Ice Cold Fear-Sierra 2-4

Ice Cold Fear- Sierra 2-4
Book One


© Copyright Keenan Robert Dermody
September 2007-October 2010.


Chapter One- Little Yellow Envelope:
My story unfolds from the year of 2060, after the brutally violent termination of my brother’s life. Simon, an exceptionally gifted navigator and cartographer, was put to death mercilessly at the hands of a multinational, totalitarian-based militant organisation that operated under the Latin-Italian name of Alfa Fazione, which translated to Alpha Faction.

Before they had murdered Simon, I was oblivious to the group’s global exploits; drawing a very single-minded connotation about the ‘the Faction.’ I shrugged off the blown out publicity. I was unable to comprehend how a mob of ragtag, psychologically disturbed nut jobs, driven by money, powerlust and domination, could have possibly accomplished such amazing feats of terrorism. In addition to this was the fact that Alfa Fazione (AF) operated with minimal or no resources. By God, how far from the truth my assumptions fell.

In combat, Alfa Fazione personnel were ruthlessly disciplined dead-eye accurate and extremely proficient in guerrilla battlecraft. A simple, yet effective, pyramid-hierarchy operated within the administrative, military and scientific branches that made up the organisation. Everybody clearly knew where they stood; from the janitors, infantry grunts and lab coats; through to the prestigious scientific engineers, the Board and the elite Alfa Fazione Guards Brigade cohorts, everyone had a set place. The thirteen most senior and/or decorated CF members made up ‘the Board,’ which oversaw every aspect of the organisation and answered only to one man; the Commandante.

Nameless, and faceless, the Fazione Commandante led and served Alfa Fazione for a twelve year term before standing down in order to make way for his nominated ‘heir.’ Nomination of Fazione Commandanteship was valued as a great honour; any attempt of abandoning duty was punished by horrific torture and execution. Since their formation in 2012, Alfa Fazione had executed their second Commandante in 2023 and their fourth in 2058. The newest Commandante stepped forward in 2060 with terrifying enthusiasm. Campaigns by the UN to crush the threat Alfa Fazione posed had all ended in failure- AF was similar to bracken fern in the sense that once believed to be eradicated, they spring back up with seemingly unlimited manpower.

Simon had been undertaking an aerial reconnaissance mission for the Coalition Pact; an international military union formed to resist Alfa Fazione oppression. The Coalition was comprised of some of the world’s finest soldiers; Australia, Russia, the United Kingdom, Germany, Israel, the United States and New Zealand, with contributions from NATO, the United Nations and many other countries. Similarly, North Korea sponsored Alfa Fazione terrorism.

The area of operation (AO) for Simon’s task was over central northern Siberia, where the Alfa Fazione headquarters had been assumed to be located. His orders were simple; Simon and his team were to conduct a routine scouting of the area, record the coordinates of any likely positions and construct a holographic map displaying the AO. Upon entering Siberian airspace in stealth mode, the recon aircraft was intercepted and brought down by two AF MIG-27 ‘fast jets.’

Both pilots perished instantly, but Simon and three others, bruised and bleeding internally, scraped through the impact with major injuries. My brother and his comrades staggered through a Siberian winter snowstorm for several hours fruitlessly; they were eventually captured by some AF troops on patrol. The four were severely interrogated on the spot, before being sent to the compound the Coalition was searching for.

At the compound, Simon and the others suffered through more intense tactical interrogation; beatings, starvation, electrocution, dehydration, and torturous threats- the four comrades endured it all. Alfa Fazione were unable to shatter the adamant will of Simon and his fellows; so they relented and patched up what remained of the men’s disfigured and partially dismembered bodies in order for release. However, the Coalition soldiers saw through the enthusiastic lies when each man was given half an hour to make a communicae execution video to post back home; but they played the game till the end regardless.

The execution had been quick; each blindfolded man received a high-calibre bullet into his forehead. All four bodies were ornately decorated and dressed when AF representatives returned them to the Coalition; symbols of a noble death. Despite the fact that Alfa Fazione had put an end to the life of my last living relation, I had great respect for my new enemy; they at least had enough honour to return Simon to me.

