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>You are Captain Anonymous, US Army, 5th SFG, ODA 6894.
>You are also a member of the International Counter Sapient Trafficking Group, a multinational law enforcement agency consisting primarily of Western nations sans Russia and several in South America.
>Basically, the civilized Western nations that took exception to slavery in general.
>The ICSTG operated primarily in nations where slavery was officially illegal, but given a wink and allowed to continue with only superficial opposition.
>So the usual suspects; the UAE, Saudi Arabia, and their ilk, plus a number of African and Asian nations. The fucking barbarians who saw no issue with owning other sapient beings.
>The US Army lent you and your ODA because trafficking of ponies had been linked to the funding of several unpleasant organizations across the Middle East and North Africa.
>You enjoyed the duty; it was making good on the SF motto of “De Oppresso Liber,” morale was better than it had ever been in Afghanistan, and fighting inept criminals was preferable over jihadists trained by the nastiest of Chechens and Afghans. 
>Presently, you were attending a briefing over a compound believed to house a very important pony: the princess of friendship herself.
>That’s right, Twilight Sparkle. She’d been kidnapped from her castle 12 weeks previously, and not a clue had been left behind save for a handful of low quality fingerprints. 
>The ICSTG plus the intelligence organizations of the member countries had been working around the clock to find actionable intel. First, a safehouse in Djibouti 2 weeks after the kidnapping.
>That raid had provided a laptop filled with pictures of the captured princess and some more information, namely bank account numbers and a partial money trail.
>That raid led to another on a Saudi money launderer in the UAE a week later. There, the kidnappers had made their first mistake: they failed to compartmentalize.
>The launderer knew the name of the man who had contacted him. 
>You remembered the fat, sniveling coward begging you to remove the car battery from his testicles. Instead, he received a slashed throat and was disposed of in an alleyway. The mild electrical burns on his groin were made to look like a rash, and the coroner paid to skip an autopsy.
>It would look just like another business man falling prey to one of the many denizens of the Emirati underworld. 
>Law enforcement agency thought it may have been, the ICSTG and its constituency operated in violation of sovereign nations. They worked in the shadows, using unsavory methods against unsavory people. 
>The man who contacted the unfortunate Saudi was a Frenchman. He’d been taken by a GIGN team in Toulouse. He was offered a plea deal, which he eagerly accepted, on the condition he flip on his employer.
>Surprise surprise, he was in the employ of a wealthy Emirati oil tycoon who, according to the Frenchman, wanted a pony princess to complete his collection. 
>Walking out of his holding cell with his plea deal, he thought he was scott free. 
>Your team had buried him in a shallow grave deep in the Ardennes Forest by the end of the week. 
>The spooks in the NSA, NRO, CIA, and ISA had done their homework, following money trails, movements, collecting SIGINT, HUMINT, and ELINT. A bribe here, a threat there.
>After two weeks of that, they found 5 probable locations.
>After another week, they were down to two probables, one in Qatar, the other in Somalia. 
>A British SBS team carried out site recon on the Somali one, proving it to be a bust. There were ponies, but they couldn’t act lest they spook their quarry. The Brits would act when Twilight was recovered.
>That left Qatar.
>Your team was selected for the raid. You and your twelve Green Berets trained on a mockup of the compound for five weeks.
>It was showtime now, the final brief before you would board a Navy MH-60S Knighthawk, take off from the naval base there, and be dropped a few miles from the compound on a nondescript flight path in the dead of night.
>Two Predator drones and one Globalhawk were being provided.
>You entered the briefing room, your men seated already. You noticed a pony in the armor of the Equestrian guard.
>Must be Shining Armor; the princess’s brother.
>Was he tagging along? You hoped not; while the extra manpower of a skilled unicorn would be useful he hadn’t had any time to work with you and the team.
>He could handle himself, certainly, but war is a team sport, especially special operations.
>Regardless, you nod to him, sit, and await the briefing. 

>Turns out, not much had changed; the compound was still guarded by 8 armed men.
>Not locals, by the looks of things. The poise, the weapons, the discipline; no these men were not street hires. That didn’t worry you. 
>You stand and make to walk out, chatting with your weapons sergeant. 
>Shining Armor comes over to you.
>“I won’t be coming with you, but I want you to make sure my Twily gets out of there safe. I’ve heard your reputation, and I don’t want it to be proven wrong out there. Good luck, Captain.”
“I appreciate that, Prince Armor, sir. I assure you that my men and I are going to get her out A-okay. Can’t say the same for the scum holding her, though.”
>That drew a smile. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Captain.” He extends a hoof, which you shake.
>Go time. The Knighthawk lifts into the air, navigation lights blacked out, the pilots flying by sensors and NVGs.
>Their southerly flight path takes them out of Doha and out into the desert. The compound is east of Mazra`at Turayna.
>Your men are crammed in the back, with a Navy boy on each .50 caliber door gun. 
>You’d never flown with Navy helos before, but you knew it took a lot of skill to land a helicopter on the pitching deck of a destroyer or cruiser. 
>You nod off, and wake up to your communications sergeant tapping you on the shoulder and gesturing to the cockpit.
