Man-down chpt 1

The sun shimmered over the water, disturbed by the flight of dragonflies. The warm breeze, a forewarning of the approaching storm, rustled idly in the bulrushes. Somewhere a lark cried out a prayer to the heavens for the fish it was about to slaughter. Suddenly a large terrapin splashed into the cold Afghanistan river. It's basking had been disturbed...
Moving slowly and silently a man, or rather a walking bush paused to see if the reptiles dive had raised any suspicions. Softly the hum of a few lazy bees drifted away.
No movement.
Cat-like the man began to move again, sliding between the reeds without disturbing their zephyr driven chorus. He held a scoped rifle, swathed in camo-cloth and various leafy fronds all designed to blend with his environment. A foot-fall, breaking a twig on the other side of the river, caused him to freeze; only the gilly-suit, his cloak of green shadow continued to move in the wind. He cocked his head to the side, listening.
Listening.
Only when he was content his prey had moved on did he take up a position near a damp log, it's wooden carcass half submerged in the cold, clear water. Slowly and delicately he placed his sniper rifle against his cheek, bring it's scope to his bright blue eye. From his vantage point he could see the whole compound. The opium farmers had grown more and more daring as the Taliban's iron grip slowly had loosened in this sector - courtesy of the SAS operations that had so boldly broken its fingers. However it was now becoming obvious that the opium farmers were of equal threat to their religious overlords. Fiercely guarding their narcotic gold they shot down reconnaissance planes, attacked troop convoys, and plundered local villages for supplies.
Taking his time he scoped one particular individual. Karim Adzhulla. Standing at just over six foot five this Arabic giant was one of the king pins in the local opium cartels. Hovering for a moment, the snipers finger drifted towards the trigger. Karim was ordering some men to load a truck with bags. Bags of opium no doubt. His aim was perfect. A clear shot across the seven hundred meters separating him from his target.
"You know - Allah forbids killing of infidels on Sundays. But in your case - I'll make an exception"
The snipers expression didn't change. With the loving stroke of an experienced marksman he squeezed the trigger.
Karim fell dead.
So did the sniper.

"Alright, listen up ladies." The Commander of the battalion shouted. He was a tall man, with a heavy bearing. And the black of his uniform did little to dispel the illusion that he could kill you before he looked in your general direction.
"The Sentinel's have screwed up. They've got six men MIA, one confirmed KIA, and one in the butchers, right."
Lieutenant Commander Marc ‘Riddick' Van Den Berg looked at the stern faces of his team. Good men, he thought to himself. Strong, fast, dedicated, and willing to give 100%. The loss of one of the Sentinel's was a harsh blow, and would no doubt spark some anger amongst the men.
"Do we know who?" The youngest brother of the Brigadier General in charge of the battalion asked.
"Dare Devil." Riddick said. The words were cold, without emotion. To rile his boys up now would be foolish. He hated himself for it. But the intel was correct. At fifteen hundred hours Dare Devil had been confirmed dead. And there was nothing any of them could do about it.
The rest of the men all took a moment to reflect upon the loose of so skilled a sniper. For a moment, the green light of the briefing room echoed the river where Dare Devil's corpse lay.
"So we're going in." Riddick said hoarsely as he flicked up on the wall the schematic of battle plan.
Ecko 7 looked at the plan of attack. It was a standard team split, half to a position marked A, and half to a position marked B. B had a thermal image of several men clumped together. No doubt the remaining Sentinels. A was a large house in a valley. Tragically a small red circle near a river running past the outer field indicated the cold signature of Dare Devil.
"We're going to get the Major and his team, that's priority, and then we're going to fucking kill every last one of those towel-head bastards till we find the one who killed DD." As he spoke the schematic animated, showing the movements of the split team, one to the A house and one to the B house.
"We're expecting six or seven at A, and three or four at B. Nothing heavy, nothing serious."
"Nothing serious?" Bonta said his face crossing over in concern. "With all due respect, Major went in with his whole fucking team. He must have suspected something?"
Riddick glared at his men for a moment.
"Major's was on a different mission. They weren't going in on a quiet rescue. So we're going in with a team of five, standard in out."
"With a little killing in-between," quipped Rommel.
"Exactly." 
Halogen looked up, his eyes burning fiercely.
"I want to in sir."
"It's a team of five, you know that Halogen," came the even reply from the baritone voice of Daikon, the second in command of the team.
"I'll stay behind." Opticle muttered.
"No. We're all going." Rejoined Riddick after a moment's thought. To hell with regulations! Major had gone in overloaded. So it stood to reason for Riddick and his team to go in equally over-gunned. It never seemed to bother the Taliban how many they sent in. Why should SAS respond any differently? Regulations be damned.
"Sir -"Daikon began, regulations being used for a reason.
"Can it. We leave in one hour." Riddick ordered, shooting his second a glance. Now was not the time to leave any Borg sitting on the bench. With one man down, all men had to respond. For a moment the team didn't move, their thoughts clouded on revenge, DD, and their mission. Each one of the men buried the idea that they might be the next KIA. To think like that was to invite the Grim Reaper, and he was rumored to be a terrible team player.

