Rewrite: Hello, Motherfuckers!
This takes place in the present day era in New York City; all 5 boroughs. This is a description of a typical raid the team does. They are part of the 1st SFOD-D, but fight terrorism and gangs on the home front. When they reach 24, they're officially allowed on Delta operations in foreign lands.
AO: Bronx, NYC
MISSION: Take out extortion/slavery gang known as the "Hombres Supremo".
UNIT: Fireteam from D Troop, 1st SFOD-D; call sign "Devil".
UNIT MEMBERS:
MSgt. Jordan Hall [TL]
SFC. Joshua Smith [ATL / JTAC / PILOT]
SPC. Johnathan Campbell [DESIGNATED MARKSMAN / MEDIC]
PFC. Gabrielle "Angie" Campbell [POINTMAN / DEMOLITIONS]
PFC. Alexa Campbell [SQUAD AUTOMATIC RIFLEMAN / HEAVY WEAPONS]
DATE: 03 / 22 / 2019
OPERATION: "RAVAGER"
It was raining; was that really a surprise? It's March in NYC, for Christ's sake. In a rundown apartment building, somewhere in the slums and gang controlled territory of the Bronx, a small number of teens and young adults gathered. Three were on the roof; two were in a room two stories down. The window was open, and as the two peered through their instruments, it became clear what they were doing.
One, a young man, barely out of his teens, sat in a chair, behind a vertically faced table. On said table laid a long, sleek object roughly three feet, with dark grey cloth wrapped around it. He was Specialist Johnathan Campbell, code name "Poet".
He was currently peering through the eight-power thermal scope he had mounted on his rifle- an old fashioned, but updated version of the Vietnam-era M21 Sniper Weapon System. It was fashioned with a bipod near the muzzle, and on the muzzle was a sound suppressor, to avoid alerting hostiles and civilians alike. Propped against the table, you could see a spare rifle for close quarters combat: a Barret REC-7, which they had perfected in the years since its development.
He was dressed in a dark grey tactical hoodie, with the hood up, covering his upper face. A shemagh was visible, albeit colored dark green and it rested around his neck. Kevlar elbow pads were attached to the hoodie and underneath you could see an UnderArmor thermal shirt beneath a Kevlar ballistic vest. He was also wearing the dark NWU-style digicam cargo pants, also with Kevlar knee pads. Black, waterproof construction boots adorned his feet, and Oakley assault gloves were gripped his hand tightly. On top of the shirts he had a lightweight assault rig, fitted with six Remington 6.8mm 35-round magazines. Next to his M21, two extra 10-round magazines were stacked on top of each other.
His partner peered through a thermal spotting scope, which also gave wind speed & direction, as well as elevation adjustments as it lazed the target. It was a girl around the same age as the sniper, dressed in similar clothing. She, on the other hand, did not possess a rifle of any kind. She was lugging the 7.62x51mm caliber M240B machine gun, with a paratrooper style drum magazine. This was PFC Alexa "Widower" Campbell.
Both had handgun holsters strapped to their thighs; albeit Poet's was on his right thigh, with easier reach for his right hand- his dominant one- while Widower had her holster strapped to her left thigh, for same reasons. Their team members, MSGT Jordan "Saturn" Hall, SFC Joshua "Blackjack" Smith, and PFC Gabrielle Angelica (Angie) "Venus" Campbell, were on the ground, waiting for them to clear the way for their entrance.
The room was dark- perfect for the similarly dressed operators to remain unseen. Now that I'm done explaining this shit, let's move onto something more exciting, i.e. Poet shooting some guy in the balls. Oops, spoiler.
Poet swept his scope to match the target on the roof of the warehouse-like building across the row of smaller houses. He flicked his thermal laser on and off, to show Widower he had confirmation of the target.
"Target is 587 yards away… Wind speed is full value, three miles per an hour, left to right… Elevation adjustment, plus 2.5 clicks… Execute," muttered Widower. Poet stopped breathing for the whole 27 seconds, and broke the 6 pound trigger. A single brass casing ejected from the rifle, and he watched- almost in slow motion- as the round left the suppressed muzzle with an audible pssh-hiss and spiraled towards the sentry. It hit the man dead center of his chest, leaving a gaping hole in his spine. He fell forward, and landed at the same time thunder struck.
"One down, six to go…" Poet muttered, letting a small smirk grace his face. Widower hummed, before giving him his next target.
"Target is 539 yards away… wind speed, half value, and five miles per an hour…" As she gave statistics, Poet adjusted his scope and rifle accordingly. Finally, the command came, "… Execute." Another pull, another jerk, another sound, another dead body- it went on like this for the next five targets as well.
