RATED M FOR MATURE
SPOILERS within! (I recommend reading "A Fire Within" before you read any of this story)
I do not own any of the characters with exception of a few background "extras"
This story was written to reflect a possible real life military team. That being said, expect violence, death, language, and anything else that one may expect from a war story/movie. But it is just a story, don't take it too serious!
As of now I have the first 10 chapters proofread and will work on posting them. I will try to get them all out but time is a big factor for me.
So, here it is, the AU sequel to "A Fire Within". Please feel free to comment on the story, for better or worse! I didn't have an editor, so if you see 1) glaring errors or 2) parts that are disjointed or don't make sense, please let me know so I can fix it and make the story more believable and cleaned up. I'll warn you I do have a few POV shifts and may be a bit disjointed in a few areas; the latter I tried to do intentionally due to "shifting scenes" but still wanted it to flow smoothly, so let me know!
Last thing of note: Like "A Fire Within", look for little clues throughout the story, referencing random pieces from the comics or other sources…
PART TWO: The Heroes That Rise, The Heroes That Fall
CHAPTER ONE: SPOOKS IN THE NIGHT
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean (GPS coordinates classified)
It seemed as if the clouds stood still as the blades of the prop-driven C-130 tore through them in the dead of the night, just off of the Borovian coast. The only light outside the aircraft was a dim glow from the moon – other than that, they were running dark. Even the cockpit was so dark that the pilots could barely see each other, despite sitting no more than two feet apart; only the feint dim of the glowing LEDs on their instrument panel gave any shred of illumination. As the pilot gave a casual glance over the throttle quadrant, he could barely make out the stars and stripes on the copilots American flag patch.
"Unknown aircraft one nautical mile off of the coast line, identify yourself." The crew of the C-130 was being hailed by a Borovian Air Traffic Controller with a foreign accent, which also happened to be the first transmission from an outside source in over two hours broke the silence.
The aircrew initially ignored the radio call. "Looks like they made us a little earlier than anticipated. Not a surprise, I guess, given our distance to the coastline. Countdown, I'm reading six miles to our target; one minute, forty-six seconds. Does that check with you?" The pilot and aircraft commander, currently manning the radios, deliberately wanted to make sure that the copilot – currently flying the Herc – was on the same page.
Countdown nodded. "You got it, Slip-Stream. Good verification. Looks like we'll need to stall these guys a bit longer."
Coming across the radio, the controller asked again, and also with more inflection in his voice, "Unknown aircraft, we have you marked closing inside one nautical mile. You are inside the Borovian FIR and have not been cleared to do so. Identify yourself immediately!"
Slip-Stream sighed, thinking about his wording and just how exactly he wanted to respond before keying the mike. The tension in the controller's voice was apparent, and this was going to take a bit of bluffing. Where's Ace when you need him? His poker skills could finally prove useful, for once.
"Borovian Control, this is Rodeo 21. We are experiencing a GPS malfunction on board; it looks like we have drifted off course. Where are you showing our position?" This should hopefully buy us a little more time, Slip-Stream thought, planning on bantering back and forth with the foreign controller until they reached their time on target.
"Rodeo 21, we do not have your flight plan in our system. You do not have diplomatic clearance to overfly our country. Turn right heading of 185 degrees immediately!"
Countdown, flying the jet from the co-pilot seat, looked at Slip-Stream for guidance. Both pilots knew that turning right would be a fairly drastic action, setting them way off of their desired course. "Fifty-six more seconds until time-on-target" the co-pilot verified, still flying the jet with the autopilot system but backing up their position with time.
Nodding, Slip-Stream told Countdown, "Ignore his vectors. Keep flying as scheduled."
Getting back on the radio, Slip-Stream slowly replied, "Borovia, Rodeo 21. Roger that, heading 185 degrees. Stand by, our GPS malfunction appears to be affecting our navigation as well."
The faceless controller was clearly beyond agitated, Slip-Stream knew. Still, he was surprised the controller gave back an anxious "Borovia copies. Turn right ASAP."
After responding in the positive, Slip-Stream took a deep breath. Countdown, without looking at Slip-Stream, commented, "We'll be lucky if they don't launch their fighters on us, you know. Let's hope their air defense is as unorganized as the rest of the country."
"Borovia might be in shambles right now and have a lot of crappy military equipment, but their air force is state of the art." Slip-Stream couldn't help but smile. "Don't forget we sold them some of our F-14's back in the day. Little did our government know they'd be potentially using them against us several years later."
Countdown couldn't help but smile at the irony. "Shot down by an F-14, never thought we'd see the day. We better drop this load, and soon, so we can get out of here."
Slip-Stream, now confident that they could make the time-on-target without having enemy fighters scramble to launch after them, announced, "Crew, we are .5 nautical miles from the coastline, on time and target. Stand by, prepare for sonde drop in…. five seconds."
At direction of the pilot, the back end of the C-130 opened slowly, eighteen-thousand feet above the ocean's surface and slowly angling in towards the coast line of Borovia. But that was all they needed.
Talking on interphone to Slip-Stream, the loadmaster verified, "Sir, the sonde has been pitched out the back. It should give you real time winds and data any moment."
