Chapter 118: Nuts and Crackers.

Chapter 118: Chapter 118: Nuts and Crackers.Zaliv Petra Velikogo, Russia - 0100 hours GMT + 9

The air inside the classified C-137 stealth aircraft, codenamed "Doomsday," hummed with the deep drone of its engines. Twenty thousand feet below, the black waters of Zaliv Petra Velikogo stretched out, unseen. Six figures, clad in black tactical gear, moved with purpose in the low-lit cabin. Each carried a suppressed M4A1, custom-built for precision. This was Delta Force.

Squad Leader, Codename: Ass-tomato, moved with surgical precision. His eyes, sharp even in the dimness, scanned each man, each piece of equipment. The atmosphere was a blend of tense professionalism and quiet camaraderie. The soft clicks of buckles and the rustle of nylon filled the space.

"Gear check, one to six. Report," Ass-tomato’s voice was crisp, calm over comms. "Let’s make sure our Ballistic Biscuits are ready to crumble."

"Turkey, comms green, chute secured, weapon check."

"Fries, NVGs aligned, thermal good, M4 clear."

"’Murica!, grappling hook secured, breaching charge armed."

"Rapier, medkit green, secondary clean, looking pretty."

"Grits, primary loaded, explosives prepped, feeling lucky."

"Copy all. Five minutes to drop." Ass-tomato glanced at the flashing timer, counting down the seconds to their leap into the void.

Breaching the Silence



A dull hydraulic hiss filled the cabin as the C-137’s aft ramp slowly began to lower. The roar of the wind outside rushed in, a violent, instantaneous assault on their ears. Beyond the widening gap, only a vast, dark expanse of night sky was visible.

The operators braced, stoic against the sudden pressure and sound. This was familiar territory.

Murica ever the joker, grinned. "Alright, boys, time to go earn our frequent flyer miles! Hope the ’beverage service’ is good down there!"

"Just try not to land in a tree this time, Private Pyle!" Grits chuckled, slapping him on the back.

The Mission Re-Brief

Ass-tomato turned, his face illuminated by the faint green glow of his NVGs. The wind whipped at his gear, but his voice cut through the gale, firm and clear.

"Alright, listen up, Ballistic Biscuits! Primary objective: Extract informant, codename Mikhail, from Matveeva Island. Intel indicates he’s protected by Russian Resistance—remnant loyalists of the former Soviet Union."

His gaze swept over them. "Repeat: You will receive NO support during this mission."

Turkey gave a dry chuckle. "Sir, since when did we ever receive any support? That’s for kids."

Ass-tomato shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Point taken, Turkey. Russian Navy will engage a large resistance cell on Bolshoy Pelis. That’s our diversion."

His voice hardened. "If things go sideways, fallback priority is the postal mail card. Intel states that mail is to be sent through Sinhae-dong, North Korean coast, by North Korean sleeper agents. Objective: extract information from the card and proceed to Sinhae-dong as Mikhail, eliminating the agents. Silently. Any questions?"

Silence. Only the roar of the wind. A quick succession of nods.

The Leap into the Void

The green light above the ramp flashed, a stark command. GO.

With a shared, exhilarating surge, the Delta Force operators launched themselves into the abyss. Their bodies, momentarily silhouetted against the faint starlight, were swallowed by the impenetrable darkness below.

The rush of air was deafening, a roaring gale against their suits. Their specialized augmented glasses, flipped down from beneath their NVGs, flickered to life, painting a luminous, ghost-like path against the blackness. It was their guide, leading them precisely towards Matveeva Island.

The altitude display blinked: 18,000 feet. And rapidly decreasing.

They spread out, becoming dark, silent projectiles. Each man a single point in the vast, empty sky, aimed at their target below.

"Woo-hoo! Free fall, baby!" Rapier’s excited gasp cut through the comms, a primal shout of joy in the face of danger. Then, only the sound of rushing wind and the subtle hum of their gear.

The team plummeted through the frigid air towards Matveeva Island. At two hundred feet, their parachutes blossomed silently above them. Their augmented glasses, now retracted, gave way to the green glow of NVGs as they descended to twenty feet.

