FourtyTwo

Heavy Nazis, Heavy Guns- Restarted (ONL and kingkonrad)

"Maybe. But we've got oxygen and we're meant to be there, rather than fearing drowning, my friend. It is a sport for some." She said, chuckling as she put her throwing knives, holstered up in a neat leather case, onto the side of her suit, heading out as she looked back to Rudolph, with a certain fire in her eyes. Her hair wasn't even soaked- it was still as neatly kept as usual, the burgundy red powerful against her infiltration suit, Victoria's blue eyes sharp as the steel on her knives. She headed through the sub, aware that the Captain wouldn't exactly know of this armory. He didn't know what Hans, Felix, Rudolph and Jakob could pull off, and to him, they were just occupants of the submarine at the moment. It was Felix that was probably the most unknowing. Of all the candidates for Tyrant, he seemed unlikely. But had a wile to him that he always kept.

He sat inside his bunk, with a book in hand. Clauswitz. One of his more obscure books, and he sat quietly, the officer looking like he was just a usual man. He felt like he had a split personality- right now, and he had always been a good leader of men, an exceptional one at that. He was a General's son, a Sturmbahnfuhrer in the Waffen-SS now and no less, had the sharpness and wit to get through life. He remembered Crete. What that was. He always thought of something ostentatious, and was naturally confident, when it was needed. Not unnecessarily. On Crete, his unit dropped with specialized parachutes, the same design as he remember they had used in Russia. They had been the main force to disable any Commonwealth resistance at Maleme Airfield, and put effectively the airfield into friendly forces' control with a night raid, of which the Commonwealth forces couldn't respond to. It was a memorable operation, because Rommel himself was clever enough to understand that while Felix was an SS man, he was a good friend, and had the right motives for life. He even visited Crete momentarily to simply say hello, five days after at the same airfield. They shared the same shrewd approach to war, and were well versed in how to conduct warfare. Rommel pointed on a map, Felix shot people himself. That was the only difference. And as Tyrant...well, he did both, and a lot more of the latter. It was the thing that Felix always understood- he was Tyrant, but Tyrant was not him. Otherwise, Felix knew that would be the end of his sanity. The blood, the simple machinery and the soullessness of such a soldier, that was not Felix.

He knew the winning horse, and stood behind when need be. He didn't need to say a lot. Tyrant, on the other hand, was a man of strength, a powerhouse that could take all but the tanks on and win. And it felt good. To be unstoppable, to be almost indestructible. But that couldn't be the SS officer who had an intelect, a man who understood the bigger picture, than most around him. If Felix wished, he could stop this. Go home, say to Rommel he'd like a position in his staff. And he'd be promoted almost immediately. Up the ranks he would climb, to become a Lieutenant Colonel, or even a Colonel in due course. With hundreds and hundreds of men under his command, he'd be responsible for operations and planning, and never would fire a bullet again. And he was only 34. Men such as him didn't do that in such a short space of time. Yet here he was, a Major, or a Sturbahnfuhrer. He was high ranked, and held a lot of sway. Yet he didn't speak near as much as he could sometimes. He let the others do that, and only put himself in when he needed to make himself heard for the good of people. Perhaps it was one thing that he enjoyed, about this service. They were brothers, and on the edge. And what better way to know that he'd never be remembered, but the thing he piloted would be? Just like Sturm Adler, or Vampire. They were the reason this change happened in the world, right now. And Felix somehow felt that it was an important duty, one that he ought to undertake. Sure, promotion was an easy thing. But he was never one to stop fighting, and he enjoyed it. Getting his teeth into it, acting as a leader of men, and overall, being with his comrades on the ground. That mattered more to Felix. And of course, being able to wield power. That was fun too.

Sitting up, he grabbed his Luger, pulling the magazine out as he then began to tinker about with it, on a small bedside table, disassembling the firearm and looking for any notches or anything that had formed, somehow unsurprised that there weren't any.
"My father was a General in the German Reich, under Kaiser Wilhelm. He was a good man, Jakob. But immediately after the war, a group of Communists and people threatened my family, and we were forced to move from the Ruhr, to Bavaria. Not for the war...but because they had some "Moral" right to take away anyone they deemed an enemy. We lived in fear for at least half a decade. I was the son of a man who ordered German forces to fight on the Western Front to their meat grinding death. So the left had a field day with him. He inspired men like Field Marshall Rommel, and he always told me that I'd perhaps live up to his legacy, do something greater if I chose a path in the military. He died a day before we declared war on Poland. I never understood every part of him, even though he was my dad...but perhaps I wonder what he thinks now, from his position. There is one thing he said to me that sticks with me to this day, Jakob. "Political power is for the meek, only loyal men, bullets and guns matter, if you wish to change the world. Don't become a politician, my boy." He said that to me. He backed the Nazis from the start, and I joined the SS in 1928, you see. I was young, but understanding of what it was. It was redemption for myself. I've understood you well enough, Jakob. You want a free homeland, you hate the invaders, the occupiers, and you work with them in the hope of that. So that you can go home and not worry about your family, friends or countrymen being harassed by German soldiers. I agree. But this is a world forged by fire and iron. Like your Viking ancestors, we see and we take, to form Empires. Eventually, you'll have what you wish. A Norwegian identity, in a greater European, German led Reich, just as my father envisioned. Myself, I don't know. This is what I do best, Jakob. The world needs a Tyrant. It doesn't need to know about the person inside, but it sure needs to have one. And maybe it is just as my dad said. The power of a battalion in one man. It feels like an awful lot of responsibility, but I am glad to have it. As you can fly, throw yourself into the heavens. We're unopposed in that respect." Felix said, as he put the pistol back together, firing pin back in followed by the magazine, then cocking the weapon, checking it was good. He put it back into his drawer, as he clambered out, to the sight of Victoria.
"Good operation?" Felix smiled, as Victoria looked to her CO with a certain smile.
"Grimsey doesn't have a long range radar installation. Allied forces are in the dark. We're ready." She said, as Felix chuckled.
"Well, excellent."

