There we were, in the middle of the night, with our rifles on our knees. Then we suddenly saw a light darting among the stars. The light approached the group of commanders and poured over us like a bucket. It was round and enormous. The countryside and the mountains became illuminated as though it was daylight.

- Fidel Castro, as quoted by Juan José Benítez in Solo Para Tus Ojos

 

Blau Marina Varadero Resort
Varadero, Cuba
13 August 2015
1705 hrs local (2105 hrs Zulu)

It occurs to Andrey Vasliyev - not for the first time - that there are better climates than Cuba in high summer.  Then again, there are worse places than a Caribbean resort to be paid to play tourist while practicing his craft, so it evens out.  He takes a sip of his ridiculously-outsized fruity beverage and adjusts his sunglasses, then returns his apparent attention to his copy of the Financial Times.

From the resort's rooftop sundeck, he has a clear view into the adjacent marina - and of the black Escalade idling in the pierside parking lot.  The two Russians sitting in the front seats are inconsequential men in and of themselves, but their employer is in the back seat, and Maksimilian Konstantinov is a man of some consequence indeed.  The two months since Konstantinov's ouster from the Miami Basmanyskaya should have seen him dead in grisly fashion, yet he appears in fine health (and, as far as Andrey can tell, still human).  He's relocated to Cuba along with a couple dozen of his men, a move which should have been permitted by neither the Russo-Floridian nor the Russo-Cuban organized crime communities.  And he's been spending inordinate amounts of time with members of the Russian embassy staff, in meetings so overt as to be radically off-profile even for the kleptocracy that is the modern Russian government.  All in all, Konstantinov's fortunes are the total opposite of what they should be after playing host and facilitator to a busted alien assassination ring.

Konstantinov, in Andrey's head, is a dead man already.  But there's a lot to be learned from a corpse if you know where to look, so Andrey has been patiently autopsying the mysteries of Maksimilian for three weeks.  Today, Konstantinov is picking up an unnamed VIP in person, which makes this particular meeting very interesting to Andrey.

In the marina, the crew of a disreputable-looking Panamanian-flagged yacht is mooring their vessel.  Konstantinov emerges from his Cadillac, so Andrey casually notes the boat's registry information in the margin of an article on Chinese steel.  Then he very carefully does not react as a lone figure jumps from the yacht to the dock.  Konstantinov's body language is tense, as if he's unsure of his status relative to the newcomer.  The two men shake hands and exchange a few words before vanishing back into the SUV, which pulls away immediately.

Andrey finishes his drink and newspaper over the next twenty minutes.  Only once he's sure there's no countersurveillance does he arise, stretch lazily, and amble down the sidewalk toward the strip of restaurants lining the Autopista Sur.  Outwardly, his Russian tourist legend is firmly in place and looking for a restaurant with a good seafood catch of the day.  Inside his head, a cryptographic engine is spinning as he mentally composes the email that will inform Ted Bannon that John Brackney, formerly Captain Brackney of the U.S. Navy ONI's Policy Liaison Group, is apparently a guest of Maksimilian Konstantinov.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:50, Sun 22 July 2018.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
15 August 2015
0601 hrs local (0401 hrs Zulu)

Group Captain Grant Mewes waits for the rumble of the departing C-5M to fade before speaking, sipping his tea with a faint sardonic smile on his face.  His expression clears as he looks up.  "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.  I apologize for the early wake-up.  However, I think you'll agree it's worthwhile.  Tee El Dee Are, as the children say these days: you're getting another shot at the opposition's Florida cell.

"After the Miami operation concluded, Chief Bannon tasked Stárshiy Leytenánt Vasliyev with tracing several loose ends, operating independently from the American FBI and ONI investigations.  Two days ago, Vasliyev reported from Cuba, where he has located Maksimilian Konstantinov.  Konstaninov," he adds for Diego Martinez's benefit, "is the Miami Basmanyskaya middle manager who was directly supporting the aliens' assassination campaign against former VO54 members.

"Konstantinov appears to have relocated to Havana with about thirty associates, some of whom were unknown to the Miami authorities prior to their appearance in Cuba.  He's now operating out of a resort owned by a shell company with ties to several executive-level officials in the Russian government.  Of greater importance, though, is the simultaneous movement of eight cargo containers from the Port of Miami through various Caribbean transshipment points to Havana.  We believe those containers hold material the aliens evacuated from their Miami base prior to your raid.  Full documentation on both personnel and the containers is in the appendices of your briefing packets."