"Roger, load; we have data uploading… Ok, data retrieved. It looks good. According to this, the JPADS is in range – we'll expect it to steer the cargo to the coastline successfully. Let's start our orbit so we can drop our load where we dropped the sonde. Let's just do it quickly." As Countdown turned the plane around, he looked at Slip-Stream to see how he'd handle this one.
Slip-Stream quickly thought up a plan on the spot. "Borovia, Rodeo 21. We're going to make a three-hundred and sixty degree turn here to see if we can get our navigation system back; hopefully it's just stuck in position."
The controller didn't respond. Countdown laughed, "Lame excuse, bossman. No way they'll buy it…."
Slip-Stream smiled subtly and shrugged. "Hey, it's a viable fix for some of the older aircraft with gyros. If nothing else, it'll give us enough time to complete our mission before any enemy fighters try and take us out."
Countdown, still slowly turning the plane, said "Silence is bad. They're probably launching the 14's."
The C-130 continued its circle, nearing its time on target. Still, they had heard nothing from the Borovian controller. Slip-Stream was uneasy, and knew the copilot and loadmaster had to have been also.
"Ten seconds left until cargo drop… five, four, three, two, one… go green."
"Roger, going green," the loadmaster verified, releasing the cargo.
Out the back of the C-130, an enormous crate on an oversized rectangular-shaped foil was ripped out of the back. Seconds later, a parachute deployed over the cargo and the GPS receivers kicked in, guiding the crate to land.
Once the cargo was well clear and well below, two jumpers stepped forward. Both unidentifiable men were dressed head to toe in pitch-black clothing and military gear. Even their parachutes were as dark as the night itself. Turning to each other to give one last check, they both gave a thumbs-up.
The loadmaster couldn't tell who was who – they remained identical and even faceless due to their donned helmets and oxygen masks.
---
It was probably a good thing he couldn't recognize them, or so the loadmaster convinced himself. After all, these were the kind of spooks that creeped out even other battle-hardened military soldiers. The kind of special ops guys that only stepped foot on base to gather ammo and equipment, only to turn around and vanish into the desert to do who-knows-what to who. The kind of guys that had beards. Beards… and a stone cold killer look in their eyes, not to mention multiple kills notched under their belts. You just didn't screw around with them. You wouldn't ever want to. Plain and simple, it was better to not know their business and to stay out of their way… the less you knew, the better.
The first two men leaped out of the aircraft once they achieved appropriate spacing from the cargo drop, delaying their ripcord pull and vanishing into the dark abyss of the night. Two more jumpers, dressed identical to the first two jumpers, followed suit. Behind them, another two jumpers dove out… then two more after them, and then finally the last pair of jumpers leaped out of the aircraft, bringing up the last of the unit. In all, the loadmaster counted ten special ops jumpers vanishing into the night.
The loadmaster kept the crew informed over interphone by speaking up: "Sir, the drop was good. All cargo and ten jumpers made it out successfully. Can't see the parachutes in the dark, not even with NVGs. I guess we assume they all made the jump safely?"
"Copy that, load. We'll let them do the rest from here on out," Slip-Stream responded.
"Pilot, load," the loadmaster inquired, "Quick question. I heard you and the copilot were brought in specifically for this mission… are you guys also from Little Rock or are you from an outside unit?" He didn't want to ask, but he couldn't help himself. The night had already been just a little too… well, strange. He'd never flown with either the pilot or the copilot – which wasn't out of the norm, really; Little Rock Air Force Base had many squadrons and crewmembers, so it was common for crewmembers to fly with others they hadn't met before. Still, what tipped him off was the fact that neither pilot wore squadron patches. That wasn't exactly protocol, even for a diverse mission such as this. Flying over Afghanistan or Iraq was one thing, but over the Atlantic Ocean? It just didn't seem to add up.
Over the interphone, Slip-Stream calmly told the loadmaster, "We were brought in from an outside unit. We were told your squadron manning was low with all the constant deployments... so, here we are."
The loadmaster wanted to ask where they were from, exactly, but he didn't push the issue. The mission was over, after all; the hard part finished. It was time to enjoy the ride and fly back to their forward deployed base.
Countdown, a lot less rigid in his chair – in fact slouching in a way he hadn't before they had dropped the cargo and jumpers, said, "Looks like our job is done. You know, it's hard to believe the millions of dollars of technology that went into this airdrop, but you gotta admit, it's impressive. Who would have thought that today we'd have precision cargo drops, where the cargo electronically flies itself to the target just like a jumper does? Kinda like the precision-guided missiles you old, ancient guys dropped down the elevator shaft back in Desert Storm."
Blocking and counter-punching the copilots jab, Slip-Stream retorted, "Yea, and you were what… back in elementary school during the Gulf War? Barely old enough to draw mommy and daddy a picture of Iraq with your crayons?"
Countdown laughed. "Yea, maybe old man. But I'll tell you what… we've got the best job in the world! Don't we, load?"
"Uh, yea…" the loadmaster replied over the interphone, less than enthusiastic.
Slip-Stream chuckled in agreement with his copilot, getting back on the radios and hoping that the Borovians hadn't scrambled their fighters. Otherwise they might be making a jump themselves out of the plane. "Borovian Control, Rodeo 21. Sorry for the delay. It looks like our equipment is now restored. We're turning right to your directed heading of 185 degrees…"
Still in the far back of the aircraft, the loadmaster finally had a chance to sit. He took in a deep breath, breathing a sigh of relief, glad that the hard part was over…