~ Okay story for me. This is one of those fictions that are written entirely different from the common themes, so go on, read! ~
Link : https://m.fan fiction.net/s/12324522/1/When-Worlds-Collide
WC : 356k+
Plot : When the airspace above Hogwarts is accidentally marked "unrestricted," events are set in motion that will change the wizarding world forever. Eventual romance between Fleur and an OC.
Chapter 1
Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) – An initiative by the U.S. Military to unify command of its special operations units. While each special operations unit is still a part of its branch, they all report to JSOC.
MACUSA – Magical Congress of the United States of America – Located in the Washburn building of New York City, MACUSA is the governing body of the magical community in the United States. The magical community in America is significantly weaker than its muggle counterpart. Having been hunted to near extinction during the witch trials, it has not yet fully recovered. MACUSA has difficulty containing threats to the secrecy statute along with hostile creatures, being understaffed as it is. They are convinced to provide support to the development of Task Force Ansible.
Magic Genetic Enhancement Program – Designed to manipulate the genes of muggles, allowing to them to see and feel magic. While it does not make someone a wizard, they can see dementors and other magical creatures normally hidden to muggles. Has a significantly higher success rate the younger the subject.
Magic Infused Munitions and Equipment (MIME) Program – One of the JSOC programs assisted by MACUSA, the primary purpose is to harden muggle equipment to magical effects. Creates Night Vision Goggles, SatNav, Drones, Helicopters, etc. hardened against magical warding. Also enchants ammunition and grenades to be enhanced with magic. Primary ammunition used by TFA is rubber or plastic rounds enchanted with Stupefy or Petrificus Totalus. Heavy rounds are enchanted with Bombarda, etc. Using stunning rounds allows for arresting targets, or enforcing rules on armed populations without lethal force. Magazines are color coded by the spell used in its enchantment.
Orbital Cargo Delivery Satellite (OCDS) – An expensive program by the US military to limit the gear special operators need to carry into the field. It is a space based satellite storing heavy weapons, ammunition and other heavy gear, along with emergency supplies and small vehicles. Operators of TFA carry a forearm Personal Data Assistant (PDA) with them into combat that is linked with the OCDS, and can call in gear. The gear is automatically loaded to a drop pod and deployed to the operator's location. The operator can use GPS or can manually take control of the pod at a certain distance to point it where they need it. Drop pod success rate is currently 70% and only Tier 1 units have access.
Task Force Ansible – Led by a former Delta Operator, Colonel Marshall Sumner, Task Force Ansible is a project created by JSOC to provide the non-magic military an effective means to respond to magical threats. Through assistance from the MACUSA, several short notice/high priority projects culminate into a regiment strength force capable of seeing and fighting magic and magical creatures. Task Force is 1400 soldiers strong, with the entire front line force staffed by youths aged 15-17 years old from Spartan Program. Most officers and support personnel have received gene therapy to varying rates of success, but are adults.
Spartan Program – U.S. Military program taking orphaned children, especially those orphaned by terrorism, and training them as special operations soldiers. Spartans were not necessarily U.S. citizens when recruited. Spartan program is eventually enveloped into Task Force Ansible, as the youths are significantly more susceptible to the genetic enhancements to needed to see or interact with magic, along with their success as soldiers. Most are at an Army Ranger equivalent and are called Spartans, a small cadre are trained by Tier 1 units and are more along the lines of Delta Operators. They're referred to as Operators.
Edgar Weatherford, Assistant to the Director of the National Air Traffic Services, tried to take another sip of his tea. Of course, it was empty. Sighing he heaved his plump frame and waddled to the break room, leaving behind his desk with its significant stacks of files. His body protested the movement, joints yearning for the sedentary style he was so used to at home. Sitting at the uncomfortable desk all day was not doing him any favors, and these last few days he was doing a lot of sitting at his desk.
He slowly worked his way back to the desk, dreading the work ahead. The new Prime Minister came into office fulfilling his promise to decommission several military bases around the UK. This meant that the airspace needed to be reclassified as unrestricted. Unfortunately, they were simultaneously transferring from paper to digital tracking systems and so the workload was significant.
Prior to his appointment as Assistant Director, Edgar had spent almost ten years on data entry and programming. Not because the job held any interest for him whatsoever, but because it put him in an office where he could bump elbows with the important people.
