€™t of accounted for. Youâ€™re black: there is no paperwork other than financial records that youâ€™re even in existence. I hardly doubt heâ€™ll check your bank account.â€</span>The man said, patting her on the shoulder. She looked away.<br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œListen. Missionâ€™s changed. Youâ€™re going to be with my team. Thatâ€™s why there is only eight of us. The rest of your team is en-route as well.â€ </span><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">â€œAnd I suppose Iâ€™m supposed to clear rooms with my rifle?â€</span>She answered sarcastically.<br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œWeâ€™ve an extra carbine for you. You can sling your weapon, or stow it in the Bradley. Itâ€™s standing by just in case we need to increase the heat, or CASEVAC.â€</span><br/>â€œ<span style="color: #BF0080">Wonderful</span>.â€ Monica retorted, obviously not happy with the change. She followed the fellow back to his vehicle, taking up arms - slinging her Sniper over her shoulder. She held out her hand expectantly, the other NCO slapping the M4 Carbine in her grip. He turned back to the IFV, and pulled out her standard load, handing it to her. She began to load the magazines into her FLC, shaking her head.<br/><br/>The skies were bright, and the sun beat down harder on the soldiers. Several were sipping on water, while others hid in the shade of the still running Bradley. Monica looked over her team, nodding. â€œAlright, Sergeant Major - ready to go whenever you are.â€ She admitted. Klissick nodded, before he motioned for the team to bring it in. Monica didnâ€™t really pay much attention to the brief. Sheâ€™d heard it all from her Commander.<br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œRemember - VIP casualties are not acceptable - Tangos are clear to engage, but make sure theyâ€™re armed first.â€</span>Klissick ended, earning a soft â€˜hooahâ€™. from the surrounding soldiers. It seemed they were finally able to move out.<br/><br/>As the team mounted the hill, Klissick tapped in on his radio.<span style="color: #408000">â€œJackal Actual, this is Hellhound 1-1 TL - see if you canâ€™t stir up some trouble.â€</span>He said in a cocky voice. An accented one answered him. â€œRight Sergeant Major!â€  The back of the Bradley soon was closing up,  and the transport vehicle was pulling away - around the sand dunes. In a matter of seconds, the IFV was driving alongside the building, itâ€™s 20mm cannon pounding away, sounding like drum-beats.<br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œGot â€˜em preoccupied, Jackal Actual. Keep â€˜em interested while we flank. Out.â€ </span>The Sergeant Major ordered, before looking back to his squad.<span style="color: #408000">â€œAlright - move forward. At thirty meters, smoke the building!â€ </span><br/><br/>Sure enough, the squad began to move forward at a run, climbing through the sands to get close to the establishment. One of her squad mates threw a smoke grenade, which spewed white smoke, adding to the chaos of the 20mm and the small arms fire exploding around her. She was sure noone was shooting at themâ€¦ so she simply pressed through the thick plumes of smoke, and went into the first entrance she saw.<br/><br/>The man in front of her smashed down the door with his foot, and instantly began to open fire. â€œTango, tango, tango!â€ He shouted, before a blast took him to the ground. He was living, but wounded. Monica had to fire, stepping over her comrade, and sheltering him. The fellow that downed him was armed with a double barrel hunting shotgun - crudely made, but it did itâ€™s job. Raising her carbine, she placed a burst downrange, watching blood splatter the wall behind him. He dropped dead, not moving. Keeping her barrel pointed towards the open doorway, she moved forward, letting her comrades around her. The one thatâ€™d been blasted by shotgun slowly got up, dusting himself off. â€œMotherfuckerâ€¦ busted my p-plates up badâ€¦ but Iâ€™mâ€¦ Iâ€™m okay, I thinkâ€¦â€ He coughed. â€œY-yeah. Justâ€¦ need a sec. C-christ.â€ One of his friends moved in, to pull him to the side. Monica rallied her allies on the next doorway, slamming it open with the butt of her rifle, opening the stairwell. She ran forward swiftly, checking down the railings. Men were shoutingâ€¦ and it made her stop, and think for a second. They werenâ€™t speaking Russian.<br/><br/>She put the thought aside for now, simply shaking her head. She motioned for her team to move up, and begin down the stairs. Klissick leading the way, his group taking down the stairs. Before they even hit the bottom, they were already firing. Watching the man from earlier whoâ€™d been taking by shotgun blast take up rear guard, she too proceeded down the stairs.