[R] The GAMMA Project (IC)

[Lox]

Rated R for graphic depictions of violence, murder, gore, torture, and other nasty stuff.

The Puppet Master
A book by General Nathan Farragut, based on a true story

Prologue - A mission never forgotten

It was a dark night that evening. Over the Bermudas, a storm was raging, complete with whip-like winds, rain, and the roar of thunder. The helicopters, two cutting-edge NK-119 "Shadow Condors", military stealth transport helicopters developed by Khan Aviations, made a bumpy transport ride, and had thrown their passengers around inside since they had left Miami an hour earlier. As if to make things worse the cabins of the helicopters were almost pitch black, lit up only by a few red lights in the ceiling, and the occasional lightning flashing by outside only to fade away momentarily.

The passengers, none of whom had ever met each other before, were an unusual collection. Some of them had the looks on them of hardened veterans of war. Others were far too old to be soldiers, while others yet wore the innocent faces of people that had never, or rarely experienced the heat of combat. But their presence in the two helicopters, with the gear they had brought, had turned the cabins into armories - wherever one looked, one could see automatic weapons - explosives - military grade augmentations...

It was clear that, though these people did not know why they were being deployed in the middle of the night, they were ready for, and were being sent to wage a war. A look outside would tell nothing of their destination, as the sky was black as tar and below them, a storm was boiling the sea. But soon, they could feel a slight thump as the stealth helicopters touched down at their destination - St Vitus Island, a private island off the Bermuda islands, purchased and turned into a private military facility by one of the world's mightiest men, Sikhander Khan, in 2004.

Now, it was a restricted location, surrounded by security, guarded by heavily armed private military contractors and surface to air missiles. Had it not been for the IFF transponder that all Khan Industries aircrafts carried, the helicopters, had the security systems actually been able to spot them, which they were not, would have been blown out of the sky without as much as a warning.

It wasn't long before the doors on the sides of the helicopters were pulled open, and an HGS security contractor wearing a black balaclava under his helmet, showed his face, several others patrolling the helipad behind him with weapons on their chests. This contractor too was carrying an assault rifle and a ballistic vest. A sharp eye could note the hexagonal MQRF patch attached to it, marking him off as one of the best of the best within Helix Group Solutions.

"Disembark!" One of the soldiers on-board the first helicopter called out in the joint comm system of the birds, telling his new comrades to grab their shit and get off. His voice was short, his order clear...militaristic. These were no Blackwater thugs guarding a Baghdad outhouse. Their allegience may have shifted when they took up contract with their current employer, but most of the men on-board had been and were still, soldiers. And those that weren't would adapt pretty fast, or perish in the hectic time that lay ahead of them.

As the man gave his order, he grabbed his backpack and his assault rifle, and stepped down onto the tarmac. Immediately a scurge of rain whipped into his face and body, soaking both his hair and clothes almost instantly. He took a deep breath, feeling the smell of the rain in the cold air. Almost instantly, chills rushed over him, and a shiver ran up his body. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he walked up to the contractor that had opened the heli door, and spoke, his dry voice edged by a strange foreign accent:

"Jonathan Hunter, HGS. We're the crew flown in from the mainland. Where do we report in?" The contractor pointed at a large, four-floor concrete building some distance away, and said:

"That over there's our urban warfare training village. We call it "Helldorado". You see that grey concrete building? That's one of the 'shooting houses' of the facility. Get to the third floor and find Mr Winfield from Intelligence. He'll be your CO during this operation. Just look around up there and you should find him. Ain't nobody else around at this hour. Brass wanted to keep things secret."

"Alright. Let's go, folks." Hunter said, beginning his walk towards the towering concrete building, his backpack in his left hand and the rifle in his right.

This group of unlikely heroes-for-hire didn't realize it themselves, but the step they took off the helicopters were the first steps towards a mission that would forever scar their memories, and change their lives. As they approached the ghost town and urban warfare training facility, an old and very worn sign met their eyes, the text on it almost entirely wiped away by age and weather.

It said; "Hel"

[Enigma]

Nata paused to check that the kevlar bag holding her sniper's rifle was firmly strapped on the side of her pack. Everything was good, so she slung the pack on her back and picked up her assault rifle.

She knew people were staring at her. She looked like a kid. At the Fagin House, they used that to their advantage. But ever since she was transferred to the HGS, most of her missions were intel-gathering. Only one assassination in weeks! Hopefully she'd be able to make up for all the boring stuff on this mission.

Nata followed after Hunter, keeping alert. One thing she did notice was if you looked as young as she was but carried a big gun and looked ready to use it, most didn't ask a lot of questions.

