Excalibur Team, a Chronicle Ch. 3

Excalibur HQ, Colorado

         

         The sun and the wind blew across York’s face as he ran. The muscles in his legs began to get tired as he cleared mile four, but it was okay, there was only another mile left in the team’s daily five mile run. At first, the rest of the team had struggled just a little, being un-acclimatized to the high altitude and all. But now, a month after they had all met, Excalibur was doing these runs in full body armor with their weapons without anything dramatic happening.

         Ahead of York, Kozak led the way, his custom sniper rifle in his hands, and a LWRC PSD carbine on his back. The sniper was by far the quietest member of the team, but that was expected for his job, not only did it require staying absolutely silent for long periods of time, snipers had to look at the people they shot, often right in the eye, so the quietness really was to be expected. Nevertheless, Gunnery Sergeant Soren Kozak was still sociable enough for a team as tight as Excalibur, and he sure as hell kicked everybody’s long range marksmanship into proper shape. In fact, York (along with most of the rest of the team) was now for the very first time shooting targets out to and past two-thousand meters with one of the many large-caliber sniper rifles in Excalibur’s large armory.

         That was how they trained, every member of the team taught their specialty to the others every day. One month in, and they were already good enough to qualify as specialists in any other team. Along with the sniping, York could tread water for hours and hack most computer systems thanks to Brianna Keys’ training, set explosives to destroy practically any materiel on earth thanks to Em, and gun down a platoon of targets with a single light machine gun belt with training from Alex Ellis. York already knew tracking and scouting from his time in Delta with Frankie Ackerman, so he hadn’t really learned much there.

         As they reached the end of the run, York saw the three people who made up Excalibur’s handpicked helicopter crew. Chosen by Major Gearing, 1st Lt. Sam Westing, and Chief Warrant Officers Natalia Gogol and Jackson Sisk were a top helo crew from the Army’s legendary 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, or SOAR for short. The helo crew was as much a part of Excalibur as any of the shooters, though they did run before the main team, so as to have time to get their helicopter ready.

         When York made it to the end, he and everyone else stopped for a moment to take a breath, then York turned around to the team.

         “Okay Excalibur, on the chopper, we’re gonna pay the kill house another visit!” Immediately the chopper crew warmed up the engine to their MH-60K while York and the shooters got in. When the Blackhawk lifted off, the sounds of the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ USA” wafted through everybody’s integrated earpieces as York got a nice view of the Excalibur HQ, all fifty acres of it.

         “Damn it Sam, stop making me miss Cali!” exclaimed an exasperated Keys through her throat mic.

         “Okay, how about something more suited to the job then?” asked Natalia, speaking through her Russian accent. The Beach Boys were then replaced by the thundering sound of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” which earned several shouts of approval from the team. York then saw the roof of the kill house just as Sam Westing announced through his thick Texas drawl that the team had fifteen seconds.

         “Team! Lock n’ load!” shouted York as he chambered a live 6.8mm round into his own LWRC M6 carbine and turned on the side mounted flashlight, everyone else following suit immediately after. Right when the Blackhawk banked back to stop, Jackson Sisk, who was acting as crew chief, pushed a rope out of the chopper’s open door. Frankie was the first to fast-rope out, followed by Em, Eddie, then York, Bri, Kozak, and finally Alex.

         By the time York was down the rope and on the roof, Em was already setting up several C4 frame charges to the door of the ceiling entrance. The whole team stacked up, and when Em was done and in position, she looked to York for confirmation. He quickly looked over the charges, and then gave the order.

         “Do it.”

The door exploded inwards, and York ran through the smoke, raising his carbine to engage the first set of targets.



000



Major Everett Gearing sat in the command center of Excalibur HQ, underneath fluorescent lights, with a large conference table behind his swivel chair. In front of him was a system of about twenty LCD TV screens, where he watched York and his team clear the kill house of targets. Damn, I wish I was there right now, thought Gearing, remembering when he had been in doing all that the shooters in Excalibur were doing now. That seemed like it had been a lifetime ago, and while Gearing still did a morning run and fired a hundred rounds through his various firearms everyday, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t exactly twenty anymore, or thirty, or even forty. At fifty-three he was now just a little too old to be jumping over fences and kicking down doors. At least I can still teach the troops a thing or two about urban stealth, thought the CIA veteran, who still prided himself on his ability to disappear in almost any population center on earth.