"Saturn," Poet spoke into his mic, "all clear on the roof." After a brief silence, his team leader replied, "Solid copy. Drop your rifle in the truck and get here, ASAP." Poet grabbed his REC-7, slinging it over his shoulder, before grabbing the rifle case and putting his M21 in it. "Gotcha, Bossman, Widower and Poet are oscar mike," Poet muttered. He unslung his REC-7, pulled the bolt back, and flicked it from SAFE to SEMIAUTOMATIC. He looked at his partner, asking the unspoken question. She grabbed her gun and nodded.
Poet opened the door and silently moved towards the stairs, going to the roof. He kept his rifle raised, looking through his night vision goggles. He tightened his grip on the foregrip he had and the trigger handle. His NV laser swept hallways and doors, Widower on his six.
Eventually they reached the roof, where their exfil was prepared. Two inconspicuous ropes dangled off the side, away from windows. They hooked up their D-Rings and steadily walked down the side of the building. As they reached ground, they quickly unhooked and dashed across the empty street into an alley. They slowed down as they made their way into the dark, narrow passage, finding their way through the alley with the ease of natural New Yorkers.
Halfway to the RV point, they stopped, and behind a large collection of empty "dumpsters", which were actually painted wooden planks put together very well, was a GMC Yukon XL- black, of course. Poet put his M21 in the generous trunk space, as well as the extra magazines. He also grabbed his assault pack, which contained a few things like emergency IVs, buddy transfusion packs, MREs, and some more medical stuff. He closed and locked the car, before he and Widower raced against the forces of time to reach the objective.
The time was 0238.
Poet led the way, eyes sweeping vigilantly for any threats. Suddenly he dropped to a knee and held up a clenched fist. He and Widower hid behind a narrow pile of trash and, put bluntly, shit. Normally the close proximity would cause the hormone-plagued teens to go a little wonky, but they had learned to control their stupid hormonal impulses on missions.
A small group of drunken gang members and a few- who the two assumed to be- prostitutes made their way out of a seemingly trashed door, of a similarly seemingly trashed establishment. They hiccupped and giggled, with firearms visible on the gangsters. However, these men and women were not their targets- yet. As soon as they passed, they double timed as silently as possible to the RV point.
They made it at 0315.
Blackjack greeted them first, "What took you motherfuckers so long?" he growled. Poet glared back, growling, "I'm sorry, I had to wait for Chuck Norris to finish fucking Rachel Maddow before I could move from behind a pile of trash and shit." Saturn told them bluntly- "Shut the fuck up, dickwad 1 and 2." He turned back towards a toppled in wall. "We have a job to do."
The two other males backed off, each clutching their weapons in a death grip. The three remaining members rolled their eyes, while two thought, 'Boys.' I'll let you guess who they are.
Saturn gestured for Venus to lead them in. She nodded, raising her REC-7 before stepping through the hole in the wall. Blackjack followed her in, and coming after him was Widower, Poet, and finally Saturn.
The warehouse seemed almost empty. There were a few scattered guards on the upper catwalks, some of the gangsters were playing cards near the center of the room, and a few over near some cargo crates, and what appeared to be…
"Slaves…" muttered Venus. "Hostages, boss." Saturn nodded, "I see'em. Alright, BJ, you and Widower take out the power. I see it over there." He pointed to the right-side in their patch of darkness, where a control console and generator could be seen. "Poet, Venus, on the blackout, get on the catwalks and wipe those guys out," Saturn finished. The team nodded, splitting up. Poet and Angie headed near a stair case while Widower and Blackjack treaded towards the power generator.
Blackjack provided cover while Widower dashed over and cut a few wires, resulting in the loss of power in the building- more importantly, the loss of light. Hoods were thrown off long ago, revealing the black IBH helmets, with mounted NVGs and NVG racks.
Blackjack and Widower shot and killed two guards near them, one of which who stood up, exclaiming, "What the fu-?!" before being shot in the chest three times.
Venus and Poet raced up the stairs, the guards apparently panicking too much to hear them. One gangster turned towards his left, leaving his back to the deadly twins. "Hey, Pablo, maybe it the st-," never finishing as his head exploded, brains and blood spilling all over his soon-to-be-former buddy, Pablo.
"DIOS MÍO!" Pablo exclaimed, screaming afterwards, "Muere, diablo engendro!" He sprayed off three rounds from an AR-15 before being cut down by eight 6.8mm rounds.
(Translation: "OH MY GOD!" "DIE, DEVIL SPAWN!")