[Reaper]

Snapping his eyes open, Jason stood up and grabbed his shotgun and slipped it into the holster on his combat rucksack. Securing the the straps, he gave his gear a once over. Everything was in place.

Picking up his assault rifle, unloaded and reloaded it. Satisfied he stepped of the transport. Imediately the rain soaked his hair and and pelted off the ceramite plating of his combat uniform.

Setting of after Hunter, he lagged behind the group. All the while scanning the area with the detached interest of a man who expected anything at anytime.

[ThatGuy]

The choppy helicopter ride didn’t disturb Abel much. The new NK-119s that they were being flown in were designed to resist turbulence, but even if they hadn’t been, thunder, lightning, and wind had nothing on those 23mm ZUs that Saddam’s Iraqi Army and the Afghan Taliban had used to little effect against American Blackhawks early in those wars. Abel remembered flying in at night when Iraq began, taking fire from those old Soviet AA guns. Turbulence was much less stressful.

A brief thump interrupted Abel’s thoughts. They had touched down on St. Vitus Island. The doors slid open and the squad leader, a man who Abel identified as Jonathan Hunter, took a stand and shouted the command to disembark. Abel remained inside the helicopter a little longer, watching the others stand up and depart, assessing their mannerisms, their stances, their gear. Before exiting, he patted down his own kit, making sure everything was solidly in place and that he wasn’t accidentally leaving anything behind. Once, in the Rangers, a guy had left a crucial part of a radio behind, much to everyone’s dismay when they discovered its absence. Since then, everyone made sure to double-check his or her gear.

The first piece of kit that he checked was his rifle. Despite the amazing amount of progress in small arms technology in recent years, Abel still favored a somewhat older design: the now eleven year-old Beretta ARX-160. His was equipped with a 12-inch barrel, very short, but ideal for CQB use. And of course, he’d elected to purchase the 6.8mm SPC variant, as it had the accuracy of the 5.56 and the power of the 7.62. The fully ambidextrous rifle was complete with the addition of an EOTech hologram sight to the top rail and a SureFire LED flashlight on the left side rail. Next up was his Zenith 10mm pistol. A brief shake of gun proved that it was securely held in the holster on his belt. Last was a quick tap of all of his gear, particularly magazine pouches, ensuring that every magazine was in its proper place on his belt or vest. All was good. Thoroughly satisfied, Abel headed out, gracefully being the last out of his chopper.

Immediately the rain drenched the old soldier and his gear. He grunted and grinned. Rain was nice; it provided concealment from the enemy. And it was pretty. One of the grunts had finished explaining where to go, and Hunter headed off, leading the group to one of the nearby shooting houses. The small town ahead resembled a military MOUT course, something that Abel had seen tens of thousands of times. What struck him was the aging, decrepit sign reading, “Hel”.

[Lox]

Hunter stopped for a moment to study the concrete building closer. It consisted of four floors, with a flat rooftop with a small tower on top of it, no doubt holding a door leading up there. The windows of the building held no glass, but most were boarded up from the inside with plywood. Surrounded on two sides by a whole block of buildings, the two sides facing the streets held three heavy-set steel doors with warning signs of many kinds on them, among other things alerting them that the place was a restricted area, and that live ammunition was used in there.

Hunter pulled at the closest door, and it slid open on groaning hinges. He let everybody in before stepping in himself. As he did, the cold air created by the naked concrete walls hit him, and he trembled slightly as he looked around. To his immediate left was a steel staircase leading up to the second floor. Ahead of him lay a naked concrete corridor with open doorways on the right and left. Some of the walls were built from concrete or beta blocks, while others consisted of simple plywood boards.

There were also pieces of reused furniture scattered in the building, things like rickety tables, sofas and armchairs with rat holes in them, three-legged chairs, and similar objects, moved there to be used in exercises when they could no longer be used in an office building or somesuch. Lastly, a sign that it was a very active shooting house, next to the staircase was a large box full of empty 5,56 mm shell casings. As a cue, there was also a faint smell of cordite in the cool air, as well as the stuffy smell of dust, which covered the cold concrete floor everywhere.

Without saying anything, he ascended the staircase. Their footsteps echoed against the silence of the house. He led the group up to the third floor, where he stopped when they found themselves in a large stair room with some old furniture scattered about, and footsteps from combat boots marked in the dust. Hunter followed them down a corridor, until they led to the only existing and closed door on the left hand of the corridor. He knocked and then opened it, peering inside a murky room.

"Come inside and sit down. Last person to enter gives Ok, and closes the door." A voice with a British accent said in a militaristic manner. Hunter stepped up next to the door waiting for the others to get inside the small room.