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Exactly. I mean, the reason that Scott is advancing right now is because there are very scattered paras, but there are a lot more dropping in, and no doubt, will come to this drop zone to reinforce it and basically overwhelm it. Which is basically when they do leg it.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Dimitri looked up, to Myles, and then to Alexios.
"I'll have my Bren back, if that's okay with you Sergeant." He simply said, nodding his head to the weapon, as he looked to the weapon, which had kept fairly fixed, not being skilled at using it but being able to at least load 40mm clips and fire them at a rough angle at the sky, which had irritated the enemy. If they were moving, Dimitri was with Alexios, and he wanted to at least have his weapon back- even though it was in a better nick than Alexios's dated Steyr-Mannlicher. Once he got his gun back, he moved up, heading to a Pine, as he then got down by it's side, and flipped down the bipod on the Sten, a heavy mechanism that went and plonked itself onto the floor. Picking it up, and chambering a new magazine, Dimitri aimed and fired down range, aiming for supression rather than accurate fire, aware that this was a SAW- not a LMG. It was a Squad Automatic Weapon- a weapon that fired rapidly and quickly down range. A pair of Paratroops were in his sights- and before they got to fire back with their Lugers, before making a dash, they were sliced apart, Dimitri aware that he could only keep up a particular level of firepower. They were doing very well for the moment- but this was a disorganized and off-guard team of Fallschirmjager. Together, that was when they were lethal. The fire from the Bren stopped with the end of the magazine, with which Dimitri pulled the weapon in and brought up, pulling the magazine out. A new one found it's way in, with bullets riddling his posiition, just somehow hoping that they didn't find target on his new cover, and that the rest of the section would open up.

---

Scott looked over, to his team in particular, nestled in the hedgerow and any other cover that could be scraped from it.
"Fuck, Myles better follow suit. If he sticks back with his section, then he ain't going. We're in the thrust of it now, it's his turn. Or those Greeks." He said, as he looked over to his section, watching the area ahead for any more paras, aware that he had semi-spoken to himself. He had a habit of doing this- but he knew that it wasn't anything big, if someone was at least listening. A couple moved up as the noise of MG34 made Scott duck, as bullets whistled at the tree overhead, the Sten's aim quick in his hands as he sprayed into the area, before breathing, and exhaling again, getting his nerve. Gunner was right of them, 100m. Easy shot, right in the shrubs. The Sten rattled, and the man took some steel to the head, dead in his prone position.
"Bugger, if the platoon's got a M1919, we could do with it here." He simply said, watching the area ahead as he knew that now, they were taking their fair share of fire, and all was well again. They had the initiative...but he felt something was up with Myles. He should have come with Scott, led from the front. Sure, he let Scott do what he knew best...but still, a CO didn't drink, nor did he sit back. He was as fighty as his men. If not more. Worryingly, Scott knew that Myles, while drunk, wasn't exactly the most competent. Perhaps it was a good idea that Scott had things under a vague command. And besides, Bailey wasn't his CO, the man he reported to. He wouldn't get bollocked by him. He kept a good conduct as an NCO, and even if Myles were to pass down a bollocking from Bailey, his equivalent, he'd still be fairly in the clear.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Short one going up.

It'd be nice to get some urban combat in Heraklion, if possible at some point.

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

"Likely to be, right on the wingtip. I heard a bunch of Royal Marines pulled it off, so we can. Hook your karabiner into whatever hardpoint there is, and make sure it's above, or else you'll get fired at some fucking terrorist. " Ross spoke with a slight chrotle, as he saw the Apache take a little fire, then respond in kind with M320 and CRV7 rocket fire. Wait. That was a Canadian warhead, and in particular, that was only mounted onto British Apaches, or the AH1. This was going to be an interesting flight, no doubt.
"This is Whiskey Six, Knight, we're getting your arses out of here. Coming in hot- get yourselves mounted on the sides on the double and we'll get you to where we need to be." The pilot said, as Ross noticed in particular, it was a Northern Irish accent. Another slice of Britannia out here. Taking a few shots as Ross moved across, firing his Mk48 at a rooftop that was quickly torn apart by his and then 30mm fire, he lobbed another smoke forward, to cover the helicopter's decent.

