Prologue: Immolation
-Locating John "Pyro" Enderson, TF141-
-Target Located. Location: Somalia-
"Damn it!" I yelled. I had been in dangerous ops over the years, but it looked like I was officially screwed. The bodies of my comrades, killed by the crash, lay in the pavelow's wreckage all around me. My leg throbbed painfully, and I guessed it was sprained. It was a miracle I had survived the crash, but I doubted it mattered. Even now, I could hear the sound of the approaching militia, shouting in their harsh language to each other.
I quickly glanced around, scanning the area for anything I could use to defend myself. My eyes caught on something. "Bingo" I said, grabbing my M4A1 assault rifle from the ground. Amazingly, it had also survived, along with a few clips of ammo and a couple rifle grenades. I rose to my feet and hissed. Apparently, my leg was a lot worse than I had previously thought. It was probably broken, and that made the situation even worse. I turned to limp away from the wreck, when a small cry caught my attention. "Help!" it croaked, and it seemed to be coming from under a torn seat.
I limped over and lifted the debris. One of comrades, Fox, lay there, covered in wet blood. Both of his legs were obviously broken, shards of bone stabbing through his flesh. "Alright, I'm gonna pull you out of there, ok?"
He nodded, and I reached down to grab his arm. As careful as I could, I pulled him out. He attempted to contain himself, but the pain caused him to yelp involuntarily. With a great effort, I managed to pull him to the edge of the wreckage. "Ok, you keep 'em off our back and I'll get us to the secondary evac point. Just hang in there."
Again, he nodded his face as pale as fresh snow. With shaking hands, he pulled his M9 from its place on his hip and held it out in front of him. I did the same, taking hold of his collar. As I began to drag him, the militia came into sight. Yelling, they pointed at us with fingers and guns, and bullets whizzed all around us. My comrade yelled in defiance and fired his M9. I turned around and raised my own pistol, squeezing the trigger and dropping an RPG-toting militia with a pair of well-placed shots. I turned and looked ahead. A small cluster of buildings, probably a farm, spread out before us. Heaving with all my strength, I managed to drag my squad mate through a gap in the wall. I set him in front of a hole large enough for him to pick his shots through, but small enough that our enemies would have a devil of a time reaching him.
As I crouched at my own position, a blasted and toppled portion of wall, I heard the sound of static, then a voice. I quickly realized that my com-link had survived the crash, just fallen from my ear. Ducking down, I replaced it, and immediately asked, "Captain Mactavish, is that you?"
"Affirmative. Pyro, give me a sit-rep, over." The other voice replied, with that familiar Scottish accent.
"Fox and I are still up, but everyone else is gone. We're pinned down in a farm about 100 yards from the crash site. We've got 50 plus foot mobiles headed in our direction, armed and dangerous, over." I popped out from my cover long enough to launch a grenade. The projectile slammed into an unfortunate fighter, instantly killing him and two nearby companions.
"Understood, Pyro. How long can you hold on, over?" Mactavish asked.
I ducked as a volley of automatic fire whistled over my head. "Sir, we need evac ASAP! We can hold tight for a couple of minutes, but we can't keep displacing. Fox broke both legs and one of mine is broken, over."
"Alright, mate. We'll send in a chopper. ETA 8 minutes. Hold tight, stay under cover. Mactavish, out." He says, and then the line goes quiet.
Fox drops a magazine from his pistol and turns. "What did the captain say?" he asks.
"They're on their way, but we got to hold until they get here." I say, and he nods. I come up over cover and aim through my rifle's red dot sight. A volley of bullets cuts down a sniper and two others. I shift my view and cut down at least half a dozen until the magazine clicks empty. Cursing, I duck down and slap in a fresh clip. I rise and fire off another grenade. It's a good shot, and it tosses a cluster of hostiles through the air.
Unfortunately, I've stayed up to long. The only sound I hear is a lone shot, blaring like a bomb. Somehow, I even have the clarity to see who fired it. A lone sniper, clutching a rifle to his shoulder, and watching through the scope. I can almost see his smile as he sees his bullet fly on target. And then comes the pain. It blossoms in my midsection, like a red-hot iron spike. Before I know it, I'm lying on the ground, blood flowing onto the sand. I dimly hear Fox's voice, yelling at me to get up. Instead, I do the only thing I can, which is crawl. I crawl away from the wall, as far as I can, then turn.
The militants enter. Fox fires off a couple shots until his gun jams. One of the militants steps out, a large revolver in his hands. He aims it straight at Fox's head, and pulls the trigger. Fox's limp body falls, his eyes unseeing, to the ground.
I'm next. The man walks over, and raises the gun to my head. There is nothing I can do.