Mewes nods to CWO3 Bannon, who picks up the narrative.  "For the real fun, though, check out the photos starting on page three."  He grins.  "That's a Tri Budi, another Vahid Rostami like the one Séb and James have been taking apart, and three of the nameless guys we have on video from Melbourne and Miami.  You'll notice that Mad Max there is thermally human, as are his bodyguards, but he's sitting down to lunch with five Attars.

"Andrey is close to the limit of intel he can develop on his own.  My shop's analysis is that Mad Max is still providing aid and comfort to the enemy.  He's the highest-level human fixer we've identified, so bringing him in would be nice.  However, from what our alien abduction team has gotten," he nods to James, "E.T. SOP is to establish a residential and staging area wherever they operate.  So objective number one is to find it, kick in the door, and steal their shit."

Mewes takes over again.  "Your secondary objective is to provoke an extraterrestrial spacecraft response.  Our NATO sponsors have provided us an organic CAP element that they believe is capable of unequivocally winning an air combat engagement against the alien craft we've seen to date.  We have eight Typhoons with eleven pilots drawn from the RAF, the Aeronautica Militare, the Luftwaffe, along with one RAAF officer who's transitioning to the Typhoon.  They are assigned to this task force as Gold Squadron, though their cover is a multinational aggressor training unit.  They are currently in movement to NAS Key West, where they will be staged for this operation.  We'll maintain a minimum of two-ship coverage in international airspace while you're active in the field and on constant strip alert otherwise.  Your maximum response time for a CAP call will be eight minutes from strip alert.  Do bear in mind that they will not be carrying air-to-ground ordnance.  Their sole mission is to kill spaceships.

"You'll be staging through Key West as well, but your forward operating base will be Pride Kansas.  It's an oil drilling platform currently awaiting major maintenance and leased to the U.S. Navy to defray the owner's downtime expenses.  We're evicting SEAL Team Eight, who was using it for training.  The platform is forty miles from Havana.  For insertion and exfiltration, we've obtained three cigarette boats with Bahamian registry and the helicopter platform is rated for the Mi-24.  You'll be deploying to Pride Kansas with Chief Bannon, an Amber Cell support contingent to include Sergent-Chef Vidry's detachment, and the Blue Cell Hind crew.  I'll be on site in Key West to coordinate Gold Squadron operations and additional Seahawk support we'll be obtaining from the U.S. Navy.

"Methods of execution are at your discretion.  English proficiency is somewhat common in Cuba but Spanish, obviously, is the dominant language.  Special Agent Choi, Technical Sergeant Dacovetti, and Staff Sergeant Martinez are your interpreters.  The Cuban government is not aware of this operation and our ability to apply leverage is limited, so expect significant opposition if they become aware of your activities.  We are in the process of obtaining Belizean passports that should allow soft entry through Cuban customs.

"I'll take questions but I suggest you make your deployment arrangements soonest.  I want us wheels-down in Key West in thirty hours and you should be on Pride Kansas within six hours of that."

For the first time in a long time, Michael Dacovetti looks relatively well rested, and not just because two cups of coffee sit empty at his feet.  At this point, he servicing his body's caffeine addiction rather than trying to increase brain stimulation.  Two nights ago he'd had a breakthrough in the plasma storage matrix for the prototype plasma lance the research team was developing.  Privately, Michael believed that the research could be completed in a few months time.  Within a reasonable margin of certainty, of course.  He'd run the math and concluded that he could sacrifice an extra 6.4 hours to sleep over two nights without affecting the timetable too much.

Or perhaps his subconscious had picked up on the signals of an impending deployment and led him to conclude that he needed more sleep.  Either way, the airman didn't resemble the walking corpse that he had been known to inhabit over the last several weeks.

Michael took brief notes in a shorthand he'd developed to guide his memory back to classified material without actually divulging anything, looking up at the conclusion of Mewes' words.  An organic processor chewed through what he'd just heard and concluded that he should slowly raise his hand.

"Excuse me sir, a point of clarification," Michael said levelly.  When he was acknowledged he continued, "did you say that our secondary objective is to provoke a spacecraft response?"

"That is correct, Sergeant," Mewes answered with a nod.

"With an eight minute response time for CAP?"

"Yes. From launch.  You will have aircraft loitering near by while you are active in the field.  That should reduce the flight time.  Considerably."  Mewes tone was polite.  His eyes questioned the motivation behind Michael's quest for answers.

Dacovetti nodded slightly.  His mind gave him a chaotic flash of memories: diving behind a car, a flash of light so bright if overwhelmed the night, a stab of pain in his arm, the smell of ozone and burning metal.  Pieces falling off a spaceship from return fire from a pistol that they were only now starting to understand.

