The

WILLOW

---

2100 hours Zulu

July 16th, 2006

American Embassy in Dili, East Timor

He was at most 16 years old; most American kids his age were still in high school, trading tips on how to score on girls or how the Lakers did in the most recent game. He was different; he was patrolling the inner corridor that lined the courtyard of the U.S. Embassy in Timor, an AK47 clutched in his fingers. There was a bandanna wrapped around his head, curly hair fell untended to his neck, his face showed numerous scars and a cigarette was clinging to his teeth. Yet, despite being tougher than most others of his age, he was completely unaware that his every move was being watched by calculating eyes.

Capt. Jack Willow, U.S. Special Forces Operations Detachment-Delta (Delta Force), dropped down softly from his hiding place in the corridor’s rafters. Creeping up to the young guerilla, he swiftly put the boy in a vice-like chokehold and dragged him back into the shadows. He struggled, flopping like a fish in a net, but the Captain’s iron grip remained in place until, at last, the young man’s irises rolled up and were intercepted by his closing eyelids, his body limp from the blissful state of unconsciousness. Jack slowly bent down and eased the boy’s body down onto the cold wooden floor… hopefully where he’ll stay until the whole thing was all over.

Flipping his goggles into thermal vision, the Captain slowly and carefully scanned his perimeter. Satisfied with the uniform cold blue of his surroundings, he switched his goggles back into NV and continued on his way, his every step graceful and light like a cat's.

---

He was about forty years old, his head was bald and his beard was graying at the edges. Wrinkles lined his face, his teeth clung to the obligatory cigarette that every patrolling militiaman seemed to have and love. To tell the truth, he was rather relaxed and careless for a man patrolling the ever-so-important top of the embassy’s wall. But then, why should he be paranoid? His colleague was less than 20 feet away from him, covering the open courtyard with PVS-7 NVGs, and there was a roaming searchlight right beside him. Indeed, there was absolutely nothing he needed to worry about…

…Except for the Delta Operative who was sitting about 300 meters away, the crosshairs of his AR-15 SD centered on the guerilla’s head. Staff Sergeant James "Taz" Woodrow’s stinger headset suddenly sounded,

"Taz, anybody on the wall?"

"Yup, I got two guys: Number one covering the courtyard with NVGs, Number two about 20 feet away patrolling the wall… he looks bored."

"Take ’em out fast and quiet. No stunts, got it?"

"Roger that, captain my captain."

Taking wind direction and bullet drop into consideration, the Delta sniper centered the crosshairs of his PVS-13 NV scope directly above the patrolling man’s temple. Tracking him along his route, Taz waited until the distance between his two targets closed. The glowing end of the militant’s cigarette moved away from his lips and to it again. Easing his finger into the trigger guard of his rifle, the sniper allowed his target one last puff before gently squeezed the trigger. Accompanied with the barely audible puff of his silenced rifle was a cloud of pink that enveloped the guerilla’s head for a few second.

Not even waiting to see the body drop, Taz switched targets and centered on the second guard just as he turned around. Before he could so much as lift his NVGs, a 5.56 NATO round had penetrated his left eye and ripped through the back of his skull, a cloud of pink and gray spewing from the holes.

"The wall is clear cap’n, I repeat, the wall is clear."

"Copy that, Taz. Thanks."

---

There were four of them, all in their late 20s or early 30s. Since there were two separate rooms to guard, they had split up into pairs; two guarding the entrance room and two guarding the hostage room. Looking at their rag-tag appearances and fully loaded AK47s, Dr. Dwayne couldn’t help but think of them as animals rather than human beings. After all, how could humans be capable of committing such atrocities and instilling such terror? Of course, that was probably why they were labeled "terrorists".

Crouched in a corner, the President’s Scientific Advisor, Dr. Caroline Lima Dwayne was in her mid-30s. Her dark Hispanic hair, usually tied into a neat bun, was now strewn about her shoulders. Her expensive Italian suit was custom-made and usually kept in a vacuumed plastic bag to keep it clean—-now it was smeared with dirt, sweat, tears, and irreparably ruined in a hundred other ways.

Four people had once crouched around her in similar fetal positions, but they had one-by-one been dragged out and (or so Caroline guessed) executed. She was the last one, and she feared that her time was very short. Life was a funny thing; it seemed so eternal when you still had it, but so fleeting when it was lost.

Two dull thuds emitted from the adjacent room, and the two guards snapped to attention. The older man muttered something to his colleague and gestured toward the door, causing the younger man to nod and slowly, cautiously, head for the door. The older guerilla stayed behind and shouldered his AK, watching the door as though it might evolve into a man-eating monster any second. The younger man inched toward the door and gingerly pressed his head up against, listening for anything that may be on the other side. Turning, he shook his head; the older man simply gestured his rifle toward the door.

The young guerilla seemed a tad reluctant as he positioned himself behind the door. The older man stood at the ready on the other side, ready to ambush anything that comes through. Holding his breath, the young guerilla reached for the doorknob.

Right on cue the door slammed open, knocking the younger man into wonderland. The older militiaman had just enough time to utter a shout before he jerked back, a 9 mm. hole drilled through his head.

At first, all Caroline could see were three green circles arranged like a pyramid suspended in the air. Then, gradually, a humanoid shape came into view. A man, standing about 6 feet tall, dressed from head to toe in a ninja-like outfit entered the room. A complex-looking gun was slung across his back and his hands held a silenced H&K SOCOM pistol.