He'd done his job well enough. Not the best, but certainly not the worst. He'd made friends with the right people however, which finally led to his promotion. It'd been years since he'd done data entry of any form and he'd relished forgetting the information, making room for trivial information about the soap operas he didn't admit to watching at night.
He still recalled the conversation with the Director when the upcoming workloads were being assigned. The Director padded his ego, he was adept at that. He too was man who had made friends with the right people. Still, the Director insisted that Edgar was the man for the job. Staffing was short, they needed help to meet the deadline, you're the only one who can help, Edgar!
So, for the past week of his life, Edgar spent every minute of his shift at his desk. Instead of sipping at his tea in conference rooms and shirking responsibility of tasks to others, he was checking reference numbers for each sector of airspace against the updated classification code list and then manually creating each computer file for the sector. It was mind-numbing work at best and had taken him a painfully long time to remember the proper process, but once completed it would make tracking and updating significantly faster. Looking at the pile remaining on his desk, he estimated about two more hours of work ahead. It was Friday and looking at the clock he realized the end of his shift was only minutes away.
Reluctantly he sat down, picking up the first pile. Damned if he was coming in on his weekend to work the rest of this. He began the arduous task, and a few painfully slow hours later he had only two files left. He checked the time again, and a slight hope filled him. With a little luck, he might actually be off in time for the finale of The Earl's Handmaiden. It promised to be a doozy. He went in for another sip of his tea and his pudgy finger missed the loop, spilling the tea across the two remaining files.
"Bugger!" he said louder than he'd intended, snatching the files out of the spilled tea. He set the files in a dry spot and went about cleaning his desk. It didn't take him long so he decided to hurry up and finish. Good thing he didn't need these files anymore after tonight. He logged the first file without problem, but the second file was an issue. The tea had made it into the file and the ink was splotchy. Was that an eight or a six?
The hell with it, he thought, six it is. The Earl waits for no man, he mused, smiling to himself at the thought of his show. He checked the reference number against that of the file and logged it unrestricted. He rapidly completed the last file in the computer system and shredded the physical copy. The last of the work done, he logged off and went home, completely unaware that his action marked the sector containing one of the most secret and prodigious schools in the UK as open airspace. While it would take several years, his mistake would forever change the wizarding world of which he knew nothing about.
Chapter 2
A pair of UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters swept over the trees in a secluded area of Britain. Skilled pilots flew what they called "nap of the earth," their aircraft mere feet from the treetops as they made toward their objective.
These were no ordinary Blackhawks, and the personnel flying and riding no ordinary soldiers. Crewman of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment operated the enhanced helicopters, augmented with advanced avionics, thermal optics, and a wide variety of other improvements over the original model. Their task was to get the Delta operators to and from the objective; a downed experimental UAV prototype.
The prototype was the apparently the culmination of four years of research and development between the U.S. and British Air Forces. It represented a true leap in unmanned technology and the prototype alone cost just shy of a hundred million U.S. dollars. At the edge of an unnamed, innocuous forest, that investment stopped responding to controls and crashed into the ground.
The nearest units to the crash site with the security clearance and experience to mount a recovery happened to be an American team from the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta, commonly referred to Delta Force or simply The Unit. Fresh from a tour in Afghanistan, they were honed to a razor's edge.
"We're about ten minutes out!" Captain Marshal Sumner heard over his radio. Lieutenant Washburn, the pilot of his Blackhawk was also the flight leader. On hearing the announcement, Sumner rechecked his weapons and gear for anything not in perfect shape. He had done so several times already but carelessness got you dead.
"Gentlemen," Capt. Sumner addressed his operators over the unit wide comm. "This might well be the milk run command expects, but until we are boots-at-base, I want heads on a swivel and rifles at the ready. I catch one of you slacking, and I swear to the Great Man in the sky that I will have you standing door duty outside the shit house faster than you can blink." His comments earned a few chuckles from the operators, but each one of them knew just how serious the Captain was. A bullet can kill you anytime, and one second of not being at a hundred percent could make the difference.
The Captain looked out just in time to see the other Blackhawk, Super 6-2, break right and out of formation. Simultaneously the co-pilot of his aircraft, Super 6-1, began flipping dials at his console and a general feeling of unease settled on the occupants of both helicopters.
"Super 6-2 is bingo fuel, aborting." Sumner heard over the radio. How could they be so low on fuel already, they should have been fully fueled at the start of the flight.
