OK I make a point of not sending these to people but
seriously
thank you guys
you are awesome and the feeling is mutual
@kalaanders
Kala listened to him to him as she he told her his best in the pit.“That’s pretty good, I’ve yet to get under 30.0.” she frowned. She knew she could do better, and tonight she would do better and try to break her personal best. She glanced at the observation post nothing the 2 or 3 people up there. “when I ran the CQB back at Hereford, I could never beat Gaz’s record and as far as I know he still holds the record. Some days I would run that course till the point of exhaustion.”
“Don’t worry I don’t know those guys.” she indicated to the tower.
Kala walked over to the table and set down her Mossberg and took one of her MP5’s grabbing an extra clip. And then he told she could go first.
“You’re too sweet.” she smiled as she ran into the course.
Once in she took down the first few targets with her MP5 and moving along she used her 1911 on the next few and in the building, at the top of the stairs she knifed the target, and switched back to her MP5 for the next three and jumped down, taking the few targets in front of her. She switched back to her 1911 changing the magazine real quick and taking down some of the remaining targets and knifing the last one on the way out. She ran to the end and saw Jackal waiting for her.
“How was that?” she asked putting her weapons down on the table to refill her ammo.
“Yeah,” Jackal said, nodding. Outwardly his expression was neutral, but the mention of Gaz’s name brought forth a slew of memories.
Poor bastard, he thought, remembering a bloodied corpse lying prone in the middle of a collapsed bridge. He remembered a skull the consistency of broken eggshell, tattooing around the temple and the smell of scorched bone and brain matter as the sticky crimson mulch soaked into the tarmac-
Stop it. Gaz knew the risks just as well as you did. None of you had to be there - you just played the hands you got dealt. It rained, and he got wet. Stop agonising about it and move the fuck on.
He forced himself to snap back to reality, watching Kala’s performance and then giving her an appraising look as she safed her weapons and set them down.
“That was…good,” he said, choosing his words carefully. She’d done very well, but of course he would have expected no less from a Delta operator, female or not, and he didn’t want to seem like he was patronising her. “By my count, you shaved a good two seconds off your previous best, so yeah, you did really well.”
That wasn’t a lie. 28 seconds was nowhere near as good as Jackal would consider to be the best time on The Pit (although he’d never admit it he was in awe of Ghost and MacTavish’s performances) but in the field two seconds was a hell of a long time, more than long enough to make up the difference between life and death if some nutter had his finger on the trigger of a gun or a detonator.
You just had to look at the bigger picture - it wasn’t perfect, but she had definitely improved, and in a sense that was better than someone who consistently got a decent time on The Pit but never managed to lower it. “You keep that up and Ghost might have competition.”
He scooped up his C8, chambered a round and flicked the fire selector to single-shot - there was no point wasting ammo putting a burst into a target and needing to reload sooner when you could conserve your ammo and knock them down with a single bullet. In the field, he’d use semi-auto, and only switch to full-auto if he needed to lay down cover fire. Then he racked the slide on his pistol, thumbed off the safety and slid it carefully back into his chest holster.
“All right - my turn. Start the clock as soon as the first target pops.”
“Ha I could never be as good as Ghost or Mactavish, I could only hope.” she smirked as she holstered her 1911. “But I’ll take two seconds better.”
She watched as Jackal picked up his C8 and chambered a round. “All right I’m ready to start the timer when you are.” she indicated holding it up.
When he took off into the pit she started the timer and watched him. He was making good time she smiled to herself and might break his personal record. She saw him coming to the end of the course and running towards her after his run thru.
Jackal sucked in a breath, held it, and broke into a run as the first target flipped up. It helped to steady his aim, and combined with the short, sharp breaths he’d been taking previously to flood his bloodstream with oxygen in a “runner’s high” it gave him the extra edge he needed to beat his record.
The C8 bucked as he squeezed the trigger, the stock dug into the crook of his shoulder and the foregrip on the front helping to steady his shots. He snapped off three rounds at two stationary targets and one moving one without breaking stride, slinging his rifle over one shoulder as he entered the first floor of the building façade and drawing his pistol from his chest holster. At the press of a button, the blade of his knife flicked out from the hilt; using the arm holding his knife to steady the hand holding his pistol, he scanned the room for more targets.
He took a wide swing at the nearest one, leaving a thin line across where the cardboard cut-out’s throat would be were it a real terrorist, and fired through it to knock down another one before pivoting on his heel and putting a second round into another. Sprinting up the stairs, he tensed, bunching his hand into a fist and stabbing forward just as the target popped in front of him, knocking it aside and clearing the way on to the roof.