"Dr. Caroline Dwayne?" the "ninja" asked in English, American accent.

"Y-y-yes," Caroline managed to stammer.

"I’m Captain Willow, Delta Force. I’m gonna get you out of here, ma’am."

A wave of incredible relief flooded over the Doctor, and for a moment, she felt light-headed. But a sense of doubt suddenly overtook her relief and replaced it.

"Wait, what about the others?"

A hand moved up and lifted the goggles; Caroline suddenly found herself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes that were completely devoid of emotion.

"Ma’am, another team is standing by right now. But they have a no-go until we’re clear, so if you really care for those people, ma’am, I suggest that you follow my instructions to the letter and do NOT second-guess me. Is that clear, ma’am?"

Caroline nodded, not comforted in the least but, at the same time, afraid of the consequences of defying this man’s orders.

"Good," he put a finger on his right ear, "Blue team, what’s your status?"

"We’re in position, cap."

Willow glanced at Caroline,

"Ma’am, did these people know who you are?"

"No, not that I’m aware of—"

"Okay, stand by to receive package."

"Standing by."

Removing his finger from his ear, Willow motioned to Caroline. Mustering up every ounce of courage and strength, the Doctor managed to wrest herself from her corner and move toward the soldier. He pointed at the open window nearby,

"Ma’am I need you to go through that window, there’s a small shed right below it and two of my men are standing by to help you down. Just do it slowly, watch your step and be careful not to make a sound, okay?"

Caroline nodded.

"Okay, up you go."

With this, the Captain wrapped a powerful arm around her waist and lifted her up onto the window. Gripping the frame with both hands, Caroline slowly and nervously lowered herself toward the roof of the shed as Willow spun around and shouldered his FN F2000 to cover the door.

---

They were both armed with three weapons, primary (M4A1s in both cases), backup (a P-90 for one and an MP5PK for the other), and secondary (silenced SOCOMs for both). With their black-and-green smeared faces and full military gear, they looked every bit like the hands of Death. Ironically, their current order of business was to prevent Death from getting to the women gingerly lowering herself down from the shed’s roof.

Staff Sergeant Mike D. Christensen let his carbine dangle from its sling as he extended his arms upward,

"Come on ma’am, I gotcha."

With a small whimper, Caroline eased herself off the edge of the roof and was received by the Delta Force Operative’s powerful arms. She shivered as the soldier gently coaxed her down to a crouched position and maneuvered her away from the shed.

"Hostage secured."

"Roger that, stay sharp. I’m coming down."

Mike drew his pistol and kept an arm around the Doctor’s waist as there was a barely audible thud atop the shed and a small rustle as the Captain landed softly beside him.

Willow’s hand again went to his right ear,

"Red team, this is Lead, how’re your sights?"

"Sights are cold, Cap’n. It’s about as quiet as it gets here."

"Alright, gimme a heads-up if anyone approaches, otherwise maintain radio silence."

"Got it."

"Taz."

"Yeah?"

"Head for the LZ, and be careful. Keep weapons tight unless you’re seen or fired upon; no trigger-happy business."

"I’m not the Sam Fisher you are Cap’n, but okay. I’ll do my best."

"You’d better. See you at the LZ."

"Roger that, Taz out."

"Alright," Willow lowered his hand and pointed at Staff Sergeant Zachary "Zack" Jameson, "Zack, take point. Mike, stay with the Doc, I’ll cover the back. Let’s go, people."

---

The docks were deserted at this hour; the automated searchlights that once illuminated this remote part of the village had, for some strange reason, been shut down. There wasn't a soul about and any guards that had once been posted in this area had long since departed to find a distraction, anything, from this boredom. The idle passerby would have sworn that there was nothing here but sand and water… unless that passerby was equipped with NVGs and had opted to stare at a certain spot for a full five minutes without blinking. Then he/she might have discerned an oddly humanoid shape protruding from the gentle slope of the beach, he/she may even have made out the barrel of an M8 sharpshooter. Of course by then, he/she'd be dead.

Lt. Deacon "Deke" Sanchez desperately wanted to stretch out his stiff joints, having been lying in the same prone position for an hour with only a few inches of movement at a time. But training made up for the human impulse, and his eyes never left the PVS-14 NV scope of his M4A1. Behind him were four men contorted in similarly uncomfortable (but necessary) crouched positions. Staff Sergeants Thomas J. "T.J." McCallister (Gunner), Louis "Doc" Eversman (Medic), Charles "Boomer" Schwartz (Demolitions specialist), and of course, Taz Woodrow.

"Deke, this is Willow, you copy?" Sanchez's headset blared.

"Yeah, I copy."

"I'm approaching the LZ now, hold your fire."

"Got it."

Lo and behold, Deke's eyes picked up four humanoid shapes emerging from the dull green void that was the maximum range of his scope.

"Cap'n, this is Deke, wave your right arm if you copy."

The lead figure raised his right arm and waved it in a circle, causing Deke to grin.

"Confirmed, I got a visual. Coast is still clear Cap'n, you can hurry it up a bit."

"Roger that, is Taz there?"

"Yeah we got him."

Raising his left arm, the Lieutenant signaled for Boomer and T.J. to cover Willow. As the two men splashed out of the water, Sanchez reached for the receiver of his SMRS SATCOM,

"Justice-1 calling command."

"Justice-1, this is Command."

"Command, objective is secured, requesting evac now."

"Roger that, Justice-1, evac is on the way, ETA 5 minutes. Hang tight."