The news came through to me whilst I was partaking in a ‘War-games Weekend’ at Shoalwater Bay with the Australian Defence Force (ADF) with which I held the rank and duty of Sergeant. My Officer Commanding solemnly invited me into his office, sat me down with a Coalition representative and explained what had occurred. I listened patiently for twenty-three hours while one of my mates and a man I didn’t even know the name of tell me my brother had ceased existence. The bloke from the Coalition ran me through Simon’s full briefing, all the information that Alfa Fazione had recorded during the interrogations, (I noted the intricate cover story my brother ‘broke’ into) and left me alone to watch Simon’s last thirty minutes of contact with the outside world; his last half-hour of life.

“Well Marcus, if you get this; I’ve fucked up big time an’ I’m up shit creek.” He gives a jittery laugh. “The bastards have got me and I doubt you’ll ever see me alive again, so I’m sorry.” For that, he cops a rifle but to the head. “Don’t give up on your life bro’ ‘cause you have so far to go yet; don’t waste away ‘cause I got foolish, yeah? Remember what I always told you.” He is weeping now. “You gotta make do with what ya’ got, so stick to it. Work hard, bust your arse and you may get to where I am.” Simon gives another jittery chuckle; he is clearly creeping out his captors, and enjoying it. “Please don’t forget to feed ‘Missy’ in my absence.” His golden Labrador. “Love you, brother; gotta go now… Alright you bitches, I’m done.”

The OC returned to find me ashen-faced, teary-eyed and busting up his spotless office. I sprinted from the building, cleared out my locker in a single sweep and jammed the contents into a base Regimental Land Rover. I cruised along the highway with my mind racing on the day’s events, with no single intention of returning to base. Fatigue overcame me and I set off for ‘home.’

Simon left me his entire estate and assets in his will; including an expensive manor house. I moved out of the shit box, single-roomed apartment I called a home into the family manor Simon had been patiently building since he was eighteen. Our parents had perished in a terrible train accident when I just turned fifteen and left the burden on a seventeen year old Simon to keep me fed and in school. Yeah, happy birthday to me; I woke up to find an ABC news reporter announcing the accident and a list of those killed, my parents included. Sacrificing his double degree half a month from completion, Simon worked three jobs in order for us to scrape by.

Among the other bits and pieces the Coalition rep had given me, I found an unopened envelope. Dull yellow in colour, about A5 in size, it was bulging. Tearing it open, a medal, the Victoria Cross (VC), fell into my hands. Simon had been awarded the highest military honour Australia had to offer. The envelope also contained Simon’s rank insignia, Flight Captain R.A.A.F. certification of the VC, official condolences from the ADF and a transfer offer from the Coalition.

The position of interest was in the recently formed Coalition Expeditionary Task Force, as an officer in charge of leading and maintaining an eight man Rapid Strike Team. The CETF was formed to serve as a self-sufficient Special Forces unit away from the rest of the Coalition; conducting long range reconnaissance and assault, and to serve as a rapid reaction force. Wherever there was a major fuck up in the world, the CETF were the first on the scene and the last off. I rung the number provided, repeated a seven digit code and accepted the position. Maybe this was what Simon meant by going far and working hard…

During my officer training, I met Danny Jackson. Six foot ten inches tall, built like a tank, Danny was a seasoned Kiwi of twenty-four, a year older than me at the time. Hardened by spending years on the rough streets of Christchurch in New Zealand, Danny joined the Kiwi Special Forces straight out of high school, as I had done with the regular Australian Army. Transferring to the CETF after seeing one of their recruiting posters, I took an instant liking to the bloke and we bonded closer than brothers during our training. When the time came around to pick the position and regiment we wanted to be put in, my letter secured my place as Section Officer, but Danny got knocked back three times before being placed in my section as second in command (2iC); with the secondary duty of radio/signals operator. I took up electronics and technology for a second duty, which meant a tidy pay increase. We were chuffed to the shithouse that we were kept together. The Coalition designated my section to Regiment VII of the Coalition Expeditionary Task Force. The regiment was comprised of just nine combat sections, 72 men and women in all, twenty-eight administrative staff and a handful of assorted vehicles, a grand total of one hundred personnel. The CETF, as a whole, was comprised of eight regiments in this format, spread across the globe, poised for battle.