You made a computation error, focusing on weapons rather than enemy communication.  You could have baited them with a spoofed signal instead of trying to draw them in through contact.  Sweat ran down Dacovetti's back.  Negative, you made the best calculation you could given the operational parameters at the time.  Hindsight will drive you crazy.

"I hesitate to ask, but what level of certainty are we predicting for the interdiction capabilities of the Typhoons?"

At that Bannon kicked back in.  "Knew you'd ask that Michael.  You're getting predictable, kid.  We're giving the package a 84% chance of working.  I've seen your op footage.  You've tangled with worse odds.  By far.  And by choice."

Michael smiled tightly.  It was a quant pep-talk.  "Roger that Chief."

"We're good, Michael?"  Mewes asked pointedly.

"Good to hook, sir."

Michael heard a slight rustling of fabric behind him, heard the newly returned Diego Martinez whisper quietly without malice, "Yo dawg, want a little something for the flight?  I know people, you know?"

Michael shook his head slightly.  He doubted the PJ was the only one asking that question at the moment.

Cooper instinctively leafed through the specs for Pride Kansas.  The GOPLAT was a JU-250 MS model, built by Bethlehem Steel at the Singapore shipyard in 1976.  Cooper recalled running past those shipyards in his youth, though they were a shell of their former selves thanks to South Korean competition.

Refocusing, Cooper could see that there had been various refurbishments and upgrades to the jackup type rig over it's lifetime.  It'd be more spacious than working out of a ship, but not nearly as nice as a full airbase.  Not only that, it was isolated soft target through which a lot of their comms signals would be routed or terminated.  Williams, who had plethora of experience planning GOPLAT assaults, made a mental note to work with Vidry and the Amber Cell team once they were onboard Pride Kansas to develop a defensive plan.  Coop then pushed on through the briefing material.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:29, Sat 14 July 2018.

Durand sipped from his coffee, his second of the day, as he listened to the briefing, his eyes flicking to the various photos in the folder in front of him when Bannon drew attention to them. shifting back to Mewes as the Englishman took over from Bannon, a Gallic eyebrow partly rising in almost but not quite concealed surprise when the intention to provoke dogfight with the aliens was disclosed.  An eight four per cent chance of success? They should be using Rafales he thought to himself irreverently. British, Italians, Germans, an Australian. No French pilots, although the French armed forces were already contributing significantly to Task Force 47. And no Americans with their F22's and F18's either.

Was that because the powers that be thought that the Typhoon was a better platform? Or were the Americans not fully trusted given their recent security breaches?

"I have a Swiss passport that I can use if we need to go in as tourists." the former DGSE operator mused when the subject of documents was brought up. "It's clean." It had only been used once, when he and Andrey had taken their very off the books trip to Qatar, after the Australian op. There was no need to bring up the other passports he had. "Cuba is a popular vacation spot for Europeans." He shrugged.

"We may need to consider splitting into two teams if we want to kick the aliens' door down and grab the Russian." He was thinking aloud, options going through his head. Splitting their forces would be risky but the rewards might justify it. If they pulled it off.

He looked at the briefing packet, flipped to the appendices. Eight cargo containers. That was a lot of shit. Dealer probably wouldn't be seen for months if they grabbed them.

Mewes glances back at Michael, but his comment seems to divine Sébastien's unasked question.  "For the record, we've selected the Typhoon as our interceptor airframe for three reasons.  First, it's a superior dogfighter to the F-22.  There's no indication the aliens use radar, so much of the Raptor's stealth capabilities are extraneous in this mission, whereas the Typhoon has the maneuvering edge at knife-fighting range.  Second, the pool of total airframes and qualified aviators in service is larger and more diverse than that of the Raptor or Rafale, so we can assemble a demi-squadron without attracting as much attention.  Third, by drawing from multiple NATO nations, we may be able to re-flag for future operations in areas that would be more permissive to one of them than to others."

He nods to Sébastien.  "Insertion and execution are at your discretion, Commandant.  Several of our intelligence partners," the including your own agency is unvoiced but evident, "have compromised Cuban border security rather thoroughly, so as long as there's no heightened state of alert, there are options available who can be paid to look the other way at both sea and airports.  We've also identified two air corridors which are permeable to low-level flight in poor weather," he smiles slightly, "or if an EW training mission is jamming from outside Cuban airspace."

