Kris Kringle’s been spending a little too much time in the homes of high ranking government officials for the NSA’s liking. Diplomats, station chiefs, and clandestine service employees homes seem to garner a little too much consideration from Sinter Klass’ otherwise busy midnight Christmas eve run; according to the “eyes only” report I’m reading from U.S. America’s Homeland Security. The report courtesy of the deep web.
The U.S. American clandestine agencies suspect Sinter Klass of colluding with Zhengzhou, selling case operative identities and other intelligence to and from first, second, and third world nations all over the globe. Also, none too pleased are the Americans about Pelznickel’s narcotics operation.
Father Christmas’ base of operation boarders the North Western edge of Quttinirpaug National Park, on Canada’s Ellesmere Island. The location, well north of the Artic Circle, was deemed too hazardous for U.S. America’s military personnel and equipment to make an operation of this type cost effective. By contracting a company, new to the paramilitary business, the NSA figures they can keep their budget in tact and save a few bucks if the mission proves unsuccessful; “the dead cost nothing”.
“Business End International”, a start-up in the private military business had been looking for their big break. Based in Lihue Hawaii, the company boasts the ability to garner the cooperation of countries worldwide. The Kanakaloka caper is their foot in the door of the lucrative U.S. America’s military contractor pool. As such, they called in an expert, someone who’s tracked Mikulas high and low, all over the world, someone with intimate knowledge of Papai Noel’s habits, vices, and comrades; yup they called me. “It will be like a vacation”, the company’s salesman told me. Thoughts of basking on one of Hawaii’s famed beaches, hula skirt maidens prancing about, mai-tai in one hand and a bikini clad lass in the other, convinced me to get on board.
After two and a half days pouring over operational plans and specifications in a nondescript storefront office, located in Kauai Island’s Kuhio Mall; we have a fairly comprehensive plan. Time to hit the beach! The weather, which had been a very agreeable twenty one degrees Celsius all week, turns into a chilling rain as a tropical cyclone skirts the island. So much for my holiday.
“You thought we’re paying you just to check over out attack plan?”, the CEO of Business End International half queries. “We need you on the ground, or ice as the case may be, an expert advisor to provide real-time operational feedback. If there are any workarounds that need to be devised, I need a specialist with experience!”, the BEI boss concluded. Hooroo potential bikini babes. I should have known, between my expertise garnered from my time in Special Forces and the exorbitant fee they are paying me; fun wasn’t part of the programme. Rooked again.
. . .
82.604513,-77.257691, 19:00 hours, December 24. Twenty klicks south of the infamous Santa Claus’s “workshop”. Our team of mercenaries, er, freedom fighters, um er, “volunteers” from seventeen western and southern hemisphere countries are assembled; we number just over one hundred. The plan is fairly simple, storm the Hoteiosho campus, castrate it’s operations, and capture Babbo Natale. Utilising Martel MTT-136 electric dog sleds and AB Elmacchina electric snowmobiles, we will able to approach the campus with ninja like stealth.
Between the personnel, heated polar suites we have donned for this mission and cold weatherised equipment, including an anti-aircraft gun in case Kringle attempts a flight of flight; the operation is costing the Americans just under one billion tax dollars. Glad I’m not a citizen. Quite easily justified though if we can finally nail that Swiety Mikola bastard once and for all!
The BEI provided intelligence is exactly one year old. The thought being, our target duplicates his operation every year, thus newer data, and the cost of newer data, would be useless. Logical, I suppose. The satellite overviews show just where to expect the guards to be patrolling and the location of the security system. Other than the workshop, there a few barracks and a stable. “What are these spots”, I query the CEO. “Oh just some animals roaming the ground, probably reindeer. Nothing to worry about”, his answer. Nothing to worry about?, I’m not too sure about that.
The plan is simple. Utilising the Elmacchinas and Martels, we’d quickly cover the distance between our insertion point and the perimeter of the Julenissen compound. After neutralising the few expected Elfin boarder guards, the team will sprint to the “workshop”. Flash-bangs and breaching rounds. A quick incursion into the premises and Santa would be ours.
The twenty clicks are covered in a snap, our electric sleds performed admirably. The three Elfin patrol guards are quickly dispatched and the security system shut down by a focused EMP discharge. The plan is working. Just as we begin our sprint to the “workshop” we are thwarted by the ruminant guard, including St. Nicholas’ Imperial guard, his sled team. Fortunately, one of the Mexican volunteers planned for just such a problem as she produces a satchel full of Prime Rib laced with a powerful sedative. Once the rangifer tarandus are subdued, we continue our mission.
Forty team members in position, surrounding the “workshop”, the rest serving as lookouts several yards away from the main entrance hall. Ready? 3. 2. 1. Bang! Breaching charges fired, flash-bangs in all available orifices, blinding light and deafening sound. What should have followed: several team members entering the building, sidestepping the innocent Elves, finding Klaus and bringing him out, to face justice.
Instead, things went sideways… the first several volunteers are cut down by well armed Elves, proficient in the use of their General Electric XM214 Miniguns. The firefight that is playing out threatens to consume our entire contingent.
Just as it begins to look beyond hope, I get a call on my Sat-phone. Its Capt’n Sky. I had read Sky into the mission, just in case I needed an emergency lifeboat. Capt’n Sky reports there is a lone target fleeing from behind the “workshop”, making his way to the docks. I gather a contingent of nearby compatriots and we sprint in that direction. One of the commanders directing the firefight sees our move and orders the troops to disengage the Elves.
In the now comparative silence, I can hear Kanakaloka screaming into a Sat-phone as he runs toward a rather familiar looking red Donzi tied up alongside the dock.
“We got him!”, exclaims one of the commanders closing in on Klass. “The ice floes are too heavy to navigate in a light boat like that, he’s trapped!”. Pere Noel is still screaming to someone at the other end of his Sat-phone, running, tearing off his jacket, followed by his shirt. We continue to close in on Swiety Mikola, we’re about thirty yards behind him as he kicks off his boots. At twenty yards away from Pelznickel, still running towards the end of the dock, Santa shouts one more time into the Sat-phone before chucking the phone into the water. Stripping off his pants to reveal red thong underwear, Kris Kringle dives into the frigid water.
Just as Mikulas surfaces a few metres out, so does a submarine. Kris Kringle is admitted aboard via a diver’s hatch and the sub sinks quickly into the black night sea.
“What- who’s navy was that?”, inquires one of the volunteers standing with me on the dock. I just shrug my shoulders. Oh, I know, I recognised the insignia on the mast. I now know Santa is part of… well, I’m sure you know as well.