Gearing turned when he heard the door to the CC open, his hand reflexively coming to rest on the butt of his Smith & Wesson. The hand slackened when he saw that it was simply Dr. Carmen Tanzen, Excalibur's own resident psychologist and physician. While no one else involved in Excalibur’s creation had believed it necessary to have a psychologist, Gearing knew from experience that black ops could be some of the most mentally and emotionally draining work in the world. Besides, it meant that he would have someone to talk to when he couldn’t be with the troops. Tanzen walked into the CC dressed in her usual white lab coat, which also as usual was draped over a simple shirt and skirt combination.

“Carmen, nice to see you this morning,” said Gearing by way of greeting.

“It’s nice to see you too, Ev,” replied Tanzen, speaking in her cultured, Ivy League manner. As she sat down, Tanzen plopped a folder onto the table, and brushed back a few loose strands of raven black hair.

“What’s that?” asked Gearing, looking at the folder whilst pouring Tanzen a cup of coffee.

“Full psychological profiles of all team members, it took me long enough to finish. And thanks for the coffee.” Tanzen took a large swig of the black fluid, with a look of absolute bliss. “You do know how to brew a good cup of coffee, Ev.”

“Yeah, well I used to be able to make decent coffee out of the crap in army rations, so I guess the Jamaican stuff the SecDef sends me is put to good use. I thought that all of the boys and girls already had their heads checked.”

“Ev, I don’t trust anyone else’s evaluation but my own, you’d be surprised how many idiots get hired to do government psych tests just because they use a lot of technical terms. Thank god all the selection courses are so tough and the instructors know what it’s all about, else it would all go to hell.”

“So what are the results?” asked Gearing, his interest perked.

“Oh, they're all type A personalities. All of their compatibilities are as good as it gets, I’ve seen happily married couples fifty years in who were less ideal personality matches. The biggest deviation in the shooters is between Ackerman and Kozak, and even then it’s only a seven percent deviation. Ev,” she said. When Gearing looked bemused at the numbers, she explained, “seven percent is well within the parameters for a good sniper team. And as for the helicopter crew, they’ve already flown combat missions together, so I know they all work well together. But in case you’re interested, three-percent deviation between Westing and Gogol is the biggest of the three. The match between Sisk and Gogol is unheard of outside identical twins, it’s one percent, one percent. If this weren’t a black unit I would send this off to the American Journal of Psychology.”

“That’s all excellent, Carmen, but your body language indicates that there's a ‘but’ coming along.”

“Well, that’s what I came to talk to you about, seeing as you have a better perspective on this than me. It’s Captain Kelsey. Care to take a guess at what my concern is?” Gearing turned from the screen and looked at Tanzen, fully knowing what this was.

“His Mother.” It was a statement, with no question in it.

“Ev, his mother died when he was twelve. As much as boys at that age may try to avoid their mothers, it’s one of the times they need them the most. He grew up through some of life’s most high pressure years with one half of his essential parental support gone. I don’t care how good a father he had, you don’t go through that at an age where you're more or less aware of the world without it affecting you. Now? Now Kelsey’s taking the fight right to the bastards who took his mother away from him. So tell me, Ev,” she said, taking a breath, “is Captain Cathair York Kelsey going to be the ice cold calm leader he needs to be? Because we can’t have him leading a small team of commandos in some place they’re not supposed be, then losing it.”

“Carmen,” said Gearing, selecting his words carefully, “I can fully understand your concern, but if Kelsey was going to have a breakdown, he would have had it long ago in combat. Besides, the Delta vets would have caught it during his interview,” explained Gearing, referencing the rigorous interview with Delta Force veterans all Delta hopefuls had to pass to get in. “But I can see your concern, so you should probably talk to him yourself on the off chance that there's something there no one caught. Personally, I think he’s accepted his mother’s death. If anything, he’s probably proud of what she helped do. I guess some dumb AQ boys over Virginia learned the hard way why you don’t mess with MACV-SOG wives.”

“If you say so…”

“Trust me, I’ve lost people close to me, you just learn to accept it. But I admit, you should talk to him. Make sure his already aggressive leadership fighting style doesn’t boil over. Anyways,” said Gearing, glancing at the TV, “the team is just finishing off their daily hundred rounds, so you should probably talk to him now.”

“I will, and thank you.”

“For what?”

“I’m a psychologist, Ev, my mind gets so cluttered, sometimes I need someone to straighten out my train of thought.”







         Carmen Tanzen felt just a little awkward as she approached the team, dressed in a lab coat while they stood in their combat gear. Still, she composed herself and remembered that she needed to be professional as she adjusted the prescription bottle in her pocket.