Moving through the courtyard, the Apache came in low, as the pilot held it steady, letting Ross and Carl mount up. This was a bit crazy, and he knew that the rocket and gun run had made everyone duck, that is, apart from the two heavily armored troops that had basically cleared most of the village. Using what energy he could muster, he threw himself onto the left wing tip, grabbing the back of his hip and clipping the karabiner into what seemed like a steel pylon, though not a weapon system as it was above and not below the wingtip.
"Ross is clear, when Carl's good, take us out of here." He said as calmly as he could over the comms, aware that this was going to be quite different. Raising his Mk48, as the pilot waited for Carl to give the go, he saw a couple of AQ soldiers move out from the direction they had come in, to be then lighted up by Ross's LMG, the pilot now aware that they were going.
"We're going." He said simply, as the Apache quickly gained lift, the brick of an attack helicopter swooping out of the area as elegantly as possible, the gun firing away as they flew fast and low out of the area, leaving the village behind fast and going back into the darkness of the valleys again, Ross aware of the insanity of the situation. His legs hung over the side of a fucking helicopter gunship, and he was sitting in a position that really shouldn't have been where he should have sat.
"This is mental..." Ross said to himself, as he put his visor up, taking in some of the air as he checked his comms, the thundering noise of rotor blades above him not even muted by his helmet.
"Merlin, this is Knight. What's our lead?" He said, as Merlin was quick to reply, as they flew lower down, out of the mountains, down towards the river valley.
"Situation reads that we've got three SEALS alive, confirmed by our drones. They're holding them hostage at a town called Jamal Abad, in Gilgit–Baltistan Province, Northern Kashmir. It's disputed territory by the Indian and Pakistani governments, and is one of the most unstable and hostile areas in the world. Our influence should never be here...but we need to extract those SEALS one way or another, and a drone strike would be off limits, and the fact that they're being held in a Mosque facility...somewhere which if we hit, will result in enormous political fallout in addition to what we already have, so you get why you're getting sent in. We're going to drop you in a remote location within the province, and you'll meet one of our CIA assets, who will brief you on the situation. You're going to conduct a raid and get our guys out, and bring them back to Afghanistan one way or another. Whiskey Six will drop you then return to Afghani airspace- we'll send another air unit to properly get you out of there. I understand we've had to get a lot of choppers out for you- but we're stretched thin, and are basically handing you whatever we can muster in this area. You have priority on this op- so keep that in mind, over." Merlin said, as Ross looked out to the pilot, aware of his mission parameters.
"How stealthed out is this thing then?" He asked over local comms, the pilot chuckling.
"It isn't, but trust me, I'm as good as they get, if you just saw back there. You might not shit yourselves often, but I can try and make it happen- we're going to fly below radar for most of this run to avoid Pakistani jets flying out and intercepting us." He said, Ross just not wanting to think of what that meant. As he checked his GPS, he realized quickly why. They were two miles out, and the helicopter dropped like a stone, the empty and cold environment of the highlands below them truly wonderful with NVGs, but not to the naked eye. There was almost no moonlight now, and as they flew at almost 20m off the deck, Ross had to praise the pilot on this run. They were going to do some serious business against these bastards, and even if they thought they had the SEALs safe and were immune to getting bombed, they were getting a different kind of munition. One that was the emergency services for Navy Seals, no less.

The pilot was still flying like a total boss across the border, miles and miles in, deep within the valleys and on the wider areas, using anything as masking cover, staying so low that Ross could make out individual house doors, though it was mainly a blur in the speed of the chopper, as they headed into the more unpopulated area of Kashmir, flying for almost half an hour without breaking radar or going above any elevation that a normal pilot would never dare to fall below.
"Never knew that we'd be doing this sort of work, over the border. It's going to be lightly snowed over, but the town's fairly large, so be ready for some urban combat when we get there. But if we're being dropped into the middle of nowhere, I haven't a clue on how this is going down." He said, putting his visor down to keep the cold out, putting his NVG set down too, the quad-NVG securely over the visor, made of kevlar and heavily resistant materials to keep bullets from disintergrating the NVG set, that was effectively as armored as his visor. Even the lenses were made of reinforced polymer that could withstand a 7.62 bullet, and merely have a skin-deep crack within it, being seriously uparmored. None the less, Ross knew that they weren't like those giants, able to lay down heavy fire and take it back, no matter what- they had to be careful, and needed to not go head on into the worst of the mess, being able to instead deal with the lighter side of things and take a good angle. They could take a beating, but they had upped the ante, and while on breaches, charging in was an option, sometimes going right into a compound was not the way to go.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

We need a Canuck, I feel. We haven't got one :(