Poet continued going down the catwalk, shooting the two remaining guards. Venus turned to face the opposite catwalk, and fired at the slavers on that one. However, she couldn't kill them all at once, which meant…
"WE'RE COMPROMISED!" shouted Venus, blowing away two more gang members, before ducking to avoid a wild spray of gunfire from another. The gunfire was heard all over the neighborhood. Saturn, who with Widower and Blackjack, was killing hostiles as they ran out of cover quite stupidly, questioned, "WHAT ABOUT THE HVT?!"
Poet, after loading a fresh magazine, spotted him, exclaiming, "I GOT THE HVT! TAKING THE SHOT!" He aimed carefully, and let loose a burst of six rounds. He nailed a guard following him, and busted his left knee right open. "TARGET DISABLED!" reported Poet, before taking out a hostile with an AK-74. He threw a frag at the HVT, and before it detonated, he heard the man's final scream- a scream of sheer terror and horror.
He saw the two hostages- one girl around his age, and a younger one- shaking and crying with all the gunfire. "BOSS," he yelled, "THE HOSTAGES!" Saturn fell on his back and rolled onto his stomach to avoid a burst right where his head was, and loaded a fresh magazine before taking out the offensive bastard. "SECURE THEM, I'M PINNED RIGHT NOW!" he shouted back, barely audible even on the radio over the din of gunfire.
Poet grit his teeth, and then saw headlights outside. It was now or never. "MOVING, COVER ME!" he shouted, hopping off the catwalk three feet to a cargo crate below, then rolling off that and taking cover behind it. "COVERING FIRE!" he heard Venus yell, as Widower let loose a long, 30-round burst from her machine gun, devastating a number of enemy shooters and sending more diving for cover from the large bullets. Poet sprinted, vaulted, and slid behind various objects as cover. He made his way over to the cage, turning and firing a quick burst to keep the gangsters' heads down. He turned back.
"HEY! MISS!" he screamed over the gunfire. The younger girl started crying harder, but the older one turned around. She cringed and whimpered, but stared him in the eye. Poet raised his rifle and gestured with his offhand. "I'M GONNA NEED YOU TO STAND BACK!" he shouted. When she didn't move he started pointing, screaming, "BACK! BACK! MOVE BACK! I'M GONNA SHOOT THE LOCK!" Finally she understood, as she scrambled her young charge and herself towards the back. Poet jammed his muzzle against the lock and did a double tap, then smashed the lock with his rifle's stock. He swung the door open.
"LET'S GO!" he hollered, waving out. He turned and fired once more, as more fire concentrated on him. The teenage girl picked up the toddler and ran for all it was worth, Poet shielding them by shuffle shooting. As they reached the hole, a swarm of hostile troops entered the building. "DEVIL, PULL OUT!" shouted Saturn, covering the retreat of Venus and Widower. Blackjack moved to cover the exit as Poet covered Saturn.
As they regrouped and ran like hell, shots ricocheted all around them. "VENUS, GET THE CIVIS TO THE EXTRACT VEHICLE!" Saturn yelled, slapping Poet on the shoulder. The two did a 180 and dropped to a knee, firing back at the hostile reinforcements. Venus lead the way to the Yukon, opening up the rear doors for the hostages and slipping into the driver seat. Widower slipped into the passenger seat and blasted away the windshield. She turned around and yelled, "STAY DOWN!" to the two young girls. They got behind the front seats and in front of the rear seats. Blackjack hopped into the third row, as he ejected the trunk door.
Back with Poet and Saturn, the two fought tooth and nail against the onslaught they were facing. Poet ejected another magazine, and reloaded. Headlights burned his back, and a M240B lit up the alley. "LET'S GO!" shouted Widower, as Venus shot her Glock 18 as she kept one hand on the wheel.
"LAST MAG!" Poet reported, and caught two extras as Venus tossed them out the window- literally. Saturn hopped in the third row with Blackjack, and Poet secured himself in the trunk. Venus aggressively reversed her way into a street, and took off. "PURSUIT VEHICLES!" Poet yelled. Firing at the fleeing truck, the pursuers rapidly gained ground until…
"BLACK, PASS THE 203!" Poet requested, firing and apparently nailed the driver of a trailing F150, as it veered out of control and slammed into an apartment building. A grenade launcher appeared next to Poet's head, as well as a belt of HE and smoke rounds. He loaded a high explosive round, and took aim at the lead vehicle. He was vaguely aware of the rifles firing near his head, and then fired.