Other than Danny in my section, was a pair of Italian brothers, Master Sergeants Antonio Venanzio and Jericho Mercurio; both demolition specialists. The section marksman was a soft-spoken, humble Australian Master Sergeant Joshua Murphy. His equally well mannered and quiet spotter and team recon specialist was Irishman William Dunkirk, Corporal in rank. My automatic gunner and Close Quarters Battle (CQB) specialist was Russian ex-Spetsnaz Corporal Dimitri Reznikov, our most senior member at twenty-seven. The last operative of my section, the designated medical officer, was American Lance Corporal Riley Hearn. All of us had previous military experience in varying degrees, and our section was designated the fixed call sign of ‘Sierra 2-4.’ I got to know each man’s story as well as telling them my own; they became my family. Regiment VII was assigned to the outpost under construction at St. Petersburg, the famous site of the bloody Battle for Stalingrad, in Russia. Dimitri was ecstatic, and insisted on bringing home good-looking Russian broads for the section ‘entertainment.’ The barracks that housed our unit was built by me and my men alone. That was two years in the past; seemed like a lifetime.

Chapter Two- Game Plan:
A sharp rasping of knuckles on the room door broke my thoughts of the past; Major Alexander ‘Sarge’ Holt poked his head into the individual cell room and cracked a rare smile.
“Afternoon Hawkins,” he smiled jovially, “prep yourself for a mission, Level VI operation self sustained, one week’s supplies. See you at the briefing in a quarter.”
“Sure thing. Christ, a Level VI? Haven’t had operations that serious in a while?” I asked puzzlingly.
“Mhmm. See you round Lieutenant.” He muttered, closing my door and moving into the next room in our barracks. I overheard Danny grumble and swear obscenely to my left.

Chuckling to myself, I punched in the code to my titanium alloy gun case and pulled out my firearms. My primary weapon was a mint condition Heckler and Koch HK416 assault rifle carbine, to which I fitted a Sapphire Optics System, an M320 grenade launcher assembly and a Surefire flashlight kit. In the event of weapon failure, I carried a backup primary weapon; the Barrett REC-7 assault rifle carbine, also decked out with an AIMPOINT Optics System and a Masterkey under-barrel shotgun. Jamming a full 32 round magazine into each, I then checked and holstered my sidearm; a USP .45 calibre handgun.

I hoiked my pack onto my bunk and commenced filling it with all mission-essential equipment; sleeping, eating and cooking gear, toiletries roll, six sets of undergarments, spare Battle Dress, Uniform (BDU), 24 hour ration packs, two 4 Litre water canteens, extra 6.8mm SPC and 5.56mm NATO cartridges, survival pack, personal medical unit (PMU), flares, calyume sticks, rappelling and roping equipment and any other odds and bods I deemed useful.

On top of this went my electronics kit; laptop, portable hard drives, cable, lock-pick tool, diskettes, USB devices and my PDA; clipped to my belt. With enough room for my personal kit, I added a quarter-dozen tailor made ‘thin’ cigars, extra food, water and ammunition and Simon’s video.

My uniform consisted of a clean BDU high collar shirt, BDU assault pants, balaclava, ballistic goggles, fingerless gloves, Kevlar helmet, synthetic rubber boots and my body armour. To protect the torso, I wore a Colossus Strike Vest, my shoulders and forearms were covered by Titan Assault guard plates and my shins and knees were protected by Titan Assault shin and knee guard plates. I slipped seven full mags for each rifle into my vest webbing, clipped six F1 fragmentation grenades and four white phosphorous grenades on my belt kit and packed twenty-four 45mm High Explosive Dual Purpose (HEDP) grenades into twelve capacity steel boxes, one in my pack and one clipped to my belt kit. All of my armour pieces, BDU kit and pack was camouflaged in blue and black Russian Commando pattern; for snow, urban and arctic woodland environments.