<br/><br/>She found herself pulled into cover the second she hit the bottom floor. Fire was being exchanged between the two teams, but it was clear the Rangers were winning. Klissick stuck his rifle around a corner, showering the men in bullets. Adrenaline was pumping through her body, as Monica stood up to place even more shots downrange, taking down another target wielding a Kalashnikov. The repeated pounding of weapons fire eventually dying down, silence overtook the Rangersâ€¦ and in the middle of the whirling storm of brass and leadâ€¦ everything was peaceful. They all slowly stood, looking to each other.<br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œCome on. I donâ€™t hear the 20mm outside. Somethingâ€™s either very good, or very bad.â€</span>Klissick informed his team, already taking lead.<br/><br/><span style="color: #BF0080">â€œSergeant Major - Iâ€™m leaning on bad. Something isnâ€™t right.â€</span>Monica said briefly, following close behind.<span style="color: #BF0080">â€œThese guys arenâ€™t Russian. Theyâ€™re speaking Chinese. And theyâ€™re using Chinese Type 56s. These arenâ€™t Russians weâ€™re fighting.â€</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #408000">â€œCopy, Kelvert.</span>Report back to command when we get a chance. Letâ€™s clear these rooms in the meantime.â€ He said, pointing out doors to each member of his team. Monica nodded firmly, before rushing over to her assigned door, and placing her back to the adjacent wall. She dropped the magazine from her rifle, replacing it, and making sure that a round was loaded in the chamber.<br/><br/>Slowly she crept closer to the door, moving slowly, as to not make as much noise, making sure that she avoided the clattering brass scattered on the concrete floor. And as suddenly as a swift wind, she wheeled her body about, slamming her boot against the door, letting it swing open wide. Her carbine entered the door before she did, the darkness of the sub-floor greeting her. There were no florescent lights in this room. Or there wereâ€¦ but they were turned off. Before she could reach her flashlight her weapon was grabbed by the barrel, and jerked from her hand. The person tore away her sling, flinging her weapon to the floor, before grabbing her wrist. She was brought face to face with a mask - of an angry man she only assumed. In his other hand was a large combat knife, stored low, and ready to gouge her.<br/><br/>Little did he know the fight he was about to start. She instantly lurched out to grab him with her own free hand, latching onto his knife-laden wrist. Giving it a firm twist, and jerking him towards her, she brought her knee into his groin, making him grunt in pain. She quickly twisted about, placing her hip against her crumpling foeâ€™s and tossed him to the ground. She stepped on his knife hand, looking about. And she was glad she did. Another man wielding a machete was charging her quickly, yelling at her. She wasnâ€™t fluent in Chinese, but she knew it couldnâ€™t be good.<br/><br/>Letting off the manâ€™s comrade, she jumped back, letting a machete swing slice through the air.  The man was relentless, closing the distance between them again, and lopping at the Commando. A quick lean saved her, before planting a round-about kick on his side, making him lurch away from her. He turned around, swinging his machete callously - and Monica let him chop at the air, keeping her distance. The room was open - no furniture to block her mobile fighting style.<br/><br/>Just as the man thought heâ€™d one, heâ€™d raise his weapon high, bringing it down in a viscous chop. Monica let the weapon pass her by, before jabbing him in the face. He flinched hard, before she followed up, by reeling back, and striking again, throwing the largest hay-maker she could into her foeâ€™s abdomen.  Her foe, now gasping for air, was grabbed by his swinging arm, and spun about - and flung towards his recovering teammate, knocking him back to the ground. Feeling the fight done, Monica pulled the revolver on her hip from itâ€™s holster, and finished the deed. Two claps of thunder filled the room.<br/><br/>Panting, Monica slowly put away her pistol, turning about face to look at the door again. Klissick ran by the door, nodding at her to move on. She lent down, picking up her assault rifle, and dashing out of the room, moving onto the nextâ€¦ She repeated the steps: Slamming down the door with her foot, bringing her rifle upâ€¦Taking in the sights of the new room.