With practised efficiency he knocked down the other targets with a volley of shots before pocketing his knife, holstering his pistol and bringing his rifle back up to bear as he dropped off the roof, bending his knees to compensate for the impact and absorb the shock. He fired three rounds from a crouching position and scored two direct hits before pushing off with his heels and sweeping the forward area with sustained bursts, firing the magazine dry and ejecting it as he bolted for the finish; this had the added advantage of meaning he had just that little bit less weight to carry with him.
He was soaked in sweat when he reached the no-fire zone; he checked his weapons and set down his rifle, knuckling sweat out of his eyes and palming it off of his brow, blotting his hands on his BDU trousers. “So,” he said, his words punctuated with heavy, laboured breathing, “26 seconds. Could be a lot better, but at least it’s an improvement.”
Bangkok sure is breathtaking at night.
You cushy bastards. I thought you were going to be slogging through swamps and jungles with machetes and picking leeches out of your pants when you’ve got 5-star hotels just down the road from you! Christ, the lads are never going to let Fox hear the end of it when he gets back.
The longer you go into this kind of work, the more you’ll realize it’s not always about going Rambo through third world countries, Sergeant. There’s a reason as to why units like Delta “don’t exist”.
I’ve done my fair share of urban fighting, mate. It’s just that stuff like this I generally leave to the Int boys like Jimmy and Langley. I’m more into real soldiering, myself.
ask-otter replied to your post: ask-otter replied to your post: ask-otter replied…
Don’t worry about it, Bluebell.Don’t you fucking think you’re getting out of this easy. You can’t charm your way out of this one.
Much as I hate to say it, he’s got a point.
Considering how much you supposedly hate the guy you do nothing but fucking talk about him.
Same with him, actually. He never shuts the fuck up about you either.
Bangkok sure is breathtaking at night.
You cushy bastards. I thought you were going to be slogging through swamps and jungles with machetes and picking leeches out of your pants when you’ve got 5-star hotels just down the road from you! Christ, the lads are never going to let Fox hear the end of it when he gets back.
You guys did this before right after Jackal and Ghost got into a scuffle. You really don’t remember, Sergeant? Step off, both of you. I’m not letting Delta become the site of petty infighting, too. Not out here.Is that a fucking order, sir?
Even if it weren’t, I’d still make you.
But if you want to chalk it up to rank, then yes, you’re damn right it is.
Hey Scorps - remember how I told you not to fucking mention that?
Consider it a standing order.
Good afternoon, Sergeant. I am doing well, thank you. And yourself? I see you have your hands full with Grinch.Yeah, when aren’t my hands full with that shithead?
Besides Grinch, though, things are running smoothly over here. It’s been raining all week, though. I’m going to catch a fucking cold. Anything exciting on your end?
Frost catching a cold? How ironic. It’s blistering hot here, i’m not really sure how i’m putting up with it myself but in the end, i don’t really have a choice, do i?
Everything here had been pretty slow. Makarov just keeps slipping between our fingers and some of us are really getting agitated over it and by some of us, i meant the most obvious which is Fox.
I guess. Still, it feels good to bitch about the weather. Means you don’t have anything worse to complain about.
Fox? Haven’t met them yet. Though I’ve seen the callsign mentioned around here before…
He has quite a temper on him and isn’t very amicable but he does his job. You can’t ask for more than that.
He’s the salt of the SAS is what he is. Scrape him out of the gutter, point him at the enemy and he’ll fight out of his skin for you - you just don’t want to be bringing him home to meet your parents.
Jesus, what the hell did I wake up to?
I was about to ask the same thing. Near as I can tell, all of Bravo Six except Royce have got one of these now.
And we’ve got another Makarov on here too.
Blink then Die: Hit me baby one more time.
Fuck it’s a slow day. I’m not asking for something like Russians bursting through the double doors(although it’s not a bad idea) or something, but doing nothing doesn’t help…
That’s not desperate, that’s trying to look cool.
Desperate is mistaking your camel after a forty day trek through the Afghan desert with no food and little water for a sultry vixen.
And almost hitting that.
Now that’s desperate. But I heard of weirder stories.
Ever heard of the man who drank his own piss? Now that’s gross.
If you’re talking about that twat Bear Grylls, then that really is desperate.
If that guy was Regiment, I’m a purple-arsed baboon. He was just some fucking POG instructor - a jumped-up little boy scout. People like Ryan and McNab get flak for making money off serving in the SAS, but Grylls is pathetic.
Excuse this POG for interrupting, I’m sure, but I thought you didn’t watch TV?
I don’t. I overheard Jock and Taff talking about him and did a quick YouTube search. The man did nothing but talk bollocks for the whole three minutes I watched of it.
And you wonder why I don’t watch television.