>You look and the face of the pilot is illuminated eerily by the glow of his displays and NVGs. His voice breaks the silence, your headset crackling to life.
>“Captain, we’re five minutes out from the drop off. We’ll be holding station in case you need us.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Do this job well and I may just root for Navy this year!”
>That got a chuckle. “Aye, sir. The lads and I will take care of you, no problem.”
>The five minutes flew by quickly, and you fastrope out of the helo to the desert below. 
>Twenty minutes ahead of schedule, thanks Air Navy! The compound is five miles to the west, so you and your men begin their hike, the sand and grit blown up by the helo’s rotor wash dissipating as it gained altitude and climbed to where it would hold station for evac.
>12 highly fit and tough SF types don’t take long to get to the location, and you find yourself looking down at the rather plain looking walled off hovel from a small rise 500 meters distant, a dirt road linking it to the nearby town.
>Your team starts to advance. Your headset crackles.
> “Bandito, be advised that you have a group of three trucks approaching the target. Likely hostiles, potential HVT. How copy, over?” 
Fuck. The highly rehearsed plan included something like this. No biggie.
“Solid copy, Orbital. Interrogative: ETA to target?”
>“ETA to target 10 minutes. Be advised that we will interdict that convoy if we can determine hostile intent, over.”
“Copy that. Keep me posted. Out.”
>You continue with the original plan.
>Your two designated marksmen set up on the rise; in moments they and their thermal signatures are all but invisible.
>The rest of your men continue creeping towards the compound, the pitch dark moonless night obscuring. 
>At the rate you were going, it would be twenty minutes to the compound, stopping and watching the walls before slithering along.
>“Bandito, be advised that the convoy has stopped and 24 armed dismounts are sweeping the desert. Comms chatter indicates that they spotted the chopper and are spooked. Proceed with caution, over.”
“Understood, orbital. Will you take action against the convoy?”
>“Negative. Clearance has been revoked and we can only fire if required for mission success..”
“Copy that, Orbital. ETA until those dismounts are on top of us?”
>“25 minutes until they reach your starting position, over.”
“Plenty of time, Orbital. Keep a look out for us. Out.”
>You gesture for your team to pick up the pace
>Ten minutes later, you are against the compound wall next to a thick wooden door.
>The brick is cool through your shirt. 
>Your marksmen just finished dropping the hostiles on the top of the wall. 
>That left two on top of the main building and at least four still inside. 
>They were yours.
>One of your men picked the lock and eased it forward silently. 
>The laser tripwire had been deactivated; the handiwork of an ISA team that ran roughshod over the compound’s IT.
>The ten of you flow into the courtyard, your suppressed rifles breaking the silence of the night, sounding like a textbook dropped onto a floor. 
>Exterior forces neutralized. Now onto the real prize. 
>Your team stacks up on the exterior door, Sgt. Lorenzo checking the door for booby traps before giving it the all clear and placing a charge.
>The door blows and a stun grenade flies in.
>SSgt. Bartle is in first, followed by you.
>A single hostile is writhing on the ground, hands pressed to bleeding ears. The two of you bypass him while Lorenzo zipties his hands and gags him.
>The building was a single floor with four rooms excluding the entry area you were in.
>The speakers on your headset aren’t picking up anything.
>Your team clears the house room by room, finding only one other hostile. He joins his injured partner, gagged and ziptied.
>Where is the princess?
“Orbital, be advised, Objective Merlin is not present, over.”
“Bandito, say again?”
“Objective Merlin is not present, I say agai-” you hear what sounds like a sob as your boot clunks into a wooden panel in the floor. You’re an idiot.
>“Bandito, confirm status?”
“Orbital, there appears to be a hidden basement. I think Merlin may be in there.” You whisper, gesturing to your teammates.
“Understood, bandito. Be advised, dismounts have embarked and are on the move to the compound. ETA 3 minutes. I’m vectoring in gaspipe to your pos and your marksmen are ready to fire. Out.”
>Huh. So the navy boys would join the fun, too. Gaspipe referring to the helo you rode in on.
>You step off the wooden floorboard and take up position. Sgt. Lorenzo has a crowbar out, and inserts it gently under the board.
>You count down with your fingers and at one he heaves mightily, sending the carpet covered board flying away.
>A surprised looking hostile stands slackjawed, with the missing pony on the floor next to him. SSgt. Bartle is on him in an instant, pouncing down and crushing him under his weight.
>You rather more sensibly take the stairs, and pick up the pony princess in your arms, bridal style.
>Jesus she’s light. And filthy. She feels bonier than the pictures you’ve seen of her would indicate. 12 weeks of hell would do that.
>You don’t want to look at the instruments and tools you see lining the wall.
>Poor girl. She has her eyes clamped shut and is shivering.
“It’s okay, Twilight, you’re safe now. We’re friends. You’ll be home soon.”
>Her eyes open. She looks at you, her eyes dulled by fatigue and starvation yet still possessing a brightness, however tarnished. 
>She begins to cry, muttering thank you over and over again, pressing herself into your unyielding ballistic plate. You almost regret wearing it for her sake. 