With practiced precision, they cut their chutes, splashing into the cold, dark waters fifty meters from the coast. They swam, silent shadows against the night, their movements fluid and synchronized as they scanned the perimeter.

Ass-tomato was first to emerge, a silhouette against the rocky shore. He touched his comms. "Ass-tomato clear. Reports, team."

"Turkey clear."

"Fries clear."

"’Murica! clear."

"Rapier clear."

"Grits clear. Water’s a bit nippy."

"Copy all. Let’s move."


They quickly stashed their parachutes, then began their ascent up the incline of a hill. Their movements were slow, deliberate, blending seamlessly into the rugged terrain.

As they cautiously moved higher, a faint glow appeared in the distance: a cabin. Through their NVGs, they clearly saw five armed men, clustered around a table, drinking and playing cards.



Ass-tomato’s voice was a low whisper in their comms. "Five tangos, two o’clock. Two hundred twenty meters."

The team knew their targets.

"On my mark... three... two... one... Mark!"

Five muffled thuds. Five figures collapsed without a sound.

The team advanced stealthily, entering the cabin with practiced speed. Inside, they found two more men sleeping. Both were neutralized silently. The small cabin was secure. No more threats.

"Cabin clear. Moving to the steeper incline." Ass-tomato’s command was crisp.

They pushed upwards, scaling a steeper section of the hill. Ahead, three patrolling figures emerged onto the distant ridge. Without a word, the Delta Force team engaged, silencing them with precise shots.

Three hundred meters further, they reached a new vantage point. Below, a small coastal port came into view. A tugboat bobbed gently, and numerous armed men were visible on the docks and around various cabins.

Ass-tomato ordered a halt. "Hold. Wait for diversion. Thirty tangos. Port below."

Grits, his eyes fixed on the scene, clicked his M14EBR. "M14EBR online. Ready to crack some biscuits." The team readied their weapons, anticipating the coming storm.

Ten minutes later, the distant night sky erupted. Flashes of light painted the horizon, followed by the deep, guttural thunder of explosions. Russian Navy ships were bombarding the opposite island, Bolshoy Pelis. The diversion was active.

Ass-tomato checked his watch. "0200 hours. Diversion confirmed. Open fire!"

Intense, suppressed gunfire erupted from their position, raining down on the resistance forces two hundred meters below.

Amidst the chaos, ’Murica! pulled an M72 LAW from his back. He swiftly shouldered it, aiming for the tugboat. "Time for a little American classic!"

With a fiery whoosh, the rocket streaked across the night. It impacted the tugboat in a violent explosion, engulfing the vessel in flames and smoke.

Under the cover of the explosions and suppressing fire, the Delta Force team began their controlled descent towards the port, methodically picking off targets as they moved.

The team reached the port boardwalk, spreading out into two-man teams, clearing the remaining cabins with practiced efficiency. No sign of Mikhail.

Rapier then spotted it: a well-concealed steel door set into the side of the rocks.

The team converged. ’Murica! swiftly set up a breaching charge. "Set."

A concussive BOOM echoed through the air as the charge detonated, blowing the steel door inward.

"Go! Clear!" Ass-tomato commanded.

The team stormed the small cave bunker, clearing any remaining hostile forces with ruthless speed.

Inside, they found Mikhail, his hands raised in surrender. Alongside him were the island’s cell leader and three other co-leaders. Piles of vintage AK-47s and other Soviet-era weapons were stacked within the bunker.

"Hands up! Drop your weapons! Now!" Ass-tomato’s voice was firm.

The cell leader, looking at Mikhail, muttered, "Михаил... они тебя нашли."(Mikhail... they found you). The captured men immediately complied, dropping their weapons. The Delta Force team maintained their positions, weapons still aimed, vigilant.

The chaos of the initial assault had given way to a tense, methodical calm. The small port camp on Matveeva Island was now under the Delta Force’s grim control. The air still carried the faint scent of cordite and saltwater, but the shouts and gunfire had ceased.