"Super 6-1, reading mechanical failure, suggest aborting," the co-pilot of Super 6-1 stated over the radio almost immediately after. The pilot looked over his dials and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
"What are you talking about?" the flight leader asked. "Console is green across the board. Super 6-2, confirming bingo fuel?"
"Affirmative, we have just enough to get back to base," the pilot replied. Lt. Washburn shook his head, they just lost half their element. Who overlooked fueling? He rechecked, and the all of the instrument panels were clear.
"Guardian, Super 6-1," Lt. Washburn called the operational commander. "Super 6-2 is bingo fuel and RTB. Super 6-1 is continuing."
"Guardian copies all," was the only reply. Captain Sumner and the seven operators with him could only listen as the other half of their unit turned away. Though none of them would admit it, the feeling of forgetting something was strong in each of them. Seasoned professionals as they were however, they simply rechecked their weapons and gear to ensure that what little they could control at this point was ready to go.
The flight continued for several minutes without a word, until the helicopter crested a small mountain. Below them in a clearing was a plume of smoke and what looked like a crash site. In the distance they could see what appeared to be a castle or some other structure. It was difficult to tell at a distance.
"Super 6-1 is eyes on target." Lt. Washburn said coolly, maneuvering the helicopter toward the crash site. The Delta operators began to prepare for landing when the helicopter went silent. There was no alert, no alarms or flashing lights. The droning sound in Captain Sumner's headset was gone. All of this registered in his mind in the first second, and then he felt his stomach leap up into his throat as the helicopter began a rapid descent.
"Super 6-1 is going down!" Lt Washburn called into his headset by reflex. "Brace, brace, brace!" No one on board could hear him, but they instinctively held tight as the helicopter plummeted toward the crash site. The Blackhawk barely crested the remaining trees before smashing into the ground, knocking its occupants about. Captain Sumner hit his helmet against the wall of the helicopter and everything went black.
Chapter 3
Commander Ansen took another swig of coffee as he finished typing his report. Everyone made fun of the Commander for preferring coffee over the more traditional tea, but he didn't mind it. Coffee simply tasted better.
All special operations deployments always required a significant paper trail, and heaven forbid, the operation happening on home soil. Add that it's technically a foreign military conducting the operation, and the i's had better have their dots.
Commander Ansen got word within an hour of the failed test flight of an experimental UAV. As the Commander of the United Kingdom Special Forces Department, or UKSF, the equivalent of the US military's JSOC, he was tasked with its retrieval or barring that, its destruction. After taking stock of the available units nearby, there was only one that was really up to the task. An American Delta Force team fresh from Afghanistan. They were in Britain awaiting transport back to the United States, but were fully equipped and close to the crash site. Closer than any of the SAS teams anyways.
The United States and Britain were close allies and technically the fallen drone was as much a United States project as it was British. Commander Ansen gave the order, and within three hours of the original crash, two helicopters were on the way, and Ansen had a stack of paperwork to do. Now, having finished it, he submitted it and went about the next task in a long and never ending list.
Several floors away, Senior Analyst Frank Bradbury received a copy of the report. He skimmed it, checking for any errors and almost missed an incredibly important detail. With a start, he checked the coordinates of the operation. He knew those coordinates.
Bradbury copied them down and walked quickly to his large map of Britain. A quick check confirmed his fear. It was next to Hogwarts!
Senior Analyst Bradbury had obtained his position in British Special Operations due to an incredible attention to detail, along with an ability to finish tasks in near record time. What the British government did not know was that he was actually an employee of a different government. He was not a traitor, not a foreign spy. On the contrary, he was a senior operative of the Office of Misinformation for the British Ministry of Magic. His duty was to monitor the operations of muggle soldiers and ensure that they did not discover any magical location in Britain.
This task was largely moot, as warding at the locations typically prevented most muggles from getting near, and assistance from the top levels of muggle government kept most locations difficult for muggles to travel to during the best of times. No one really questioned it, and those that did were usually visited by Obliviators and their minds altered.
Now there was an emergency however. A crashed drone near Hogwarts, and there were already soldiers on the way. He quickly logged off of his computer and left the office, muttering something about feeling ill to the few who inquired at his hasty exit. He went to a secluded area and with a quick twist, apparated to the Ministry to inform them of the impending disaster.
