Excalibur Team, a Chronicle Ch. 1

Echoing Hills Shooting Range, Colorado



The shrill tone of a timer sent 2nd Lt. Cathair York Kelsey into autopilot: muscles tensed, the pulse quickened, and grey eyes searched for targets in the dirt and cardboard landscape. Keysey moved with speed and grace never seen by many of his fellow competitors, his rifle ready to shoot. Moving into a cardboard mockup of a hallway, Kelsey saw three white targets pop up, and raised his LWRC M6 Carbine. Aquiring the red triangle of the Trijicon Reflex sight, Kelsey pulled the trigger and each target caught two rounds to the head before they even finished springing up. Kelsey performed a tactical reload that was so fast that a large part of it would have been missed by blinking. Next came targets outside of the cutout windows in the hall. Kelsey engaged all fifteen targets, five to each window, not missing once, and ignoring the three "no shoot" targets.



After the hall came a sprint to a platform in the open. Lt. Kelsey reached it in record time and retrieved his Benelli shotgun from a rack on the side of the platform, placing his rifle on the platform. Immediately, a clay pigeon flew from an automatic launcher, only to be vaporized a second later in a hail of birdshot. Next came ten steel targets on the left and right of Kelsey. each one caught a chestful of buckshot.



After those went down, Kelsey saw three new steel targets present themselves, at a distance of 400 meters. Lt. Kelsey stowed the shotgun on the rack and hopped onto the platform, grabbing his rifle as soon as he got up. Kelsey took a moment to flick down the 3x magnifier behind the reflex sight, then got into a prone position, Three shots later, the three targets went down.



Another sprint led Kelsey to the last stage: six racks of steel plates were set up, a total of thirty targets to engage.



Lt. Kelsey ripped his newest gun from its thgh holster and flicked off the safety. The Springfield Armory "Professional Model" 1911A1 pistol came up, its tritium sights coming into focus on the first steel plate. Kelsey understood why the gun had cost over two and a half grand and why the FBI's elite HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) used this particular gun as soon as he pulled the trigger. The gun just felt premium in the same way a Ferrari or a Rolex felt premium. Kelsey fired until all nine rounds were gone, then slapped in a new eight round magazine and repeated the process with near robotic efficiency until all the targets went down.



The timer buzzed again to signify the end of Lt. Kelsey's run, and Kelsey slipped his earplugs out and unloaded his rifle and pistol. A range employee handed him his shotgun.



"Four minutes, twenty-six seconds! New record!" shouted the range officer in a thick southern accent, to the appluase of the gathered three gun competition shooters.



After the crowd dissapated, the range officer ambled up to Lt. Kelsey.



"Well there son, amazing shooting if I do say so myself, and that's a mighty fine piece right there, Springfield?" the RO's thick southern accent, was accentuated by aviator sunglasses and cowboy hat. The RO also had his own 1911 on his hip, an older Colt model, plus he sported US Army Sergeant Major's chevrons in tattoo form on his forearm and a few scars. That all made Lt. Kelsey respect the man, he was in the Army, and had reached a pretty high enlisted rank to boot, probably served in Vietnam like Kelsey's own father as well.



"Sure is Sarge, brand new, just got it from Springfield's new batch, custom made for the HRT, here have a feel," Kelsey quickly handed the pistol over. The RO hefted it and gave a low whistle.



"That's real nice, hard to get, heard they only made 'em in limited batches, and they cost an arm and a leg."



"Well, Uncle Sam gives out pretty good combat pay for officers, especially if you get a purple heart and a bronze star, and my unit does see a lot of combat," said York in a casual tone. It was at that moment that the RO met Kelsey's gaze head on, the two men sized each other up properly for the first time.



"Never would have guessed from a distance," the RO held out his hand "Sergeant Major Gary Woods, retired. 'Was Special Forces 'fore I settled down. You've got the look" Woods said, eyes locked on those of a fellow warrior.



"'So I'm told," said York, with no small measure of respect as he took the offered hand, "2nd Lieutenant Cathair York Kelsey, but call me York."



"What unit?"



"If I told you, I'd have to try to kill you, but let's just say I used to be a Ranger, but not anymore."



"Delta?" It was half question, half statement. York gave an almost unperceivable nod. Woods let out a second low whistle



"Well shoot that's somethin' else I didn't count on, Delta? Good lord, had the chance to join those boys way back in the day, but I passed."



"Really? How come?" Now York was  interested in the old SF soldier's story.



