Location: New York City
Time: 1132 hours
Operation: Fortune Chase

A cold, icy wind blew over the city of New York, caressing bare faces and stirring litter from trashcans. A lone sniper clutching a PSG-1 was crouching behind a large air conditioning unit on top of a four-story apartment block. Looking across to another building, he could see another sniper, also holding the powerful PSG-1 and dressed in black uniform bearing the anti-terrorist arm patch [44-Z]. The second sniper gave a signal with his hand, and the first sniper laid his rifle down and produced his binoculars. Moving quietly away from the air conditioning unit, he approached the edge of the building and poked his head over, bringing the binoculars to his eyes. On the opposite side of the street, he made out two terrorist guards, both armed with Colt M16-A2 assault rifles and wearing black balaclavas and body armour, guarding the entrance to a supposedly abandoned factory. [44-Z] knew that this wasn't true; in fact, the factory was being used by a Russian ex-KGB agent named Arkardy Staniv for illegal weapon trading and drug smuggling. For months on end they had been sending spies to investigate the area, and after proof of smuggling and illegal trading was obtained, a warrant was issued to allow the infiltration of the factory. The first sniper, known only as 'Hotshot '(he never told anyone his real name) and the second sniper, an Italian by the name of Roberto Carlo, were assigned by [44-Z] to eliminate any guards who were blocking entry to the factory. They had a few seconds from the time the go-code was given to the time they took their shot, as the assault team didn't want to confront any outside guards. Hotshot had chosen the guard on the left of the door, and signaled that to his teammate on the other rooftop. Putting the binoculars down, he drew his rifle and aimed at the unaware guard on the left. His hands were slightly shaking from nervousness and a bead of sweat made its way down his forehead and onto his eyelid, prompting him to wipe it off and lose a bit of concentration. Taking aim again, Hotshot waited eagerly for the call from the assault team on the radio clipped on his belt (and connected to an earpiece). His mind wandered for a little while and he allowed it, thinking of his family that was brutally murdered in Serbia by a gang of rebels. From then on he had lived on his own, stealing food from local markets and sleeping on tattered mattresses in old sheds that were rarely used. Acquiring his first sniper rifle at the age of 16, he started practicing on wooden poles marked with different areas, and hitting part of the target scored him points. His sniping skills were of great standards. He thought of his first time he joined up with the Special Forces Unit, and was happy to discover that they were in need of snipers, especially young men and women. He became head of the Snipers Division when he was 22, after five years of intensive sniper training, and became involved in regional operations against Serbian rebels, namely druglords. The Special Forces Unit commander commended his efforts, and he was asked to join an anti-terrorist team named [44-Z]. Hotshot's daydream came to a sudden end, as a familiar voice came from the radio. "Snipers, fire!"
He took aim for the third time, and his index finger slid over the trigger. He waited a second, and then pulled his finger back. A bullet emerged from the muzzle of the rifle, and flew along an invisible straight path, connecting with the soft skin of the guard's neck, causing him to fall back and blood to ooze from the newly inflicted wound. He heard another shot, and saw the second guard (who was startled by the other guard's death) fall back, clutching his bleeding neck in agony. Seconds later the assault team emerged from the distant shadows and moved towards the door which was now unguarded. The team consisted of five operatives, and four of them stood on either of the door, taking aim, as the leader took a great kick which ripped the door off its hinges, and they charged into the factory.

Commander Tyson Melrich had just placed a charge on the side door of the factory, and stood back. Aiming carefully, he shot once and the door was instantly removed, leaving a gaping hole and a lot of smoke from the blast. Noting the dark surroundings of the factory's interior, he activated night vision along with his four other operatives. They ran in, MP5s at the ready, and down a dark corridor that stretched about thirty metres and was stopped by double doors. The second assault team ran down the corridor, and when they reached the doors, stood by both sides, taking aim. Melrich kicked in the middle of the doors, breaking the lock and causing the doors to swing away from him, revealing a small room with two doors and a window that allowed light to come in. They entered the room, and heard talking from behind the door on the opposite wall. Melrich approached the door, and after holding his MP5 up to it, fired about 6 bullets through it. An agonizing scream followed and then the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Blood came from under the door and formed a rounded puddle at Melrich's feet. But Melrich wasn't taking notice of the blood, and he kicked this door down and stormed the next room. Two guards who had heard the firing had entered the room, but were no match for the alerted assault team, who took them out silently with a few bullets. The assault team grouped again, and approached the open door with caution.