Captain Sumner felt himself being shaken and opened his eyes. Something was wrong. He blinked away the blur in his vision and saw his second-in-command, Master Sergeant Randy Wheeler pulling him up from the overturned Blackhawk. Sumner waved him off and made an attempt to stand. The floor was slanted, and it took him a moment to get his balance and take stock of the situation.
The helicopter was almost on its side, and his people seemed to have already cleared from the wreckage. A quick look outside revealed that they were in the clearing, about three hundred yards from the downed UAV. Nothing was on fire yet, but he didn't want to stay and risk it.
"You all right, Sumner?" the Master Sergeant asked, still concerned. Delta operators were held to a different standard, much more relaxed about rules and regulations. No one cared if they called each other by proper rank, as long as they remained one of the world's premier tier-one fighting forces.
"I'm fine," Sumner replied, reaching for a hand to get out of the downed helicopter. "What's our situation?" If there was one person in the world Sumner trusted to get things done right, it was Wheeler. The man was a top notch operator and always seemed to be thinking the same thing as his commanding officer.
"All of our electronics are out, probably what knocked the chopper down." He replied, his deep voice a by-product of his accumulated hours lifting anything heavy he could get his hands on. "All of the SOAR guys are injured in some way. The Lieutenant has dual femur fractures, Danner, Beckwith and Miller all have leg injuries. Rest of us are banged up but operational. I sent Barger and Haney to check the perimeter, Taggart is getting the wounded set up in a firing position about halfway between us and the UAV. Some good defensible ground there." Why Wheeler didn't have his own team was a wonder.
"Excellent," Sumner said, now standing with Wheeler outside the helicopter. The tail was broken and the rotors were shredded but the rest of the Blackhawk was in remarkably good condition. "Hit the Blackhawk with 2T and regroup at the firing positon. I'm going to go get a look at the UAV." It was standard procedure to torch their downed aircraft unless there was absolutely no danger of it falling into the wrong hands. The United States had some of the most advanced aircraft in the world, and its special operations forces took that a step farther, though most of those changes remained highly classified. Maintaining that edge meant leaving nothing behind for other nations or parties to reverse-engineer. They were in an allied nation but two advanced aircraft downed in the same area…not a chance he was taking.
"Copy," Wheeler replied even as Sumner started off toward the UAV. Wheeler went about setting several charges in predesignated locations throughout the helicopter. The operators used what they called 2T, a mixture of thermite charges on the most sensitive electronic components and thermobaric charges used to shatter the rest of the vehicle. Thermobaric weapons differ from conventional explosives in that they were almost one hundred percent fuel. That fact changed the playing field, giving thermobaric weapons the most destructive force of any explosive short of a nuclear weapon. These charges were much smaller than some used by the Air Force and Navy, but were more than up to the task of dismantling a vehicle.
Captain Sumner stopped at the makeshift firing position on his way to the UAV. The wounded were in a circle facing outward in the best positions of cover available. Rifles were ready and extra ammunition nearby. Taggart was moving about the wounded, patching whatever was bleeding. Lt. Washburn was stabilized, asleep from the pain medication Taggart had given him. With everything in order, Sumner continued on to the UAV.
"Boss," Haney greeted his commanding officer, his southern drawl as apparent as ever. Hany and Barger had finished their patrol and on seeing Sumner on the way to the UAV, met him there. Well, beat him there by a few minutes. "What do you make of this?" he asked, indicating the ground around the UAV.
"Find anything out there?" Sumner asked as he took a look at the ground, curious about their findings during the patrol. Hoof prints, looked like several horses had taken a close look at the downed prototype. Sumner began walking around the UAV, and Haney followed.
"Nothing but some hoof prints. Same as these. Couple horses maybe, no boot or foot prints though. If someone was riding those horses, they didn't get off," Haney said as they checked around the experimental aircraft. Just as Haney said, there were no other prints on the ground. "Nothing obvious missing from the UAV either."
"Looks like it," Sumner said, still unsure of what to make of it. "Set up 2T charges and blow it. First this goes down, then us. Someone knows it's here and we need to keep their hands off it." It took a little time, without intimate knowledge of where to place the charges they went with the tried and true "P is for Plenty" until they were confident that they had enough onboard. Half an hour later the whole group hunkered down in the firing position. Without any functioning electronics, they had to use detonation cord to blow both aircraft.