It was, like the rest of the building, cold there, with no heat sources and naked concrete walls. In the back of the room, by the wall the door was located at, was placed an old red sofa, as with other furniture full of holes, and rickety, with gray dust marks on it. In front of it was also placed three rows of rickety benches, for people to sit on. In the far end of the room was a whiteboard, and a desk with an image projector and a laptop connected to it, placed on top. All of it seemed rather rudimentary.

As the last person got inside, Hunter closed the door and leaned against the wall to wait for the briefing that was to come, nodding to the man that everyone was inside. He took a moment to light up a Courtleigh cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he studied the man in the front, a man in his early forties, with an experienced face, and, though he wore civilian clothes beside the combat boots, a military stance.

"Everybody here? Good. My name's Spike Winfield. I'll be your CO during this operation. We're going to be in here for a while, so loosen your gear, and anyone gets tired in the head, stand up in the back." As he said that, in the back, Hunter pulled his clothes tighter around him to keep out the chilly air, waiting for the briefing to begin.

[Enigma]

Heldorado was... a live-fire training ground. Nata paused.

She remembered her first day in Fagin House, waking up in a strange bed, finding herself in a sparsely furnished room with a big mirror running almost the length of the wall to her left. Her hands and arms were augments, pigmented the same pale color as her skin.

The door opened, and in walked Joe. After introducing himself and asking how she was, her handler produced a gun and laid it on the bed in front of her. She stared at it, not quite understanding.

He took her out to the gun range, teaching her how to hold the gun, to aim and shoot. She wasn't very good at first, the pistol felt strange in her hands. Joe told her to stay at it until she was better.

Joe found her still there in the morning, standing in the cold rain, still shooting at targets.
"Were you out here all night?" he demanded.
"You told me to get better."


Her grip on her Mk. 18 assault rifle tightened and Nata started moving again, following after the others. Joe wasn't here. Joe would never be here. She had a mission.


Nata followed the team up the stairs and inside the briefing room, preferring to stand in the back. The pack she barely noticed.

As a training facility, it was sure to have cameras everywhere. There should be some interesting video. Nata couldn't help wondering just why they'd all been brought here.

[ThatGuy]

Abel had gotten used to the cloak and dagger stuff during his tenure with the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Most of his missions were more direct, such as being dropped in via helicopter and gathering intelligence on an individual or group’s movements and activities, but there were a few times, mostly during urban plainclothes operations, that he had endured the little game. The idea was not just to keep the briefing secret to outsiders, but also to assert its secrecy and importance to those inside the room. Effectively, it was a play designed to keep everything and everyone quiet.

After taking a stand at the back, near their squad leader, Abel relaxed himself and rubbed the back of his neck; just another sign that he was getting older. His right hand moved off of the pistol grip of his ARX-160 to the front of the magazine, a more relaxed and comfortable way of holding a seven-pound rifle, and he folded the stock across the right side of the rifle, making it even easier to hold the rifle in this casual manner. He laid the rifle against his chest, cradling it in his arms. Now all that was left was to wait for the briefing to begin.

[Reaper]

As the group paused to get look at the grey concrete building infront of them, Jason stood a ways the back, looking at each of them and assessing their weapons and appearance.

Just as he finished assessing and catergorizing each person, Hunter opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Hanging back Jason made sure he was the last to enter, besides Hunter. Entering the corridor Jason encountered the familiar light chill that was synonymous with a concrete bunker, though the cold was dampened by his combat suit, he still shivered once. The nostalgic smell of old, used furniture, dust and cordite fumes hung in the air.


Following the group up a flight of stairs, and down yet another corridor, and then another flight of stairs, they came to a halt in a large briefing room. Again Hunter held the door open. Being the second to enter, Jason strode to the far left wall where he could see the briefing screen and the door at the same time. Shrugging of his rucksack, he tighten his grip on his XM9C carbine. The compact, close quarters variant of the new carbine based on the old prototype XM8 assault rifle. Chambered to the heavy 6.8 SPC round, it had the power to punch through doors and armour, yet accurate enough to snipe with. Outfitted with a AG36 40mm grenade launcher underneath, and a ITL MARS sight ontop.

Leaning against the wall, he slung the rifle across his chest and waited for everyone to get in and the briefing to begin.

Hunter shut the door.

“Everybody here? Good....”

[Lox]

Spike Winfield waited until everyone had seated before he began the briefing.
"Twenty-four hours ago..." He began. As he spoke, a picture of what looked like a military base, but placed at the bottom of the ocean bed, appeared on the whiteboard behind him, projected from the projector connected to a laptop.. "...we received an emergency transmission from KRF-32, a top-secret underwater research facility belonging to the Khan Research Institute. The facility is located in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. Its main purpose is research around magnetic energy sources and classified military grade augmentations specifically for military marine and underwater applications."