Meanwhile, the first assault team had just entered from the back. They encountered seven guards who had all fallen victims to the silence and strength of the MP5s. They reached the doors that lead to the main factory. Commander Jarno Spitz activated his radio, and spoke into it. "Assault Team two has reached the main doors, waiting for your command, over."
"Roger that, we need to clear a few more rooms first, next go-code is Alpha. Over and out." came the reply from Melrich.

The second assault team had entered another room, and three guards who were caught unaware were killed in that instant. Leaving the three bodies to bleed severely, the team grouped and breached the door that brought them into a machinery room with a raised platform walkway. Two guards were patrolling the walkway, and they could see at least four guards on the ground floor facing all directions. Melrich brought his team together, explained the plan, and they all spread out. Two of the operatives stayed back and took aim at the patrolling guards, while the other three (including the commander) ran up to a large piece of equipment. Melrich nodded, and the front team jumped out and shot a full magazine at the guards. At the same time, the back team took down the two patrolling guards, and they advanced to the front team to regroup. Hiding behind the machinery, the five operatives reloaded their weapons, then sprung out randomly and fired at the three remaining guards. One guard had taken a shot that had narrowly missed Melrich, ricocheting off the durable metal and making a high-pitched clang. Melrich took a frag grenade, and after removing the pin, tossed it in the guards' direction. All the operatives took cover as shrapnel flew in all directions, hitting all three guards and killing two of them. The assault team ran in and quickly shot the third guard who was clutching his leg in pain, and approached the double doors that led to the main factory.

"Alpha, GO!" sounded Melrich's voice over the radios. The two doors were kicked down almost simultaneously, and the assault team stormed the giant room, taking cover as they were being fired at. Guards were surrounding them, and they knew this was going to be hard. Both assault teams popped out from their areas frequently and took shots at the guards, reducing their numbers drastically. When all but one had been killed off, the firing had stopped. Standing on the blood-soaked floor, surrounded by a dozen dead guards, was the ringleader of the illegal operations.

"So we finally meet, Mr. Staniv", said Melrich loudly. "I've been dying to see what you really looked like. Photographs can be deceiving, you know. But, as I have noted, you are still an extremely ugly man."
"You think your sissy little Special Forces team can take me out?" came the reply from the enraged leader. "You have got to be kidding! We have been expecting you, and in a matter of minutes, this factory will be set off. You know, kaboom!" He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small black remote control.
"Well, after we dispose of your dead body and the arming device, we won't need to worry about these explosions, will we?" Melrich had a slightly humorous tone in his voice as he spoke. "I am getting sick of having to shutdown all these operations, but I actually enjoyed this one."
Melrich produced a silenced Beretta 9mm and aimed it at the leader.
"Oh, if you have anything else to say, do tell me now. I'd hate to see you die unhappy."
Melrich didn't need to wait for him, and pumped a full clip into Staniv's stomach. He grabbed his stomach in pain, blood gushing out from under his hand, and he dropped to his knees before collapsing completely onto the ground, his oozing blood smeared around him. Two of the [44-Z] operatives crowded around the late Arkardy Staniv, seized the explosives control and disarmed the apparent threat.
Melrich drew his 6-way to his mouth and had a hint of relief and joy in his voice.
"Command, this is Melrich. Mission complete."

* * * * *

The puffy grey wisps of smoke rose delicately from a lit cigarette and swirled in a random fashion, the small wind controlling and shaping it until it blended with the atmosphere and became transparent. The wind was calm and swept the streets, and the night sky was cluttered with immensely bright stars. Streetlights gave sufficient illumination to counter the dark from eating up the light, but there were still areas that could not be reached by the strong lights. Two blistered fingers in a V shape rose up and clamped onto the cigarette, drew it away, and then brought it back for another inhalation. Another long drag, then the stale smoke was exhaled and the cloud started to fade. A throat-clearing cough, then the smoking man began to talk in a low, heavily accented and raspy voice, obviously the sign of an older passive smoker.