Knees buckling from the weight of my pack armour and weaponry, I marched across the snow-bitten grounds to the Command building.
“Identification.” Requested the Command AI System.
“Lieutenant Marcus Hawkins, 006266.” I swiped my I.D card in the receiver. Time lapsed while the AI processed my response.
“Identification confirmed. Welcome to Command ‘Shock Hawk’.”
“Orders?”
“Proceed to Briefing Room Two immediately.”

Bloody computers, I thought, strolling over to Danny. Clad in more bits of kit than myself, Danny was a huge liability to his enemies in a firefight. Nicknamed “the Chainsaw” as he is known to “rip” through tough situations, Danny is right at home in combat. We stood in silence for several minutes, watching the other two sections arrive, before Danny spoke what I was thinking.

“This is fucking shit right here mate; can’t the Coalition leave us alone for one week?” He complained.
“Yeah true, but it must be big for Command to put out a Level VI.” I shot back.
“Either that or they want us to react faster. Sarge got our orders at two this morning from higher up.”
“So that’s why he’s in such a fine form this afternoon?”

Danny and I chortled amongst ourselves while the enraged Major boomed out every four letter offensive word he could think of at a nervous collection of Command staff. Sarge had a wicked temper on a miniscule fuse. In the past, soldiers used to bet on how fast they could make Sarge blow his top; and rumours have been flicked around stating that the winning time was ninety-one seconds. This practice was discontinued when Sarge nearly killed a bloke whilst flogging the shit out of him. My section had all gathered around me and joined in sniggering when I spotted the Major pacing towards us menacingly. The laughter ceased. Fuck, now it’s our turn I thought. Stopping inches from me, Sarge grinned serenely.

“Alright Marcus? Get your lot into the Briefing Room will you?” He asked.
“Sir!” I was standing T attention, as were my men.
“Good, at least your section has discipline. You’ve done a superb job with them, respect and discipline is decreasing in value with modern soldiers.”
”Not with me Sir! Right guys. You heard him. In the Briefing Room now!”

Out of earshot, Danny burst out laughing.
“Christ Marcus, do you have to kiss his arse in public?!”
“No, there’s no harm in telling him what he wants to hear”
“Of course. ‘Not with me Sir!’ You want a promotion or something?”
“It’s called respect, brother. Try it sometime.”
”Sir, if I may; the Lieutenant has a point.” Murphy chipped in.
“I’m Second Lieutenant Murphy. What are you playing at?” Danny shot back.
“Nothing Sir, its just Marcus isn’t the only one who believes in respect and honour.”

Danny groaned comically; making the whole group chuckle. I lit up a cigar and passed it around the section when an office staff member requested that it was put out.
“Fuck off; we’ll smoke where we want to.” I hissed at the trembling bloke, who scurried away.
“That’s the real Hawkins back!” Danny said, slugging me playfully.

My section arrived at the Briefing Room five minutes early, yet all the seats were occupied so we assembled being the horseshoe ring of desks. I sent Antonio and Jericho off to raid Ordinance for extra ammunition whilst the rest of us covered. It was astounding how easy it was for the Italian brothers to disappear and return with arms full of swiped bits of kit. Just before Sarge arrived to deliver the briefing, Antonio and Jericho returned with two caches full of assorted rifle cartridges, grenades and food and water. When Sarge got up to the podium to speak, the room immediately hushed.