"Yanker, can you move?"
The stony silence that greeted Eric left him no choice.
"OK, Yanek. Can you move?"
He could feel the smile, the sense of victory in his fellow team mate, even if he couldn't see it.
"I think I can." Yanek replied. "If I just slip this rope here between my legs and pull it, yes! Yes! It's coming loose! Godfather can you do the same?" Yanek said as he tugged furiously at the rope binding him to Godfather.
The gurgling noise behind him made him stop pulling on the loose rope.
"Godfather?"
"FukNgghk!"
"What?"
"Thhh rhop...ghnk. Let go fucnnnnggkkk rhope."
"Let go the rope? What the hell would I want to do that, I'm nearly free?" Yanek said, dismissing Godfathers bizarre strangled tone. Strangled tone? Yanek looked up.
"Oh my." He released the rope.
Like a demented blacksmiths bellows Godfather sucked in great barrels of air as the rope loosened.
"It's fucking looped around my fucking neck you fucking bast-"
"Shut it you two, I think someone's coming." Scorch snapped.
Godfather, still huffing like a steam train on heat, tried to mentally throttle Yanek. Yanek meanwhile looked at the loose rope in his hands. If he pulled and held for a minute or so, Godfather would be but a distant memory, a KIA. And Yanker would die with him. Only Godfather called him Yanker still. Even though Yanek now held the rank of acting lieutenant in the team, higher than the veteran Godfather, Godfather had never let a little thing like rank get in the way of his insults.
But Scorch was right, there was someone coming. Several people actually. The door to the shack was hauled open and Major was dragged in. He was badly beaten, and by the looks of things, unconscious. The two heavies dropped him in the middle of the room, glared at Scorch and BE, and then stalked out, dragging the heavy door shut, sealing out their freedom, air, and the light.
"Major?" Yanek called softly. "Major?"
"He's unconscious you twit." Godfather said, hoping for once he was wrong. Major was a source of strength for the whole team. This was their first official outing, their first major mission, and they'd not done so well. OK, he argued with himself, they'd totally screwed up, and now, as far as he knew, only DareDevil was still out there, scoping down from on high, looking for targets to take.
"... vatso..." Major managed as he rolled onto his side. His hands, like the rest of the team were cable-tied together, as were his legs.
"Major!" Godfather cried out, "You're alive."
"Duh." Darkwing said as he shuffled himself over to Major.
"What's the plan sir? How're we getting out?"
Major always had a plan. He could be counted on to have some sneaky old game play that would see the team breaking out of this pathetic attempt at a prison, sneaking across the quad, dispatching guards with gay abandon, will in the case of Yanek anyway, slicing enemies into kebabs, will in the case of BE, snapping necks like turtles in the case of Godfather, mowing down entire divisions with heavy weapons in the case of Darkwing, or rendering man after man dead in the case of Scorch. Hell even Pixel would be allowed to kill the Taliban's pet hamster, with supervision.
"Yes sir, what do you want us to do?" Yanek added his voice tinged with pride. Pride in knowing that his Major would want them to raid the camp, take no prisoners, free the maidens, and the men, and make for the hills as triumphant hero's.
Major, through swollen eye, broken nose, and bleeding lip managed to sum up his thoughts on the matter of their captivity:
"We're fucked."