         “Captain,” she called out, “may I have a word with you?” Kelsey turned, looked inquisitively, then joined Tanzen. “Captain Kelsey,” she said by way of greeting, “There’s a small matter on which I believe I need to speak with you with. Let’s take a walk.” Kelsey again looked inquisitively, but responded only with the usual.

         “Yes ma’am.” he said curtly. When they reached a point where they were behind one of the indoor shooting range buildings, Tanzen started.

         “Captain, let me start by saying that I have reviewed your records. Your combat leadership skills are quite remarkable. By all accounts the Bronze Star you got would have been a Medal of Honor or at the very least a Distinguished Service Cross.” When Kelsey tried to dismiss this Tanzen held up her hand for silence. “But Captain, what I need to talk to you about is how stable you will be in your new role. Your mission will take you deep into enemy territory, targeting international terrorist leadership. I’m assuming you know exactly why we’re having this chat.” At this, Kelsey had a pained look on his face, but still responded.

         “I’m assuming it concerns the events in the skies of Virginia on September Eleventh 2001, and whether or not the acute mental trauma on my young psyche will affect my leadership of this team.”

         “Yes and no Captain. While this was a concern of mine, your response, body language, previous combat experience, evaluations, and Major Gearing’s opinion of you make me confident you’re not going to snap and start shooting everything that moves. But that isn’t my main concern. Remember, I’m a physician as well as a psychologist.”

         “I’m afraid I don’t follow ma'am.”

         “Captain, everything you do in life is reflected on your body. For the most part, events are reflected in such a tiny and temporary way that it’s impossible to see, but repeated; physically draining things do leave their mark, however subtle. What I’m getting at, Captain, is that from what I can see, during your teen years, whilst mourning over your mother, you used drugs rather heavily. Now, I've told no one about this, but from the look in your eyes when you heard the pill bottle in my pocket, and some other physical tells, I’m guessing you were into opiates.” Tanzen knew she was dead on because Kelsey leaned up against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back with his ice blue eyes, and spoke.

         “I mainly used opium, but I’d do Oxy too. I’ve been clean for years though, doc, never once went back.”

         “Captain, you may be physically clean, but we both know you're never fully cured.” At that, Tanzen pulled out the small orange bottle, half filled with Oxycodone from her pocket and showed it to Kelsey, making sure it was in his line of sight. Sure enough, his eyes followed it like a cat looking at a mouse. “C’mon, look at you. You may not do it anymore, but deep inside, you still want to. Just remember, it only dulls the pain for a little while, in the end you fell worse than when you started.” Kelsey’s eyes glazed over at that point and he sat down. Obviously, Tanzen had hit something vital.

         “It wasn’t the getting high,” said Kelsey, his voice a whisper and hoarse, “it was after that. After I smoked enough dope, I would have these hallucinations. It was always my mom, sitting there,” with his right hand, Kelsey gestured to the space in front of him, “it wasn’t like a dream at all, it was so, so real. For a few hours I would be a little kid again, and I could be with her.”

Well, this is a…revelation, thought Tanzen, not only did he manage to open up this much the first time I seriously speak to him, his whole reason for using wasn’t as bad as I thought. Tanzen then reminded herself that part of the breakthrough had to be from the fact that Kelsey knew that Tanzen was officially Lieutenant Commander Doctor Carmen Tanzen PhD, MD, USN.

         Tanzen was about to start speaking, when all of a sudden her pager, as well as Kelsey’s began to go off franticly. Kelsey immediately got up, no longer showing any emotion. The pagers were notifications for a mission coming up.

         “We’ll talk later, Captain. You know the drill.” Kelsey was already sprinting back to his team, and Tanzen simply walked back to the command center.



000



         York was glad that his pager had gone off at that particular time. He really didn’t like talking about his past, and besides that point, how the hell had Tanzen figured out about the dope problem? York pushed that out of his mind as he ran towards the team, who were already beginning to move, he had to have a clear mind to lead.

         “Excalibur get to the CC! Let’s move!” he yelled, as everybody ran.







         York and all six of his compatriots stared at the pictures, maps and other information on the monitor, and drank in all the details as Major Gearing briefed the team.