Hannah had been quite quiet throughout much of the briefing; she was watching intently enough, but watching was the key word.  She tilted her head slightly at the mention of the Tornado pilots and the eighty-four percent chance that they would provoke a response with an alien craft by their actions.

With some chagrin, Double Down noted rather flatly, though with a rather beleaguered sigh, "It's too bad they don't speak Norwegian in Cuba..."  For that was the extent to which her language skills took her.  Sure, she'd picked up a smattering of Arabic and Russian by pure immersion.  But she'd never had the chance or inclination to learn Spanish.  Well, no desire until this moment; but it was likely way too late now.  The lithe army aviatrix was way past the prime threshold age of ten.

But then she got to the real point.  "Group Captain," she chimed in leafing through the packet, "eight cargo containers represents a significant amount of physical material.  Securing and exporting that much stuff without alerting the Cuban authorities seems nigh impossible in the time frame listed."  It had taken weeks to get the stuff into Cuba.  Unsaid was the fact that the last three missions for Grey Cell seemed to have ended with gunfire, which would definitely attract attention.  If they were hoping for low profile, there were better personnel for the job.  But, as stated, they weren't really looking to keep that low a profile.

Her face was mostly impassive, but the corners of her mouth turned down slightly; a tight-lipped moue that showed just a touch of fear.  Fear for the pilots not of them.  Double Down had always envied the stereotypical hot-shot fighter pilots; she'd bought into the whole Top Gun phenomenon in the mid-80's.  It was partly the reason that she'd become a helo-pilot in the first place - the air, the mystique.  She'd never quite had the guts or reflexes (if she were honest with herself) for the fastest fixed wing craft.  But in this case, she knew what those boys would be up against; she had more than an inkling, having actually studied both the tech and seen it in action up-close and (way too) personal.  Now there was less envy and more fear.

But, there was also a touch of fear for Grey Cell.  Hannah had never liked fishing; she recalled vividly in her mind's eye that very first time that she'd had to thread the worm on the hook.  She didn't mind the dirt.  Nor the wet, slimy feel of the wriggling, segmented oligochaeta.  It just never suited her.  It never seemed to work out all that well for the bait... she mused to herself - lips pursed slightly for a moment.  Her auburn ponytail bobbed slightly as she cast a glance at her fellow teammates to see if any of them were thinking something similar.

I guess it's time to brush up on my Spanish, Choi muses. It's been a while. So, next stop Cuba. A Caribbean island socialist paradise, land of Castro, cigars, rum, classic American cars and Son music (Buena Vista Social Club was one of the only non-classical CDs his parents had let him buy). Like Libya, official relations between the host country and the U.S. were rocky, to say the least, but, Choi thinks optimistically, at least Cuba still has a functioning government.

The mission is, again, straightforward but far from simple. Getting in is one thing. Getting out, especially with tons of presumed alien scrap, well that's a whole other ball of wax. Multiple objectives complicated things exponentially. At the risk of being perceived as a worry wart or naysayer, Choi spoke up.

"Have any of you heard the story of the dog and the porkchop? Maybe it's bone- I don't know; doesn't really matter. Anyway, this dog begs outside the local butcher shop every day, usually he gets nothing. One day, the butcher tosses him a porkchop. The dog can't believe his luck. He wants to enjoy his prize on his own, away from the other strays, so he heads home. On his way, the dog crosses a bridge. He happens to look down, and when he does, he sees another dog with a porkchop. This one looks bigger and juicier than the one he's got. He wants that one too. So, he starts barking at the other dog, hoping to scare it into dropping its superior porkchop- except, when the main dog opens his mouth to bark, his porkchop falls into the river. So does the other dog's. The main dog is left with nothing. He got greedy, and he lost what he'd gained."

James pauses. He can almost hear the eyes rolling. He's committed, though, and there's an off chance someone in the room hasn't figured out where he's going with fable time.

"The point I'm trying to make is that we might have to choose- cargo or Russian. If we bite off more than we can chew, we might come home empty handed or," he didn't have to add like Dancer, "...we might not come home at all. That isn't to say that we can't achieve all of the mission objectives, but I think we should prioritize and be OK with heading home with just one porkchop. And, with all due respect, I think splitting the team for anything where combat looks likely is... very likely not worth the risk. Between alien physiology- especially their mind control stuff- and tech, we're probably going to need numbers, as well as surprise, to offset their advantages."

It's one man's opinion, and James has nothing but respect for the Frenchman. The FBI agent quickly moves on. He's on a roll now, and there a couple more concerns that he'd like addressed before the meeting ends.