"Three, two," Sumner called out, warning everyone to expect the blasts, "one…fire in the hole!" He lit the cord and a second later two ear splitting blasts shattered the remains of both aircraft. All of the conscious members of the team looked up at the wreckage, satisfied that nothing of value could be obtained now.
"So boss," Wheeler said a few minutes later, when their hearing was a little better. "You see that castle north of here?"
"Yeah," Sumner said, again wondering why Wheeler didn't have his own team. Now that the pressing concern was taken care of, he needed to check out the castle. It was the only sign of civilization they'd noticed nearby and if someone had a weapon that could knock out any electronics, they needed to find out. With no ability to contact command, a rescue would be mounted sooner or later. If there was an electromagnetic weapon of some sort, it needed to be disabled before the rescue effort arrived or the problem would just compound. "Barger, Taggart, Haney on me. Wheeler, you hold this place down. We are going to recon the castle, see if it is the source of why we crashed."
"Copy, we'll be here," Wheeler replied as the other three operators stood to follow Sumner, checking their weapons. Wheeler had a pair of flare guns to launch at the first sign of incoming helicopters. Two red flares for dangerous landing zone. With any luck the incoming birds would hold off on flying any closer, it was the best they could hope for.
They made it about halfway to the tree line when the Captain gave his next orders. "It's coming up on dusk, ten meter spread. We don't have NODs or flashlights thanks to our fried electronics, so we take it slow and steady." The lack of night optic devices was a blow in and of itself, the ability to operate at night was one of the hallmark abilities of a special operations force. "Visual range, eyes and ears open, gents." Sumner commanded. His men simply nodded by way of acknowledgment and spread themselves in a line to the north, beginning what was likely to be a slow journey.
The Forbidden Forest was filled with many creatures of a magical nature, and though some watched the interlopers, none made any contact. The Delta operators made their way slowly and quietly to the castle, and few were better at maintaining stealth than the men on patrol. The creatures of these woods were intimately familiar with their home however, and the newcomers simply could not blend with the environment. Though none of them knew it, they were watched from the time they crashed, until they reached the edge of the forest overlooking the massive castle.
"Hold here," Sumner commanded. His men dropped low and spread across the tree line. Ahead of them lay a massive castle. Large spires shot high into the sky and the grounds were enormous. Nearby to the east was a lake of some kind and what looked like some sort of sports field to the west. Closer than he was comfortable with, near the edge of the forest, was a shack that, judging by the light and smoke coming from it, was occupied. The castle also gave off light from a number of its windows.
"See the light, boss?" Haney whispered, saying what all of them were thinking. Light meant people, and people meant a possible threat. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, where two advanced aircraft had just gone down, it meant a probable threat.
"Yeah," Sumner said idly, thinking through his options. There weren't many. This place was massive and a thorough recon was not likely with four people. If discovered, they could be in for a world of hurt. They needed to get rid of whatever was causing interference with electronics if they wanted to prevent their rescue from crashing however. That meant deploying and hoping to find the weapon. "We go in. Check the spires for an EM weapon. If it's here, it's probably up there. Good defense and better range up there. Check your weapons, we move in five. Don't fire unless we absolutely have to. If we get discovered we're humped."
The men checked weapons a final time, and each took a turn jumping and shaking themselves. Anything that jingled or gave off any kind of sound was secured. It was vitally important to stay quiet during any operation where you were significantly outnumbered, which described about ninety percent of special operations work.
"Let's move," Sumner whispered, and started toward the castle. Sumner took the lead, rifle at the ready and low to the ground. Just behind him, the rest of his team were stacked up. Each of them were aimed a different direction, checking for any sign of discovery and ready to respond to any threat with deadly precision. It was probably just shy of five in the morning, an opportune time for a raid. Anyone watching for the night was at their most tired, and those responsible for day watch not quite awake yet.
"Stack up," Sumner indicated at the massive doors that lead inside. His men got close to the wall near the door one right behind another, ready to breach the door. Sumner grabbed the large handle and pulled slowly. Each creak seemed deafening in the silence of the night and as soon as it was open large enough to fit a man, they entered rapidly.
Each man took a different direction as they spilled inside, checking for corners or hiding places in the large hall that they found themselves in. Not a soul in sight, they regrouped and made their way inside, looking for a route to those spires. They made their way slowly, checking each cross hall before continuing.