         “Alright boys and girls, these pictures are of the targets for your first mission. These boys represent a subsidiary group of al-Qaeda; they’re basically the quartermaster element of the group, providing all the gear a tango needs for an operation. Basically these guys give their brothers in arms guns and explosives, then sit back smoke cigars and laugh as their dumb buddies blow themselves up. Intel located these guys in the aftermath of the Mumbai bombing, and we’ve had them on the radar ever since. CIA was planning to take these guys down, but then decided it would be best if we did it for them as this is on domestic soil. They’ve set up a fake deal up in northwest Wyoming. The tangos think they're buying half a metric ton of C4, and when they show up, we hit ‘em and take ‘em all out.”

York counted fifteen faces among the pictures; this would mean at least three cars just to take the men, plus a u-haul or two to take the gear they thought they were getting.

“The op goes down like this,” continued Gearing, “you fly in immediately and establish observation of the meeting point, when the tangos show up, start shooting. I will be posing as the seller, and my ride will be your extraction. Do try to make sure the tangos don’t get too close. This place is far enough out in the middle of nowhere that with luck, it’ll take years for anyone to notice anything weird happened. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow at 1130 hours; Westing, you and your team get the V-22 ready. Guys, I know this is an ad-lib rushed op, but it’ll be an easy job, and I have full confidence in you. That said, stay alert, and keep your eyes open. Any questions?” there were none, “Okay then, dismissed.”

York turned to the rest of the team and started giving out orders,

“Alright guys, everybody grab your Ghillie suits and load up. Em, fill up a drag bag with an RPG and plenty of ammo, what kind is up to you, but bring HE and frag loads. Kozak, Bri, I want you guys posted farther away; bring semi-auto light fifty rifles with AP incendiary rounds. Alex, you bring what you want, just make it heavy caliber. Frankie and Eddie, you guys and I bring grenade launchers, HE and HEDP ammo, go heavy and remember, we wanna bring the hurt, and we won’t have to move very much. Let’s mount up!”



000



York suppressed a yawn as he glanced at the projected clock in the bottom right hand corner of his goggles, 11:07:54, it read. It was nearing the time for the meeting, and there was still no sign of the tangos. York moved his head slightly to the left, and saw Gearing leaning on a blue Ford truck with a large horse trailer hooked to the back, a few hundred meters away. At least he had gotten some sleep, reflected a somewhat jealous York. Sleep depravation was something that York knew how to deal with, but he certainly didn’t enjoy it. At 11:16:14, Ackerman’s voice piped through everyone’s earpiece. 

“Does anyone else hear anything?” York immediately strained his ears, but there was nothing…then, yes, it was faint but it was there, it was a tiny whine with a little bit of a chopping sound.

“Sounds like…a helicopter” exclaimed Kozak, with some incredulity, just as the sound got louder.

“Sev, get me visual,” said York, really hoping that Keys wouldn’t see a helo, because that would make things…complicated, “actual,” said York into his throat mike to Major Gearing, “recommend you find some cover, this might get messy.” York didn’t wait for an acknowledgement, because Bri just then got a visual.

“One, I've got visual on one incoming helo. Looks like a Sikorsky Sierra-Six-One-Lima. I see no visible weapons, repeat, no external weapons I can see, ETA two mikes judging by the speed.” That was bad. York mentally cursed himself for not packing at least one Stinger missile, but it had never occurred to him in all his time fighting these guys that they would or even could use a helicopter. Oh well, at least the helo wasn’t armed, though the occupants probably were.

“Orders, One?” asked a somewhat nervous Em. York saw that she had unzipped her camouflage drag-bag which encased a rather large SMAW rocket launcher.

“Calm down, Five” said York in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, “wait for it to come closer, if you have to fire, do it when they can’t evade. As it is they can’t see us, so let’s try to keep that advantage for as long as we can.” As the helicopter got to two hundred meters from their position, Ellis spoke over the COM system.

“Sir, permission to shoot down that helo when it’s in range.” York had to wonder exactly how Ellis planned to do that, but decided to trust his gunner.

“Permission granted. Whatever you're going to do, do it quick; everyone else, once it goes down, weapons free.”

In response, Ellis rose from the grass, his Ghillie suit making him look like a specter, Mk.48 machine gun up and at the ready. He quickly acquired the Sikorsky in his reflex sight, and fired off three bursts of automatic gunfire. Almost immediately the helo started to pour smoke from the main rotor and spin uncontrollably. When the helo crashed, there was a loud screeching sound. Combined with noise of the rotor going down, it was a rather loud affair, with lots of smoke and dust, but none of the flames and explosions so loved by movies and videogames, as the helo was apparently upgraded in the safety department.