"Ah, well ya see, I figured the whole concept of Delta was fine and all, we needed a unit of devoted shooters, like the Brits an' their SAS or our own MACV-SOG on permanent call, not just one slapped together next time they were needed, but I always figured, ya know, ya have to know how to fight, seeing as how you were gonna be all alone out there, but I was always more of a people person, hell I liked Robin Sage," said Woods, referring to the field test for all Green Beret hopefuls, where they were dropped into a forest to interface with locals to overthrow a mock regime. "Anyways, I figured, you need a guy assassinated, or hostages freed, or something like that, you boys are the go to guys, but if you need a regime gone on the quiet with the locals comin' out with a sense of pride, professionalism 'n self worth, you call us. Hell, I even served in MACV-SOG for a time, and I can tell you that was a different job. Different jobs, different skill sets, an' I was more cut out for the 'Forces. Plus I doubt they would have let me go, seein' as I'm fluent in Spanish, Russian, Mandarin Chinese, Arabic, Farsi, Vietnamese and Swahili. Plus I'm semi-fluent in Urdu, German, and English," the last part Woods said with a smile, "Didn't see that comin' did you, El-Tee? Old wrinkly RO on a Colorado shootin' range turns out to be an old SF guru."



"I'll admit, didn't think you knew that many languages." This York said with a tone of respect, here was a guy who had seen and done it all back in the bad old days, fighting secret wars never to make headlines, all while being practically invisible to outsiders. In short, Woods was the archetypal Cold War Special Forces guru, the kind all the new Spec Ops guys practically worshipped.



It was quickly decided that the two would have to catch a beer at the local bar, so when Woods' shift ended, they both headed off. What the hell, thought York, I'm on leave anyways.



York was just leaving the bar; it was just beginning to get dark after many a tale from Woods about operations in various denied areas in the world, and interfacing with the various locals. As he and Woods bade farewell, York weighed whether or not he was sober enough to drive. But as it turned out, he didn't need to make that decision.



"Lieutenant Cathair Kelsey?" inquired a formal voice from York's rear. York spun around at the mention of his name, and came face to face with a white, tall Army Major in his mid fifties, his hair a graying black. His nametag bore the name GEARING. York instinctively stiffened to attention at the sight of a ranking officer.



"Major, Sir!"



"No need for that Lieutenant, I'm just the messenger. Command wants a word with you, so you're coming with me. Your car will be taken care of." York eyed the major with a small amount of suspicion, but the various badges for airborne and ranger schools, plus a SPECIAL FORCES tab assured York. Besides, the black Suburban that Major Gearing was moving towards looked official enough, and York still had the 1911 in am inside-the-waistband holster under his light jacket, as well as a compact 9mm Kahr pistol concealed in an appendix carry holster. Once in the SUV, York decided it was time for some questions.



"Sir, what's this all about? Last I checked, I was on leave."



"Plans change Lieutenant, and the Army owns your ass, remember? I'll make it simple: we're now driving for the airport, where a private jet is waiting for us, from there, we dress up in our class-A uniforms while we fly for Washington DC, we'll catch another car there that'll take us to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue where the Commander in Chief wants to talk to you."



"No shit sir?"



"No shit Lieutenant, POTUS wants to start some new program, and you've been chosen to be an officer in it; that's all I can say right now, oh and I lied earlier, I'm not just the messenger, I'm part of this too."



"And that's all you can tell me sir?"



"That's it Lieutenant."



On board the Air Force C-37; basically a civilian Gulfstream V with a few added features; York adjusted his uniform in the mirror of the rear lavatory, and looked on in slight amazement. It had been years since York had last worn a uniform, seeing as Delta operators were usually mandated to be secretive of their job by wearing civilian clothes. Of course, York's blue dress uniform still wasn't the norm, it bore no nametag and the only unit patch was the AIRBORNE red arrow with a dagger patch of SOCOM, and it bore SPECIAL FORCES, SAPPER, and RANGER tabs along with master parachutist jump wings, expert marksman badges, a few campaign ribbons, 2nd Lieutenant's bronze insignia bar, and shining Bronze Star and Purple Heart awards. After combing his hair, York affixed his tan beret over his head, as officially, he was still a Ranger.



The man who came out wasn't the same one who went in; York, the easy going civilian who just so happened to be good with martial arts and guns was gone, in his place was 2nd Lt. Kelsey, Cathair Y. US Army. In his mind, York went over the procedure for reporting to a ranking officer, a procedure he had been indoctrinated in since his first day of Basic Training. York couldn't ever be accused of being a nervous man, but he was reporting to the commander in chief, who was, as far as York was concerned, the most powerful man in the world.



Just then, the seatbelt sign came on again, and York sat down alongside Major Gearing. As soon as the plane touched ground and came to a halt, the stairwell folded down and York and Gearing were ushered by several Secret Service agents into one of thousands of black Chevy Suburban SUVs that ferried government VIPs around.



Once inside, the female agent in the passenger seat turned to face Gearing and York



"Tell you what fellas, how about you just hand over anything on your persons that the security team might interpret as a weapon, and I'll keep 'em safe, that way we avoid a bit of awkwardness when we get to the White House," both York and Gearing grumbled as they turned in their sidearms, backups, and knives. Major Gearing surprised York once again, as his personal selection of weapons was almost identical to York's; the only difference was that the Major's sidearm was a Smith and Wesson SW1911 E-Series; otherwise the backup Walther and KA-BAR TDI knives were the same.



