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Ragitsu Grand Master

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Re: Ctrl+V

 

July 7th, 2017

 

90 kilometers northwest of White Forest

 

2134 hours

 

The forest was quiet.

 

Quieter than usual, anyway. Occasionally an owl would hoot or something would scurry underfoot, but for the most part the forest was silent, as if aware of the intruders that now crept from tree to tree. The half moon cast an ethereal glow over the land, occasionally catching one of the infiltrators in a beam of moonlight. A medley of green, black, and brown greasepaint covered their faces, and faded boonie hats sat atop their heads. In their hands were silenced MP5s, in their leg holsters silenced USPs. Ammo pouches, frag grenades, and flashbangs adorned their chests, and knives sat in sheaths on the small of their backs.

 

One operative crawled up a ridge, cradling his MP5 as he went. "Okay, people, where are we?" he whispered into his headset.

 

"One here. Ready on go."

 

"Two here. Ready."

 

"Three here. Gimme a minute."

 

"Four here. Almost there."

 

"Five here. Awaiting orders, Skipper."

 

Skipper – he was still getting used to that. As soon as they had gotten wind he was former Force Recon it was goodbye, Daniel Marcinko and hello, Skipper. Even more so now that he was leading this rag-tag bunch of commandos. They were young, sure – but he'd trained them himself. He'd been given six months and he'd put every second to use. Now they were lean, mean killing machines, virtuosos in the art of mischief and mayhem. Celer, Silens, Mortalis. He had lived by those words once. He liked to think he still did.

 

They'd been inserted by helicopter ten kilometers away at 1930 hours, just as it was getting dark, and had made their way through the forest quickly and quietly, working around or taking out the odd Combine patrol. Now the pieces were finally falling into place, and what a wonderful feeling it was.

 

"Roger, Six copies all." He peeked over the ridge.

 

Their objective was a Combine supply dump, nestled in a small clearing directly below the ridge. This supply dump was supposed to be lightly guarded, a perfect target for their first op.

 

"Aw, *beep*

 

Scratch lightly, but most definitely guarded.

 

"All elements, this is Six. I count three-zero Overwatch regulars in and around the supply dump. Moving into position now."

 

He crawled away from the ridge and moved into a crouch, taking care not to rustle any leaves or snap any twigs as he crept closer to the base. He thumbed the MP5's fire selector to full auto, wincing at the metallic click it produced. He could see the supply dump again, rows upon rows of munitions interspersed with what he assumed were rations and fuel, all surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. The trees were still blocking most of the view, but it was a fair trade-off for the darkness they provided.

 

A sentry was walking towards him. He went prone, hugging the earth tight. He glanced up. The sentry was closer; sauntering along with arrogance only the Combine could muster. That'll change in three…two…one…

 

In one smooth motion, Marcinko leapt up, drew his knife, thrust it into the soldier's left lung, then ripped it across his throat. The soldier only had time to grunt before he hit the ground.

 

"April fool, *beep*

 

He didn't bother moving the body. The compound was lit bright enough to ruin the soldiers' night vision, and the trees would shade it nicely. He crept closer to the camp. Two soldiers were by the front gate, and a third was just about to start a patrol around the perimeter. Four less to worry about, then.

 

"Gimme a sitrep, people."

 

"One ready."

 

"Two ready."

 

"Three, say the word."

 

"Four ready."

 

"Five, in position."

 

"All elements standby." He crept as close as he dared to the front gate and put the MP5's stock to his shoulder. He lined up the guard on the right, putting the front sight directly on his center of mass. At this range, he'd be dead, body armor or no body armor.

 

"All elements: execute, execute, execute."

 

He squeezed the trigger. The MP5 bucked as nine-millimeter rounds perforated the guard's midsection. One down, shift aim to the left. Three-pound trigger, front-sight focus, take up slack and squeeze. The MP5 chirped as it brought down the two other guards. An explosion on the far side rocked the compound. That's the Bangalores. Fuses came out solid after all.

 

"Six, moving in through the front gate. Three tangos down."

 

"Three, wire's been breached. Two tangos down."