"Hold," Haney whispered from the front of the group. Immediately, they dropped low and pushed to the sides of the hallway. Haney glanced around the corner into the cross hall and dropped back. He looked toward the group and held one finger up, indicating they had one person coming at them. Sumner, being closest to Haney, pulled a set of zip-tie cuffs out and crept quickly to Haney, who got himself into a fighting stance next to the corner. They waited a split second, and a figure in dark robes rounded the corner directly into the waiting Delta operator.
"Wha-?" the figure got out before Haney pounced, slamming his hand around the man's throat and hooking a foot around his knee. The man had barely hit the ground, eyes wide at the sudden violence, before he was flipped onto his stomach. Haney quickly wrapped an arm around the fallen figures neck, careful not to kill him, as Sumner tied the man's hands behind his back. A small wooden stick clattered to the floor in the scuffle, though no one noticed.
"Not a fucking word," Haney whispered into his ear, not at all impressed by the greasy hair. The fear in the subdued man's eyes was rapidly being replaced with rage. "You make one sound I'll fucking end you," Haney followed up, and that rage was tempered with a healthy fear for personal safety.
"Pick him up," Sumner whispered, and Haney lifted their prisoner up with his arm still tightly wrapped around the prisoner's throat. It wasn't graceful, but it worked. He was relatively tall, with long black greasy hair and a large pointed nose. The guy screamed dirtbag in Sumner's mind. "Here's how this works. I'm going to ask you questions and you answer. Keep quiet, answer my questions and we don't need to hurt you. You yell for help, and we will end you and whoever comes running. Nod your head if you understand." The man hesitated for a moment and shook his head yes, or at least tried to. It was no easy feat with an arm wrapped around your neck. Haney released his grip and took a step back, raising his rifle and pointing the barrel behind the man's ear.
"What's your name?" Sumner asked. The man stared for a short moment, his rage barely suppressed by his sense of self-preservation.
"Severus," he replied, his voice tight. He glanced toward Haney, obviously irritated by the barrel jammed behind his ear.
"Don't look at him, look at me," Sumner said, roughly turning his head back. "Our aircraft were brought down, where is the weapon?" A puzzled look crossed the prisoners' eye.
"I don't kn-" was all he got out before a shriek pierced the hallway.
"INTRUDER!" The cry would have frozen them in place had they not been so thoroughly trained to react first and never freeze. "INTRUDER IN THE HALL!" Haney grabbed Severus roughly and pushed him face-first into the wall, holding his rifle on him. Sumner and the other two raised their rifles at different directions in the hallway, looking for the sentry that made them. The hall was empty.
"Where the hell?" Taggart asked out loud before being cut off by more and more cries of alarm, all in different voices.
"HELP! SEND FOR HELP!" one cried out. "GET DUMBLEDORE!" another shouted. The cacophony was loud and the team knew they were definitely made.
Sumner caught movement out of the corner of his eye and almost fired when he noticed it was actually a wall painting. The painting was pointing at him and shouting. What in the hell? Sumner's introspection was cut short by the sound of boots rushing down the hall.
"Push back, GO!" Sumner ordered. Taggart took the lead and Haney pushed their prisoner along behind him. Sumner and Barger both walked backward with their rifles at the ready. They only made it a short way when Taggart shouted.
"Contact front!" he cried out, alerting the group that their exit was blocked. Barger tapped Sumner on the shoulder to alert him that he was on his own for a moment, and went about looking for another exit. He found it in the form of a single door, near Haney.
"Door!" he shouted, and the group made towards it. Barger was the first through, securing its interior as Haney entered with Severus. Taggart and Sumner each made their way backward toward the door even as several people in sweeping robes ran at them.
"HALT!" one cried, her voice betrayed the surprise she felt at seeing them.
"Back the fuck up!" Taggart shouted, and fired two rounds over their heads. The crack of gunfire reverberated loudly in the hall and all of the responding sentries ducked their heads immediately, though some were quick to respond in kind. They waved their arms and shouted incomprehensibly, and to Sumner's surprise, red and green lights streaked at them. Sumner grabbed the handle at the back of Taggart's vest and pulled him roughly into the room. Sumner quickly kicked the door shut, and took stock of their new environment.
Prison was more like it. There was one way in or out, and he just kicked it shut. It appeared to be a classroom of sorts, with several desks and books throughout. Haney had Severus on his knees in a corner of the room, while Barger was knocking over desks toward the door to create some form of concealment. It wouldn't stop a bullet, but it would make finding them a little harder.