As he spoke, Winfield brought out a cigar and lit it using a golden zippo lighter. After a breath of smoke, he continued:
"Automated emergency protocols kicked in as soon as the emergency transmission was sent, and the base was placed under Code Red full lockdown. After we received the transmission, the manual emergency response was decided from the highest levels within this organization. That's why you people are here. We're deploying you as the quick reaction force, to the base, to investigate the source of the disturbance, and if possible get the base back up and running. If that proves impossible for one reason or other, you will destroy the base." His voice was cool and calm, as if there was nothing wrong with destroying a multi-billion dollar, cutting edge research facility, let alone having it placed, and losing contact with it in the middle of the mysterious Bermuda Triangle.

"You will be deployed - I should say 'We', because I'll be coming with you, though I won't participate in the operations on-site themselves - via submarine. Five hundred meters from the base, the submarine will lock anchor on the seabed, and function as a forward command center, from where I will command the operation and provide you with intelligence and other backup. You will proceed via mini-submarines to the base's underwater submarine docking bays, and from there, commence the infiltration of the facility."

"Question, sir." Hunter raised a finger. Winfield raised a hand all the while exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"In a moment, soldier. Now, the submarine is a cutting edge next-generation nuclear-powered submarine named the Nautilus. Her captain will be a man that I think many of you may have heard of. His name is Harper Nemo, and up until a few weeks ago, he was an officer with the US Navy, and was and still is, a venerable maritime legend, who's served his country with great distinction. I dare say you could not be in better hands. Captain Nemo is currently by the docks preparing the Nautilus for departure. His first mate, however, should be along shortly to take us to..."

As he said that there was a sharp knock on the door, and it opened, letting in a single man. Roughly 1,80 tall, and with arms with muscles similar to corded steel wires, that looked like they could rip the head off a tyrannosaurus, the man wore a pair of torn jeans and a green T-shirt with a picture of Emiliano Zapata giving the middle finger on it, and text saying "Fuck the Fatcats". A cigarette hung in the side of his mouth. He had somewhat long, red-blond hair in an unkempt haircut, and a similarly red-blonde chin curtain with a stubbled mustache to complete it. A gun holster was kept in his belt.

"...the submarine." Winfield finished his sentence. "And I see here he is now. May I introduce you to Ishmael Jones, first mate of the Nautilus."

The man nodded to the group.
"Yo." He said. "I take y'all are the rescue team. Call me Ishmael. A pleasure working with y'all. I've heard a shitload about the toughness of you MQRF types. You'll find my crew to be a damn tough bunch by their own right. Watch our backs, and we'll watch yours. Savvy, mate?" He turned his eyes to Hunter, the only one there with the dark-green stripes of an MQRF officer, who nodded.

"You'll have no worries there. Anyone muck about with your men, I'll drown him with my own two hands." He replied.

"Alright. That's a good man." The sailor nodded with respect in his eyes. "A'ight, I just came to get y'all over to th' big whale of ours, so I'll just wait in the back 'til you're done." He added as he positioned himself in the back, next to Hunter. Winfield took over again.

"Alright. I don't have much more right now, because we don't have any more information. We tried to contact the facility several times, but so far, we've got nothing." He closed the laptop and began to pack things up. As he did, he looked up at the group and added: "You have any questions, now's the time to ask them, gentlemen."

"I've got two questions." Hunter said, raising his hand again. "You say you've lost contact with the base. Is it possible that the hull of it has become breached and it has filled with water? And secondly, if we are operating from the assumption that this is an act of sabotage, what are our ROE's when we enter the facility?"

"Good. First of all, as you say, it is very possible that the facility's interior has become submerged in water. That is why you will be wearing combat diving dry suits with diving gear when you infiltrate via the minisubs. Secondly, yes, we are operating from the assumption this incident is caused by sabotage, most likely from anti-augmentation terrorists. Your ROE is, therefor, to open fire only when you are being shot at, or you feel you are about to be shot at. However, treat all people you encounter onboard as hostiles until you have made certain they are not, apropos by making sure they do not carry weapons, the exception being members of the Security Division of the base, who are issued Glock 18C automatic pistols and MP5 submachine guns. If you capture anyone else alive and with weapons, detain them using handcuffs, until a point when you are able to extract them back to the Nautilus."

"Thank you, sir." Hunter nodded.

"Any other questions?" Winfield asked, looking around.

[Enigma]

"Sir, yes sir!" Nata said grimly, stepping forward. "You said they're working with classified military augments at this facility. What exactly are we facing, sir?"

She did not stare at Ishmael but she was aware of his position. Lockdowns? Submarine? Minisubs? Just what were they expected to swim into?

"We can respond more efficiently the more time we have to consider the threat these augmentations will pose us."