York kept the wreckage dead in the tritium-lit chevron sight of his ACOG scope. His suspicion about the safety upgrade was confirmed when one of the tangos stumbled out from the wreckage, an AK-47 type rifle in his hands.

Or at least he tried to stumble out, because he made it about two steps out before a .50 caliber round from Kozak’s AS50 hit the guy dead center in the chest, sending him off his feet. The sound of the unsuppressed shot was like a thunderbolt, but it was soon surpassed, because Em called out over the COM system,

“Cover ‘yer ears! I’m goin’ hot!” at this, everyone moved their hands to their ears, because they knew that the SMAW was one of the loudest man-portable weapons in the world, and that their shooter’s earplugs would hardly do a thing to dampen the explosion’s noise. Em rose into a crouching position and fired.

The rocket flew in, and the explosion was quite dramatic, blowing out the fuselage of the wrecked helicopter, and sending bodies flying into the air. It also lit the spilled jet fuel all on and around the wrecked chopper.

“Everyone open fire!” shouted York, loosing a 40mm grenade on the wreckage before emptying two twenty-round magazines of 7.62x51mm ammo from his AR-10 rifle into the same place. Everyone followed suit; though they all knew that it was overkill after Em’s rocket, which York had just realized was a lot more powerful than he expected, they had a policy of being thorough.

“Okay guys, cease fire. The place is too hot right now for us to confirm the kills. I don’t think it matters though; no one could have survived that. Four, how in the fuck did you take that helo down?”

“Simple, One, I just aimed for the gearbox, like I said, I am good with the MG.”

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind for future operations, everyone else remember that. Now, Five, what the hell did you shoot outta that thing? I saw bodies flying everywhere.”

“Thermobaric warheads,” replied a satisfied Em, who was now casually putting out the embers in the grass lit by her rocket-launcher, “They release enough overpressure to knock down a not so sturdy building.  I like to be thorough, wouldn’t want any tangos getting’ away now would we? Now that would be unprofessional.”

“Never actually seen one in use,” chimed an impressed Crowne, “heard of ‘em being used, but I’ve never actually seen one. Make sure you pack more of those next time.” Turning to York he said, “One, recommend we get the hell out of here, you never know when some random bloke just happens to be out here.” Crowne’s last sentence was especially confirmed when a few rounds of ammunition were set off by the fire.

“Agreed, team, fall back to extraction. Actual, get ready for us.”

The team was on the move even before Gearing confirmed. Moving to the trailer, Ackerman pulled the rear door open, revealing the interior of the trailer, which was covered in about three feet of loose hay. Everyone jumped in, with Em, Kozak and Keys casing their weapons before going in, everyone else simply cleared the chambers on their weapons and put them on safe. In their Ghillie suits, with just a bit of hay on them, the team was invisible to a casual, or even a careful visual inspection.

York landed next to Em, and they both proceeded to throw some hay over each other until they were satisfied that they were adequately concealed. Off to the side, Ackerman and Keys were doing the same when, predictably…

“Hey, Bri, is this the wrong time to say something ‘bout a roll in the hay?” Keys responded by slugging Ackerman on the shoulder before throwing a load of hay over him.

“In your dreams army boy, I’m a Catholic and a SEAL. I've gotta be respectable.”

“Christ,” groaned Em, “Tell me you at least turned off ‘yer throat-mic ye’ feckin’ pervert.”

“Don’t worry, Em” quipped York after switching off his own mic, “Frankie knows from Delta, he can make smart-ass comments using names, but if he doesn’t switch the mic off, I’ll dress him up in nice wig and burka and use him to bait Taliban targets. You know that policy’s still in effect, don’t you, Frankie?”

“Yep.” Replied Frankie dryly, “and I promise to behave. I know the kinds of messed up sick shit those guys are into. I’ll use my cyanide if it ever comes to that, sir, thank you, sir.”

After they started to move, everyone quieted down to sleep. Em was out almost immediately, snoring lightly. York felt as Em brushed up against him when the trailer hit a bump. His first reaction was to move away, but York decided not to disturb his friend.

Soon, York was falling asleep, the satisfaction of a mission accomplished abating the small amount of dread he felt as he thought of his previous conversation with Dr. Tanzen.

What she hadn’t realized was that York’s inner demons always took a backseat to the mission.

As the darkness of sleep made its last push into York’s consciousness, he had one final thought.

Fifteen more of the bastards, I wonder if it’ll ever make it to a point where I’ll have my revenge. I guess I’ll just have to keep going. Don’t worry, mom, if that point does exist, I’ll find it.