"Fuck!" Taggart shouted, making his way over to another desk, helping Barger. Barger got his set up to the left of the door, then crouched behind and aimed at the door. Taggart went about the same as Sumner put his ear to the door. Outside he could hear whispers.
"Albus," one voice said, the same that ordered their stop earlier. "They have Severus," she whispered, an edge of concern lining her voice.
"Who are they?" asked what sounded like a very old man. "What do they want?"
"I don't know. They looked like muggles," she replied. "There is no way out of there, it's Professor Binn's class. Not even a window." Sumner sighed softly, they knew too then.
"Greetings," the old voice stated loudly, easily heard through the door. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of this school. Might I ask who you are?" Sumner paused for a moment, he wasn't sure what to expect, but a school wasn't it.
"Captain Marshall Sumner, United States Army," he said taking several steps back from the door. Doors don't often block bullets, and he didn't want to be on the receiving end of any. "We are here on official military business and demand you surrender your arms immediately." It was a long shot at best, but confidence didn't hurt.
"I see," Dumbledore said. "I cannot do so. You are in a school, and I cannot let you harm my students or staff in any way. I understand you have taken one of my Professors, Severus Snape."
"That's correct. He isn't hurt, but he isn't leaving this room either," Sumner said, not waiting for him to ask for the release. That prisoner was likely the only reason the door wasn't blasted off its hinges already.
"Of course," the Headmaster replied as though it was a ludicrous suggestion to release Snape. There was a loud crack outside, and some whispering. Another crack, and the Headmaster spoke again. "If you will remain patient, I have sent someone to help us clear these matters."
It was nightfall already and Commander Ansen was sitting at his desk, another late night of paperwork ahead of him. His operation was not the easy recovery he'd hoped for.
Half of the Delta element returned to base en route with low fuel, or so they'd stated. Upon their landing at the SOF base they'd launched from, they weren't even through three quarters of their fuel supply. The SOAR pilots were among the best Ansen had ever encountered and such a mistake as misreading fuel instruments was unheard of.
To add insult to injury, the remaining element was not responding to radio communications. There had been no check-in and no response to repeated attempts to raise them. It was starting to look like a problem.
Crack! Ansen jumped at what sounded like a gunshot just behind him. He reached for his sidearm when a voice responded to his movement. "That really won't be necessary, Commander."
"Who-" Ansen turned and saw a face he recognized. One of the analysts, if memory served. The man was dressed in fatigues and he was obviously unarmed. "What in the hell are you doing here?" Ansen asked angrily.
"I'm here about the UAV and the missing Delta team," he replied, stepping tentatively into the office. He'd been with UKSF for several years and knew better than to jump and surprise a special operator, no matter how long he'd been behind a desk. Time was of the essence however. "I'll require your help to end this without bloodshed and time is short, please allow me to explain."
And so Frank explained who he was and who he really worked for. He explained briefly why he was there, and had to insist that Ansen remain quiet while he finished. He then explained the downing of the helicopter and UAV near Hogwarts and the situation now unfolding, finishing off with a demonstration of magic to seal the believability of his statements.
"How'd you get this information?" Ansen asked, already having a formed list of questions.
"Some of it at my post. The Headmaster sent a house elf to alert the Ministry, of course. The elf is waiting to take us there as soon as you're ready," Analyst Bradbury answered.
"Why me? Why bring me into the fold if your directive is to keep all of this secret?" It was one of the biggest questions running through Ansen's head, aside from wondering if he'd gone mental.
"The Ministry didn't want this, of course. Took some convincing actually. They wanted to send a squad of Aurors. I convinced them not to," he replied.
"Why?" Ansen didn't need much clarification on what an Auror might be. They were obviously some kind of armed response unit and the why was what he really wanted to know.
"I've worked this post for quite some time, gotten to know the special operations community. This is a much more dangerous situation than the Ministry realizes. If there is a strong response, there will be bloodshed. I want to avoid that. Please, sir, time is short."
"Right." Ansen thought for a moment. He was in charge of UKSF and had the technical authority, but the fact remained that he was a foreign Commander no matter how you slice it. The best way to guarantee cooperation from the Delta team was to bring a ranking JSOC officer. They might believe the British Commander, they would believe a JSOC one.