“Let’s get down to business then. Echo Platoon has been mobilised to prevent a potentially catastrophic situation from opening up. Command has received intelligence reports from undercover operatives, in the AF Battlenet, that Alfa Fazione are experimenting with biological weaponry and engineering pathogens for use in warfare. That is why the CETF and regular Coalition military personnel are on a Level VI Threat Alert. Should Alfa Fazione engage with these weapons, we have instructions to go tactical nuclear.”
A wave of chatter broke out around the room.
“After dispatching multiple forward observation teams across Siberia, Command has at last pinpointed the location of the Alfa Fazione Headquarters Compound. Tucked away in the inaccessible, tundra Central Siberian Plateau, it was only by pure luck that our observation team spotted the compound whilst exfiltrating from the area. Immediately, another team was sent to confirm the reliability of the evidence; it checked out. Alfa Fazione personnel were identified moving biological and chemical agents, HAZMAT equipment and additional troops and supplies into the compound.”
“Why didn’t the undercover guys transmit this information to Command before now?” Someone interrupted.
“A perfectly valid question Warrant Officer Taylor; and there is several reasons why it was not practical at the time. First and foremost is that the team, aliased assumingly as professional soldiers or researchers, would jeopardize their cover by requesting to be transferred to a ‘hidden’ compound; even a halfwit would guess they are agents. Also, the team was in a completely different sector at the time, when rumours came onto CF Battlenet about the weaponry and the compound; as I have already stated. Finally, it would be unwise to flick such information around, for there is an informant somewhere in Regimental Command.”
An informant? This is news! I thought. Who would sell us out to the enemy? And why?
“So what form of biological or chemical weaponry are we dealing with? Warheads, gas, a virus endemic or disease, liquid agents?” Reynolds asked.
“Pathogen-carrying, endospore bacteria, V-Series nerve gas and an unknown biological agent, Corporal; and that warrants the use of M53 NBC facemasks while we are operating in Siberian territory.”
“Can we get more information from the forward observation teams or undercover agents in regards to the compound and garrison?” Dunkirk called out.
“Negative; shortly after Regiment VII was put on standby and we were mobilised, the team was discovered and the organization seized them hostage, transporting them to the compound. As for the compound itself, it is situated on a clear plateau, surrounded by steep mountain sides. The whole area except for the plateau itself is covered in trees. We could approach on foot and attack from all sides, but Command has opted for us to take choppers in, at least till the mountain foot. A garrison, battalion strength, are fairly well-fortified in the compound; trench networks and the entire research facility is underground. Getting inside will be no easy manner.”
“So our mission is twofold; secure, decommission and neutralize all chemical and biological agents and bring our team home. Lieutenant Hawkins, your section will be inserted by helicopter two hours in front of Echo Platoon- secure a foothold, infiltrate the compound if possible and remain as covert as possible until you are in a position to react. When the rest of Echo Platoon arrives; we’ll regroup, secure the outside of the facility and clear out the underground compound as a platoon. Most of the battalion force is expected to be underground, and if the shit hits the fan, Upsilon Platoon will be on hand to act as a screening and shock force; however, to bring them in, it will require an emergency. Okay RRST Sierra, your chopper is fueled and rotors spinning, good luck and remember: Domani è troppo tardi- tomorrow may be too late.”

I saluted, heaved my pack up and led my team down the hall to the aircraft depot. Sure enough, a Sikorsky CH-53K Super Stallion helicopter occupied a pad, rotors whirring tailgate down and a long range patrol vehicle (LRPV) was being loaded aboard.

“You lot are seated nearest the tailgate.” A loadman told me.
“How is the insertion being carried out?” I asked.
“Four of you will be tactically inserted directly into the north western corner of the compound by fast rope. The other four will remain on board until the chopper is two klicks north of the compound. Here, the LRPV will be offloaded with the others and that’s it in a nutshell. Understand?”
“Copy; Danny, Antonio, Hearn, Dimitri; you remain on board until we hit the first landing zone (LZ) where you will disembark and set up a perimeter. I’ll take Murphy, Dunkirk and Mercurio till the vehicle drop off and initiate the engagement.”
“Sir!” the section chorused.

The inside of the helicopter was dim, noisy and reeked of perspiration and fuel. I checked over my kit and weapons, fumbled with the NBC mask atop my helmet and pulled it down over my face. The CommLink personal battle-chat radio I wore under my helmet fit perfectly with the NBC mask. I let the dull swoosh swoosh swoosh of the helicopter rotor blades lull me into sleep. Danny shook me awake several hours later; the whole section in NBC masks.

“We are entering Siberian airspace... now. Going tactical.” The pilot said, over the radio.
“Welcome to Siberia comrades.” Dimitri’s thick Russian accent suited the line perfectly, making us all chuckle, the pilots included.