 

"Three and Four, work around the perimeter. The rest of you, rendezvous with me in the middle."

 

"Wilco, Skipper." The rat-tat-tat of MP7s and the suppressed phut-phut-phut of MP5s filled the air. Marcinko crouch-walked in between the stacks of munitions, careful not to present a silhouette. An Overwatch soldier trotted around a corner and was in mid-stride when Marcinko cut him down with a burst. Marcinko reloaded, slapping the MP5's bolt forward just as he came upon two more soldiers taking cover behind a crate. No need to rush this time – five rounds each to the upper center mass. Sayonara, Mr. Tango. The gunfire was starting to die down.

 

"Four, perimeter clear. Moving in."

 

The compound was silent again. Marcinko stood up, MP5 still shouldered. No need to get waxed just as they were cleaning up. He made his way to the center of the dump, prodding the occasional corpse. You could never be too careful.

 

"All clear, Skipper. Coming out."

 

They stepped out of the shadows, one holding a wounded Combine soldier by the neck.

 

"Got a prisoner for you, sir." He shoved the soldier into the middle of the circle, where he crumpled to the ground, holding his leg.

 

"Where's he hit?"

 

"Shot him in the left leg and kneecap. Might've nicked his intestines, too. What's left of them. You never know, with the reassignment surgery and all." The soldier looked up at the assembled commandos, blue eyes pleading, searching for mercy but finding none.

 

"We don't take prisoners, Jerry. You know that."

 

"Sorry, Skipper. I'll keep that in mind next time."

 

"Someone put him out of his misery," another ordered.

 

"*beep* his misery."

 

Marcinko sighed and drew his USP. The soldier's eyes locked onto the pistol, and he emitted what sounded like a whimper.

 

"No, no, please –"

 

Thwack. Thwack.

 

"Did he say something?"

 

"Hell if I know."

 

"Anyone hit?" Marcinko asked.

 

"No sir. Not a scratch." The speaker grinned, white teeth standing in stark contrast to his painted face. "Our first op and we waste thirty gearheads without a *beep* scratch. Can you dig it?"

 

"Don't get cocky. It's only going to get harder from here. Get any intel?"

 

"Right here, Skipper," one of them said, passing him a folder with assorted maps and documents inside. A disc fell out and Marcinko picked it up, blowing dirt off it.

 

"It's not much, but it looks like some Combine encryption algorithms and op orders. Some maps, too, but they only show a couple firebases and this supply dump."

 

"Good find, Chuck. Let's get out of here. Plant C4 on the supplies first and set it on a 40-minute delay. If you have any left after that, go nuts. We're meeting Goliath at LZ Oriole in an hour. Debrief is tomorrow. Calhoun and Dr. Vance will be there, so try to look somewhat human."

 

"Roger that, Skipper."

 

"And don't call me Skipper."

 

"Okay, Dan."

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Ragitsu Grand Master

Ragitsu

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Re: Ctrl+V

 

We met by chance.

 

Bumped into one another in a dingy New York bar.

 

I doubt that she even heard me over the deafening music when I told her my name and that I was an Mossad Officer out of DC.

 

We were both stranded there with friends who were too drunk to notice or care that we’d slipped outside, away from all of the commotion, and into the relative silence of the night.

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Ragitsu Grand Master

Ragitsu

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Re: Ctrl+V

 

Many moons ago, when my squadron was deployed to Panama, we had to share a Quonset Hut village with SEAL Team 8 (ST-8). A Quonset Hut village is just a synonym for Military Trailer Park, where they stash all the folks who are on temporary assignment. In any event...

 

The central hut in the village was set aside as the "entertainment" hut. There was a ping pong table, dartboard, card table, and other recreational shit in there. You could also buy hot dogs, sodas, and if you were off duty, beer. We offered ST-8 full use of the Hut (as we called it) while we were sharing the village with them. The Hut was run by a different person from the squadron each day. People were assigned to Hut duty just like you would be assigned guard duty or cleaning duty. But it was so cake. No sweating, no rifle carrying, just cool air conditioning and no stress. One day, I was lucky enough to pull Hut duty.