The muffled WHUMP shook the truck, and the explosive slowly sailed until it collided with the pickup in a burst of flame and steel. The truck flew in the air, and landed on another. However, more pursuers joined in. "VENUS, GET US ON THE HIGHWAY!" Saturn yelled, as she made a hard left and got on the ramp leading to the BQE- Route 278.
The time was 0403.
They drove straight through Manhattan and over a bridge into Queens. Some pursuers dropped off, but more persistent ones stayed. "HARD TURN AHEAD!" Venus shouted, prompting Poet to load a smoke round, and fire it through the windshield. Due to the smoke, vehicles either smashed into the rail guards or flew off the highway into the East River.
"RIDE'S HERE!" Saturn shouted, as an MH-60 Blackhawk flew overhead. "Devil, this is Owl 8-2, SPIE rig incoming," reported the pilot. Widowers went through the sunroof onto the roof of the truck. "GO!" Saturn shouted to the two former captives, as the older one gave the younger one up to Widower, before heaving herself up.
"I need two extra D-Ring sets up here!" exclaimed Widower. Poet cursed, rifling through his pack for some. He found one; luckily, Blackjack had another, as well. He tossed it at Poet, who got out of the trunk door frame and tossed them onto the roof, almost falling off when rounds whizzed by his head. He returned fire with another HE round, but he was dry now.
"203's out!" he growled, grabbing his rifle again. Blackjack slapped the seat twice, and a few seconds later so did Saturn.
"Time to go, bro!" Venus shouted. Poet shot a thumbs-up, as he climbed out the trunk and onto the roof, bringing his M21 and the empty 203 with him. Hey, why waste taxpayers' dollars, amirite? He saw her jam a crowbar in the wheel to keep it steady. They quickly hooked up, the civis looking kinda sick. He felt bad- first time is always the worst.
"WIDOWER, DUMP THE C4!" Saturn yelled. Widower dropped a ruck, full of C4, into the car. "8-2, GET US THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!" Saturn demanded, as the pursuers caught up with the slowing vehicle. "We are clear, ladies and gents!" the pilot jovially exclaimed, as the team was lifted from the roof of the almost stopped truck.
"Blow it," Saturn grinned, as the pursuit vehicles clustered around the truck. Widower grinned as well, and muttered, "Ka-boom, motherfuckers." She clicked the detonator, and the truck, and surrounding ones, exploded.
"Devil, patching you through to HQ at Floyd Bennet," 8-2's pilot said. After a few minutes of silence, a gravelly voice broke through, grunting, "Report." Poet raised his mic to his mouth, saying, "Devils are safe, no WIAs, two hostages rescued, and the sexist gang has been ravaged, Saint Pete." He grinned at the end, as the crew chiefs hoisted them up into the crew bay. He heard a chuckle on the other end, and "Saint Pete" said, "Chalk up another win, Devil. Operation 'Ravager' is done. Come back home for coffee, cake, and hero worship. HQ out."
Venus grinned as she sat down and buckled up, muttering, "What I need now, is a nap." She promptly fell asleep on her father-figure's shoulder. Saturn rolled his eyes; this was the norm for the 37 year old senior noncom. Poet smiled, pulling off his NVGs and helmet. He gestured at the two hostages, "Hey, you two," they looked up, "we're gettin' ya checked out at FBA. We got good docs and nurses who'll patch ya right up," he smiled.
The older girl nodded, introducing herself and the tike as well, "My name's Johanna Thompson, call me Joey. This is my sister, Charlie. But what's FBA?" Her wide blue eyes shone with curiosity. John smirked, pulling down his shemagh, dramatically exclaiming, "Floyd Bennet Airbase." She frowned, "But that's been closed for years!" she argued. "Not anymore," John smirked larger, if possible. Joey kept frowning until John gestured to look outside. She gasped.
Beyond the old ruins of Floyd Bennet, in the tall trees and grasses, another compound was built. Guard towers, electric fences, road blocks, and the whole shebang. The pilot guided the helo towards an opening hangar in the ground, where they descended 100 feet or so before landing. The team unbuckled, and John took Joey by the shoulder, and wildly gestured about.
"Welcome to Floyd Bennet Airbase, Ms. Thompson," John exclaimed, turning towards her with a mischievous glint in his eye, "…and welcome to the home of Disaster Squadron, First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta."
AN: Well writing this in… Roughly, 4-5 hours was fun. This was seriously fun to write. I got to rewrite that shoddy first chapter, and this looks better. Also did something special with Floyd Bennet, kinda outta GI Joe: Rise of the Cobra. Made a few other references I forget, but hey, if you catch'em, great!... Gotta catch'em all!... Damn you, Pokemon.