Ansen explained this to Frank who looked troubled for a moment before accepting the proposal. It was stretching the bounds of his authority to the max but he believed Ansen that it was the surest way to do this right. He apparated them closer to the office of Major Loren, the theater Commander of JSOC in the area, prepared to explain things all over again. This time with the help of a fellow muggle, however.
All together it had been an uncomfortable hour and a half. Time ticked on and Sumner had run the options through his mind. Fighting their way out was a ship that'd already sailed. There was no way this place wasn't reinforced by now. There was no other way out. The room was too small to blast a meaningful hole in the wall without killing everyone inside the room.
Crack! There were voices outside in a renewed interest.
"Captain Sumner, this is Commander Ansen," a voice called from the other side of the door. Ansen, isn't that the British SF Commander? "I'm here with Major Loren. Stand down gentlemen." Major Loren? That's the theater Commander of JSOC.
"Captain, it's the Major," a gruff voice said. Definitely Major Loren, Sumner had met the man more than once. How the hell did he get here? "Stand down. Open the door, and release the prisoner." His order left little room to maneuver.
"Sir?" Captain Sumner asked. "I'm sorry Sir, but how can I be sure it is you? How did you even get here?" Sumner wasn't sure what to make of his presence.
"Because I pulled your ass out of the frying pan in Kandahar last year, and because I told you to. Open the damn door," he replied. That is definitely the Major. Sumner looked at his guys and shrugged, opening the door. Outside, stood the Major, the Commander, and several men and women in robes.
"Release him," Sumner said simply and Haney cut Snape loose. Snape rubbed the feeling back into his hands as he stalked past everyone. One of the older women followed, likely to check his condition. "Sir, how did you get here?"
"It's a long story, and for now we will leave it. I'm here, and we are leaving." The Major turned to Commander Ansen and two others. "We will be taking our leave."
"I'm afraid it isn't that simple," the wiry one next to Commander Ansen replied. "The Ministry requires each of you to debrief with the Obliviators before you're free to go." The Major frowned, along with Commander Ansen.
"That's not happening. My men will debrief in the United States if anywhere. I have never heard of this Ministry before today and I will certainly not be turning my men over to it," he said, indicating the conversation on that subject was over. "Now, how are we getting to the airfield?" he asked Commander Ansen. Ansen was out of his depth here, not having ever heard of the Ministry of Magic or any such thing before either. They'd teleported here! He was still working on wrapping his mind around it.
"I'm going to have to insist," another robed figure interjected himself. "Lead Officer Walters of the DMLE, Ministry law enforcement. The man had cut off any attempt by Ansen to reply, and the Major looked darkly at him.
"I'm afraid," he started with a hint of mocking in his voice "that you'll find that an incredible mistake." Sumner and his men subtly readied their rifles, preparing to end a confrontation if one started.
"If I might," the old man, Dumbledore, started. "These men are American." Walters looked up at Dumbledore. "They an American problem. No one was harmed, and a confrontation is not in anyone's best interest."
"I couldn't agree more Mister…." the Major looked at the old man.
"Headmaster Dumbledore." The Headmaster bowed his head slightly in greeting.
Walters looked incredulously at the group. Without support from anyone, he turned to the other Ministry official. "You know the rules, as well as I."
"I told the Minister that we should avoid bloodshed, he agreed." It was obvious there was going to be no support from anyone at all. The staff, even the greaseball, took their cue from the Headmaster and the Ministry official had denounced use of force as well.
"I see," he stated simply. "We will apparate you and your men to the airfield, where I shall expect you to leave as soon as possible." The Major nodded his head, and with that they departed. Less than half an hour later, they were all at the airfield and the wounded from the crash site were receiving medical treatment. Their priority for transport back to the United States was increased somehow to the head of the line and they were on the next C-130 out.
Lead Officer Walters sent immediate word to the MACUSA, the American Ministry, of the breach and the need for a team to meet them on their arrival for immediate obliviation to prevent breach of the Statute of Secrecy.
What he didn't have control of, however, was the years of contempt that various magical governments had held MACUSA in. They kept on superficially friendly terms of course, but no meaningful aid had ever been sent and most of the incoming messages from the British Ministry were unfriendly letters aimed at various problems within the United States. As such, the message sent was "filed" unopened into the trash bin by an under-paid and over-worked worker.