"Speaking of tech, any ideas as to how we're going to get our gear into the country? Fake I.D.'s might work for us, but they probably won't work for our weapons and E.T. toys."

One more question, then he'll hold his tongue and let the others chime in.

"Last but not least, if we do manage to provoke an aerial engagement, how do we keep the Cuban Air Force from jumping in and complicating things?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:30, Wed 25 July 2018.

Mewes smiles tightly at James' parable.  "Chief, Special Agent, your points are well taken.  If you have to prioritize, Konstantinov comes first."  He checks Michael for a flinch before continuing.  "Our research capabilities are backlogged for months as it is.  Konstantinov represents a source we haven't had yet: a long-term fixer for the aliens who wields significant influence.  We need to know what he knows.  As for equipment..." he nods to Bannon.

"You should be able to bring in personal equipment through the surface shipping channels we've identified," Bannon says.  "Andrey has vetted them and you can use the cigarette boats to move your gear.  I'm working on arranging sealift capability in case you can seize the big shipment without raising heat, but you may have to triage the take down to whatever's portable."

"To your other question, we'll be backstopping the Typhoons with American fighters out of Key West," Mewes resumes.  "If we see MiGs outside Cuban airspace, they'll... open negotiations.  Inside Cuban airspace, we'll have to take our chances."  He frowns in resignation.

"If I'm reading this correctly, we have a reasonable level of confidence in Konstantinov's location.  Do we have real time monitoring capabilities or will that be part of what we are attempting to put into place?" Michael asks.  "Presumably if we hit the resort first, the residential base with all the cargo containers will be put on high alert.  Vice-versa for striking against their base of operations first."  With the parameters of the mission established, Michael is shifting into planning and dealing with reality mode.  "The question then becomes, which target will best provoke the desired Alien Air Force attack? I would submit that that target should be our primary.  That is the skill set we've been building Gray Cell towards.  Respectfully," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Diego Martinez sits easily in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from his own extra-large Yeti coffee mug.  Some things in life are too important to leave to chance, coffee being one of them, Diego figures.  Coffee and quick-clot.  Always carry some of that.  His mother would be proud to know her son was always be prepared in the "wear your clean underwear" kind of way.

The conversation he's listening to contains a lot of half statements and inferences, those common to any "in" group and he's trying to pick up on it as quickly as he can.  Attars, Tri Budi's, other nicknames thrown around.  Martinez has spent enough time in the files he's been cleared for that he has a pretty good mental image of what he's supposed to be dealing with.  What he's missing is visceral experience.

And he keeps hearing "yeah, Vasquez heard aliens, thought they said illegal aliens, and signed up," on loop in his head.

At least he could talk to the people of Cuba.  Aliens...probably not so much.

Durand has genuinely never heard the story of the dog and the pork chop. Maybe it's an American thing. He gets the point though. For sure something is better than nothing. But if there's the chance to grab the Russian and the tech that's worth taking a few risks. But the Russian is the priority. That's noted. It makes a degree of sense if they can unlock the information that is in his head.

"Konstantinov." The Frenchman says after a moment's thought. "He's Russian Mafia." Statement not question. "Any reason to suspect that him or any of his associates have any active connections to the Russian Government or Intelligence agencies?" He's curious. It would be naive to presume that it was only Western agencies that knew of the ET's existence. Was the Russian Government or the SVR aware of what one of its citizens was doing? Was he rogue? Or were they complicit in it for whatever reason?

There's another pause. "So, we can go in black, using a cigarette boat. Or we can be semi legit, using fake documents to get us passed guys who have been paid to look the other way, perhaps posing as tourists. And use the cigarette boats to get our gear in. Or we can use a combination of both."

"If we go in as tourists there may be the option of getting a couple of rooms in the resort that they're staying in. Thoughts?" At this stage he's still just throwing out options.

"Detective Salcedo," James nearly coughs. Why hadn't he thought of her earlier? Perhaps, it's because he was trying not to.

He quickly composes himself and offers, "Maybe she'd like to visit the old country." She could easily pass as a local. She'd held her own in the field, against flying lead and some very, very weird shit. And she seemed like she was hooked, although James secretly wishes that her interest in Grey Cell ops is more... personal. "Can we get her cleared? If we can, I've still got her number."

-

Bannon starts to open his mouth, then twitches - perhaps as if he's been kicked under the table.

"If she's still willing after being involved in the Miami operation, I don't see any particular issue with clearance," Mewes says.  "Chief, put that at the top of Amber Cell's to-do list.  Route the request for detached service through some obscure U.S. government channel."