>You stroke her mane gently as you take the stair up, followed by Bartle manhandling the prisoner. The rest of your team was ransacking the place for intel, but were unsuccessful at finding anything useful.
>You realize you forgot to report recovery of the princess, but Lorenzo says he beat you to it. 
>“Didn’t want you to disturb her, sir. We’re about to get hit; enemy convoy is 30 seconds out. Gaspipe is coming in hot with Hellfires primed, and the sanitation team is lifting off now. Wilkins and Snyder are setting claymores in the courtyard, rest of the team is on the roof. Corbec and Larkin are ready to fire from the rise”
>Good subordinates were a godsend. You look down at Twilight. She’d recovered slightly and was looking at you.
>“There are more of them coming?” she asks, sotto voce.
“Yes. Nothing we can’t handle, your highness. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to put you down. Listen to me carefully: I want you to stay here in this room and stay as close to the floor as you can. Stay behind us and under no circumstances do I want to see you engage these people. Look away, cover your eyes, whatever. Got me?”
>She just nods. You set her down gently behind a rather thick looking adobe bar.
>You’re thankful for the plush carpet, otherwise the poor girl would be freezing. 
>You clamber up a ladder to the roof and kneel behind the thick concrete parapet. You can’t see over the exterior wall, but the courtyard is a killing field.
>“Bandito, orbital. Enemy convoy has stopped approximately 200 meters outside the compound. Dismounts are moving towards your pos, same number as last time. How copy, over?”
“Good copy, orbital. We’re ready with the welcome wagon. ETA on Gaspipe, over?”
>“He’s holding steady 4 kilometers from your position, ready to engage with Hellfires, over.”
“I’ll call him if I need him. Out.”
>It begins. Corbec reports the enemy having reached the compound wall. You order him to fire the moment you detonate the claymores. It’ll be a brief and vicious slaughter.
>The compound’s doors ease open slightly and the first hostiles start to flow into the kill zone. 
>Initiatekebabremoval.jpg
>You give the clacker in your left hand a good squeeze, the electrical impulse detonating the six claymores arranged several meters from the door.
>Your men start firing at the few enemies still visible through the smoke, and you know Larkin and Corbec are hammering away at the hostiles still outside.
>A few wild shots pock the parapet in front of you, and one even plucked at your sleeve, but the attackers would need overwhelming numbers to make good on their one breach.
>Just one breach? You remembered that there was an outhouse. One of the rooms you cleared was a bathroom.
>ohshitnigger.jpg
>The orders are already leaving your mouth as you stand up.
“Lorenzo, Bartle, with me! We’re gonna be flanked! Wilkins, Snyder, secure the princess!”
>They don’t question you; years of working side by side means they trust you implicitly.
>You run to the rear of the building and sure enough four hostiles are flowing across the backyard.
>You fire a quick hammer pair into the lead man, who drops. The remaining three open fire, and pin you down. 
>Bartle has a grenade in his hand and tosses it expertly before slamming down into cover next to you.
>Lorenzo takes a shot to his plate, but shakes it off long enough to return fire, killing his attacker. He drops down as well. You risk a look.
>Four targets, four dead targets. 
“Lorenzo, drop a grenade into that outhouse.”
>He complies wordlessly, his M203 thumping a 40mm into the darkness of the structure.
>It blew up real good.
>Your headset crackles to life.
>“Corbec. All clear out front, sir. Larkin chased down a squirter from the vehicles, and he may prove interesting.”
>“Snyder here. Clear in the courtyard.”
>This mission went surprisingly well. 
>You made your way back downstairs and knelt by Twilight.
“It’s safe now, your highness. We’re going to extract you, get you to a hospital, and then home to Equestria. You’ll be seeing your friends in no time. And Shining Armor’s waiting for you, too!”
>She perks up at that before leaping into you with as strong a hug as she could muster.
>You pick her up bridal style, and carry her out into the courtyard. 
>You see the gore from the doorframe.
“Close your eyes, princess. Don’t look down, just keep your eyes closed.”
>She obeys, clamping her eyes shut and snuggling into you more tightly than before.
>Finally you are outside, and there is the Navy Knighthawk finally touching down.
>Your medic sets upon her instantly, regretting not getting to her sooner.
>All hands were needed when under attack that he hadn’t had time to give her an IV and saline tablets.
>She remains on your lap as an IV is stuck into a vein and she devours a protein bar.
>The helo lifts off as the sanitation team touches down and begins to do their work.
>Any survivors of the attacking force would be given enough medical attention to stay alive long enough for interrogation before being dumped into a shallow Qatari grave.
>The runner Larkin nabbed was with the other prisoners being marshalled by your teammates still at the compound.
>You look down at the purple pony princess on your lap, and can’t help but smile; she’d fallen asleep and nestled herself as tightly as she could into your warmth. 
>The flight back to Doha is uneventful save for your gentle petting of Twilight and your medic occasionally fussing over her not finishing all the protein bars he gave her.
>You promise to buy the entire aircrew plenty of drinks at the officer’s club that night.