"We need to start plans for the hijacking and takeover. And not just a brief plan. I want everything looked over twice, three times, checked for any possible errors. You will make a list of any possible outcomes and find solutions for all of them. Any area that you consider a threat, you position more men there. Any unguarded area, you exploit that weakness and take control. I don't want any of this fucked up, you hear me?"
"Yes sir, I understand you." The reply came from a second shady figure, much younger and inexperienced, feeling nervous and excited both at the same time.
The smoking man took breaks in between his response to drag from the filtered cigarette.
"I don't quite think you understand enough. The warehouse was not guarded enough and it got raided and shut down. We lost a lot of money and drugs from that. And now we are getting it back. Even more than we started with. Balancing the losses with an immense wealth."
By now the cigarette had been smoked down to the butt, and the first shady figure positioned it between his first finger and thumb, and carelessly flicked it away on the ground, then continued on with the conversation.
"Now, let's focus on this hijacking. You know I am an extremely busy man and I want to clarify this as quickly as possible. How many men have been assigned for the takeover?"
"At the moment, 53 of our men are ready to go, sir." There was a slight quiver in the second man's voice.
The first man was not impressed with this figure.
"53 is not enough", he exclaimed in a serious tone. "For this operation we need at least 100 to 120 men to be able to succeed. This is not a walk in the park, this is a full scale takeover and if we don't pull it off I will hunt you down and kill you myself." The first man's voice had risen and his tone had become increasingly violent.
The second man's voice had become quite nervous and jittery as he reacted to the first man's tone of voice. "Y…yyyes sir, I understand completely. But there is no way we can recruit another 50 men for -"
"Silence!!" shouted the first man, cutting off his companion. "You will recruit those men and run this operation. No questions asked. Do you understand? Do you hear me?"
"Yes sir, I understand you. The plans will be ready for your perusal as early as next Friday. We need to go through and analyse every section."
"Make sure you do. Otherwise you will find yourself in a body bag before you can hide. I am expecting the best from you, Alexei, and you and I both know that you must do your best, not try your best."
"I will do my best sir." The second man was standing impatiently, nervously fiddling with his hands.
"Your best better be enough Alexei. Call me in two days time and we will confirm the details."
The first man did not wait for a reply from Alexei and walked off, his long black trench coat reflecting the little light that had crept through the darkness and swaying to and fro, leaving Alexei to think about what had to be done.

Alexei watched as the leader of the terrorist organization XTC, known only as 'The Snake', walked off into the night, and then he looked up at the sky. There were so many stars in the sky that night, all of them radiating their bright light. It was amazing that, on a clear night, just the right weather conditions, all of these brightly shining stars were visible to anyone on Earth. If there was even the slightest change of atmosphere and it was a cloudy night, the stars would be hidden. Perfect conditions, visible stars. These words ran through Alexei's mind, making him think harder. What he was looking at now was exactly the same as the Airport takeover and plane hijackings that would commence very soon. The stars were like the flaws in the Airport security, and if the conditions were perfect, if nothing was to go wrong, then these flaws would stand out like a sore thumb, and XTC could enjoy their starry night.

* * * * *

The thick blood had managed to seep into the cream carpet but the majority of it had formed a pool around the head of the dead body, and blood was still seeping slowly out of the multiple large cuts on the victim's neck. The morning sun shone directly through the office window and lit up the colour of the normally crimson blood, giving it a lighter red tinge. The metallic smell of the blood had started to change and become the putrid, rotten smell of decaying flesh or mouldy cheese. A small breeze had found its way in through an open window and attempted to remove the overpowering smell. The sound of the busy streets of New York was almost avoidable up on the 21st floor of the office complex. Only two minutes ago, there had been a small controlled struggle, a weapon produced, and then a vicious slice upwards. Twice, three times. Then there was a desperate plea for help, coughing, spluttering, and then silence. Deathly silence.

The office phone suddenly rang, breaking the silence, and it was left for five rings until a gloved hand grasped the phone and raised the receiver up to talk.
"Hello?" said the mysterious figure.
"Wally, I'm ringing about the security schedule for next week. We need to contact Jones and Ferreira about this as well. The plans were revised and we need both of them to know."
"I'll get onto that soon."
"Great. You know how important this schedule is next week. The US Secretary of State is arriving from Tokyo, and we have to keep this low profile. I don't think this line is even secure enough. The rest of the details have been emailed to you. Talk you later, Wally." The man hung up abruptly, leaving the mysterious figure to ponder about the recently acquired information.

The call was for Wally Opus, Assistant Head of Security at the JFK International Airport. But the information had not reached its intended person. Wally's Security Clearance card had been removed from his breast pocket and his wallet searched for any important information. Over at the other side of the room, another figure had become active. An office computer had been switched on and was now logged in as Wally Opus, and his e-mails were being checked. A third figure was standing at the door, a black shiny Uzi sub-machine gun in his gloved hand, guarding the small office area. The first figure who had received the phone call, now pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number. When the other side replied, he spoke:
"Reporting situation, under control. Objectives met. Will meet in thirty-five minutes to discuss payment details." The shadowy figure drew the phone away from him and deactivated it, a smile forming on his face. 'They had done what they had to do', he thought, and this was only the start.

Wally Opus lay dead on the floor of the small office, a series of large knife cuts evident on his neck, his body turning a slight blue tinge as his body's blood source was almost depleted.