The cell leader and Mikhail, the high-value informant, were securely bound, their forms stark against the rough stone of the bunker entrance. Grits, Turkey, and Fries, silent sentinels, had fanned out across the cleared camp port. Their NVGs swept the dark coastline, their M4A1s held ready, diligently watching for any stragglers, any hint of approaching reinforcements. No movement. Just the distant, ceaseless murmur of the sea.

Meanwhile, Ass-tomato, with Rapier and ’Murica! beside him, dealt with the remaining three co-leaders. They had chosen defiance, a desperate, final surge of loyalty to a lost cause. A brief, brutal struggle ensued in the confined space, quickly and lethally silenced. Muffled thuds and sharp, decisive movements. The grim reality of black operations.

Ass-tomato turned, his gaze fixing on Mikhail. The informant, though bound, still held a flicker of defiance in his eyes.

"Where are the post cards, Mikhail?" Ass-tomato’s voice was low, menacing, a threat barely veiled. "Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

Mikhail tensed, a strained grunt escaping his lips. He looked away, then back, a desperate calculation in his eyes. The torture was implied in the lines etched around his mouth, the tremor in his hands. He broke.



"They’re... they’re in... a waterproof pouch... under the... under the old jetty... just off the shore..." His words came out in ragged gasps, the confession ripped from him.

Ass-tomato nodded, a silent command to Rapier, who moved to retrieve the hidden pouch. Moments later, the damp, sealed bag was in Ass-tomato’s hand. He unzipped it carefully, extracting five seemingly ordinary postcards. They were thin, flimsy. Not what he expected for high-stakes intel.

He then produced a small, sleek device from a pouch on his vest: a specially designed UV light. He flashed it over the first card. Slowly, beneath the innocuous tourist scene, words began to coalesce, appearing in invisible ink that only this wavelength could reveal. Then the next, and the next.

Ass-tomato’s expression hardened, a grim line replacing his usual stoicism. His eyes widened, just barely perceptible. Impossible. This isn’t just about a nuclear football. The words written on the postcards outlined an astonishingly vast and chilling conspiracy, far grander than anything they’d been briefed on.

He read aloud, his voice tense, almost a growl. "High-ranking military officials... thousands of resistance members... not just a launch... a coup. Nuclear launch... China, Russia, Japan, South Korea, Philippines."

He shook his head slowly, the sheer scale of the plot almost unbelievable. "Thousands? I can’t believe how many members there are." The "Scorch the Earth" plan, which had seemed like Robert Wallenbern’s desperate final act, was now revealed to be a deeply embedded, meticulously planned geopolitical destabilization of monumental proportions.

The implications of what he held in his hands were staggering. This wasn’t just about preventing one nuclear launch; it was about stopping a cascade, a potential World War III engineered from within. Ass-tomato knew, with absolute certainty, that this information needed to reach command immediately. There was no time for standard protocols.

He moved swiftly, pulling a compact satellite phone from his pack. The connection established, he dialed the secure line for his commanding officer.

"Colonel, We have critical new intel. The post cards detail a full-scale coup in North Korea. High-ranking military is involved. Thousands of resistance. Not just the football. Simultaneous nuclear launch planned targeting China, Russia, Japan, South Korea, Philippines. Repeat, nuclear launch on multiple targets."

A pause, the crackle of static, then Colonel Thomas Beckett’s voice, urgent and sharp, cut through the line. "Ass-tomato, confirm reception. Understood. Mission status: Abort. Repeat, abort mission. Your mission is considered a success with this new information. Get out of there. Rendezvous for debrief."

"Copy, Colonel. Aborting. Proceeding to exfil."

Ass-tomato clicked off the phone, the silence of the island pressing in. The original objective – extracting Mikhail and proceeding to Sinhae-dong – was utterly overridden. The true "success" wasn’t the capture, but the intelligence. The revelation of this sprawling, hidden plot set the stage for a much larger, global conflict, or perhaps, if command acted swiftly, its preemptive prevention. The night was far from over, but for the Ballistic Biscuits, this phase of the mission was complete.