Once at the Presidential Mansion, York and Gearing walked through to the Oval Office, attracting intense looks from Secret Service agents along the way, they were undoubtedly briefed on the fact that Lt. Kelsey was a member of Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, now officially called the Combat Applications Group. It made the USSS agents a little nervous, which was good: less professional bodyguards would relax on the basis that York was a soldier with perfect records with no black marks. But the Secret Service trusted no one.



York had expected a wait to see the leader of the free world, but apparently he was high priority. The Presidential Secretary called in, and the white doors to the Oval Office opened immediately. York took a breath and walked in; it felt like jumping from an airplane. Inside, the President and Secretary of Defense were waiting for him, sitting opposite each other on the two white couches at the center of the office. York immediately came to attention and snapped off a salute.



"Sirs! Second Lieutenant Kelsey, Cathair Y. reporting as ordered!" POTUS and SecDef both rose and looked York over. President Matthias R. Tracey was the first to speak in his slow Cajun accent.



"At ease Lieutenant, I must say, it's nice to meet you."



"Likewise, sir," The President shook York's hand, as did Secretary of Defense Richard Hinsley, both with the firm grips of leaders. They both nodded to Gearing, obviously they already knew him. POTUS and SecDef were quite the contrast, whereas President Tracey was a short but well proportioned man, his dark brown hair combed back, Secretary of Defense Curtis Hinsley was a six-foot-five, two-hundred-thirty pound, bald African American giant, emphasis on the American part. After York took the offered chair, it was down to business.



"Tell me, Lieutenant," spoke the President, "have you ever felt limited by our current system, ever been able to do something to protect your nation, but not be allowed to because of restrictions? Before you answer, Lieutenant Kelsey, I hereby order you to speak your mind." York was rather surprised by this order, but followed it nonetheless.



"Yes sir, when I was in Afghanistan, we had the ability to conduct many operations that would have handled sensitive situations, or could have severely affected the enemy, but every time, some tight-ass bureaucrat, pardon my French sir, would hold us back, as if we weren't trained for the exact stuff we were trying to get permission to do." POTUS and SecDef gave nods of approval and agreement.



"You see Kelsey," SecDef began, "Major Gearing here had the same thoughts as you; and being as it is that he saved my ass back in Bosnia, at the risk of his own life and career by disobeying orders to come and get me, he has some pull up here." York remembered the story of how SecDef had been an F/A-18 pilot shot down by a SAM missile. The details of his rescue had been kept secret, but now York knew. Gearing answered the obvious question for York.



"I was with the Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group at the time." That explained a lot, the SAD's SOG was the CIA's own little black ops unit.



"Anyways Lieutenant," continued POTUS, "We all decided that what's needed is a specialized, extremely small team of some of the best Special Operations warriors we could muster, specializing in ultra-surgical operations of the highest sensitivity, in short, the blackest of black ops. They would have independence from normal military structures, but would have an unlimited budget and support from the white house. After reviewing our records, we decided that you are the best officer for the job of being the CO of this unit. Your actions in Afghanistan showed remarkable command leadership ability, initiative, and independence."



"Thank you sir."



POTUS continued without pause. "Lieutenant, what I am now asking you to do is to conduct operations that will probably go over many moral boundaries; certainly they will cross all legal lines. I have blank pardons waiting in case you get caught on US soil, but in most cases if you're caught, you're on your own. So, do you want to join?"



"This is a volunteer outfit, sir?"



"Son, I can't order someone to do stuff like this; despite my career in politics, I do still have a soul."



York thought about it for all of ten seconds before responding.



"In which case I volunteer sir," York wasn't about to pass on an opportunity to cut through all the bureaucracy, yet still be the warrior he had chosen to be. President Tracey smiled at York.



"That's good to hear son, because Everett here," the President gestured to Major Gearing, "will tell you exactly where your base of operations will be, he will also be your CO and Intel officer, and will brief you on most missions. Secretary Hinsley and I may brief you on extra delicate operations. But right now, you need to start the search for volunteers for your team. Details like the number of troops I'll leave to you, but I did take the liberty of naming the team." The President paused for effect before revealing the moniker. "The name I decided on is Excalibur, seeing as you will be acting like a sword." York certainly thought that the name fit.



"Any questions soldier?" asked POTUS



"No sir."



"Very well then," everyone rose as Tracey did, "just one more thing Lieutenant, I am not going to have my new golden boy bossed around by officers straight out of West Point" Tracey reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small black box. Upon opening, they revealed a shining silver pair of "railroad track" captain's insignia bars. "Congratulations, Captain Kelsey" Tracey stepped in front of York and pinned the new insignia on York's uniform. Upon completion of this task, York saluted Tracey again.



"Thank you sir, it's truly an honor" Tracey simply smiled.



"Dismissed Captain, and give 'em hell"



"Sir, yes sir!"