 

The people coming into the Hut after a long day on the flightline are usually some filthy looking bastards, covered in grease, hydraulic fluid and all kinds of nasty shit. But during the working shift, you'd usually only have one or two customers all day. It typically left the guy on duty with nothing much to do except watch the Armed Forces Network, which, while I was there, aired 4 hours of Saved by the Bell reruns followed by four hours of Quantum leap reruns, 24 hours a day. It was enough to drive a man insane, but that's a different story.

 

The day I was on duty, a SEAL came in to get a beer and shoot the shit. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He really didn't look to me like what I thought they were supposed to look like. He stood about 5'6", weighed 160 at the most. Just not a very imposing fellow, but he was a SEAL, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he could kill me with his bare hands without breaking a sweat. Then in came Fuller. Now, understand, it's been a few years since this happened and for the life of me, I can't remember his first name. Fuller will do, though. He was the stereotypical aggressive Navy drunk. When he drank, he just liked to start shit with anyone. He was a scrawny shit, though, and not a lot of people took him seriously. Until he drank, then he would morph into the Invincible Man and start a fight with the biggest son of a bitch around. He never gave up until either he had pummeled someone into the dirt or got knocked unconcious himself. Strange cat.

 

So Fuller came in, drunk as hell, yelling at no one in particular, in full-on aggro mode. The SEAL just sat there, quietly sizing up Fuller and drinking his Cerveza Atlas. Fuller got a look at the Budweiser (slang for the SEAL crest) on the guy's uniform and wigged out on him:

 

Fuller: You SEALs are a bunch of pussies! I could have been a SEAL! You're nothing! I bet can beat your ass!

 

SEAL: You're probably right.

 

Fuller: You're Goddamned right! Come on! I'll show you! I'll beat you like I beat my kids!

 

SEAL: Look man, I don't want to fight you. I'm just going to finish my beer, then I'll go.

 

Fuller: F**kin-A! Hey Jimbo, you hear that? What a f**king p****!

 

Fuller pushed the guy. Not very hard, but enough to spin the guy a bit on his bar stool. I was standing there, wide-eyed, just waiting for Fuller to get his candy ass crushed like a beer can, but Frogman just finished off his drink. He looked like he was about to get up and leave, but then he suddenly spoke to me in a spooky ass, quiet voice.

 

SEAL: You know what, I think I'll have another one.

 

Me: Uh....Okay.

 

I turned around to get another beer out of the fridge and then heard one of the most ominous sounds ever:

 

WHAP!

 

*long pause*

 

Thud.

 

I was afraid to turn around, but I was just standing there with the fridge open, holding a beer and looking like a freaking dork. Slowly, I turned. Fuller? Nowhere to be seen. I handed the SEAL his beer and peered over the edge of the bar. Fuller was spread-eagled, unconcious on the floor.

 

SEAL: I think he passed out.

 

Me: Uh....Okay.

 

Of course, God was frowning upon me for being such a Goddamned pansy, so he sent my CO in through the door at that very instant. F**k. Captain Simpson looked at Fuller on the floor, looked at me, looked at the SEAL, looked back at Fuller, then back at the SEAL. Time stood still. The SEAL just sat there, holding his beer, looking cool as f**king Ceasar salad.

 

CO: Looks like Petty Officer Fuller passed out, boys?

 

Me: Uh....yes sir.

 

SEAL: Yes sir.

 

CO: You sailors help your shipmate out, carry him back to his rack?

 

Me & SEAL: Aye Aye, Sir.

 

And the Skipper left. The SEAL acted like that kind of shit just happened to him every day, because he took a swig of his beer, and set it down.

 

SEAL: You take his feet?

 

Me: Uh....okay.

 

Fuller had quite a beautiful bruise in the shape of a hand on the side of his neck the next day. It didn't fade for weeks. I never asked him about it. What f**king dumbass.

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Cancer Grand Master

Cancer

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If you downloaded the Lab 3 handout before about 11:45 Wednesday May 4, be aware that you got a DIFFERENT handout than the one we will use in lab. Grab and print out the newest version, now posted on the Lessons tab.

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