5 reviews… grins I'm back, baby.
Now, normally, I don't do this, cause… I just don't. But I've seen others do it, so it doesn't hurt to thank the kind reviewers:
Jamie Gartland: Thank you kindly. Your reviews especially are always greatly appreciated on here.
FlyingAlpha: Thank you as well. Yes, I've seen and read. Good story. But this will be different.
Victor Charlie:… well… Jesus, I don't…really know what to say for yours. Um, the bold-faced… I dunno, I just thought, since they were movie titles, they'd get bold or at least underlined. Don't question the weird way I do things please, as I often don't get them myself. The characters, if you'd read the last version, you'd already know the characters by heart, this chapter got more familiar with them though. As it continues, hopefully, you'd give a rat's arse. The story is told through multiple 3rd person P.O.V's- that's the way it's always been and that's the way it's gonna stay. And this story is trying to fit under my storyline, not Bowden's. If I fail… well, I'll try not to fail.
Raven Thornheart: Thank you also. Your reviews as well are greatly appreciated.
Tillmer: Glad to see you've always liked it. I replaced the two because it also kinda degrades them a bit. And yes, of course the Night Stalkers stay in the air. I can't think of anywhere else they would be.
That's it, I believe. Now enjoy Chapter Two.
Chapter Two: Suiting Up and Moving Out
"Horan… Horan! Wake up!"
Tom was rudely shaken awake by none a very nervous voice and even. The factor of sleepiness and the obvious hang-over made his eyes blurry as he tried to make out who it was.
"Whoever this is, you have two seconds to get the hell away from me before you understand what it feels like to get a bullet in the heart," he growled.
"It's Hughes, man. C'mon, get up."
Tom's vision finally cleared up, revealing the scrambled image to be that of his chopper pilot. He automatically went to his clock and groaned; it was 5:42, the earliest he had been woken up on this deployment. Usually, they could sleep in a little if they'd been up all hours, in his case, drinking his problems away, to little to no avail. Not this time, he guessed.
"Hughes, you'd better have a good fucking reason as to why you're waking me up at quarter to 6 on a Friday night," he said.
"It's Saturday morning, num-nuts, or did you forget the fact that the AM thing meant 'morning'?" Hughes snickered; always the jackass, "and anyways, Sullivan called a meeting for the team leaders and pilots. Now come on, get up."
Tom groaned again and snuggled back under the covers, "Alright, just give me five more minutes-"
"No, NOW." Hughes threw the covers up and flung them away. He grabbed the weary Delta sergeant and hoisted him up, "Come on, put your pants on and let's go."
"Alright, alright, you go on." Tom insisted. Hughes just blew out heavily and stormed off.
Tom wearily sat up, put his pants on, and began tying his boots on. Jackson groggily picked his head up on the next cot.
"S'going on, Sarge?" he asked, "It's fucking quarter to six."
"I dunno. Something about a damn meeting," the sergeant answered, "Go back to sleep, man."
Jackson didn't need to be told twice. He was already out like a light. Tom got up, dressed in cargo pants, T-shirt, and boots, and went over to Cribbs' cot and shook his friend awake.
"Cribbs. CRIBBS." He whispered.
His buddy shook awake, "Wha? What's going on?"
"Staff meeting. C'mon, get dressed."
Minutes later, Tom and Cribbs were arriving at the Briefing Room, where Captain Sullivan, the overall Delta commander on this mission, and his staff presided over the meetings and filled them in. The other team leaders were just arriving, some looking just as tired as the Delta Eight soldiers.
"John," Tom approached Bradley, who was rubbing his eyes and yawning, "The hell's going on?"
"Hell if I know. All I heard was 'meeting, urgent'. That was all my messenger got out before I threw my alarm clock at him," The Delta One sergeant answered.
"Alright, men, listen up!" Sullivan barked. He was a tall black man with a shaved head and looked like a bulldog, but the men respected him anyway. The team leaders all gathered around as two lieutenants began putting up the maps and grid points of Raccoon City up on the board. Sullivan stood in front of them.
"Alright, early last night, a unit from the R.P.D., a 10-Charlie unit, was ambushed and killed by a group of twenty to thirty civilians."
Murmurs and whispers emitted from the sergeants. Tom and Cribbs exchanged concerned glances. Sullivan continued.
"Furthermore, the group has also attacked several civilians at points X-Ray and Zulu," he pointed to both locations on the map, "And other locations inside the buildings. All remaining civilians have been evacuated, but there are still growing concerns to the dozens that have been murdered. Because of this, the mayor and the chief of police have requested our presence to go in and eradicate the situation."
At this, all the team leaders finally felt motivated. 'Eradicate the situation' basically was giving them the thumbs up. This was it. They were finally going in.
"In addition, they've requested a joint operation with the R.P.D. forces and an Umbrella Counterstrike Squad that has also been called in. You are to drop into this location here," Sullivan tapped a wide street near the boarder of the city, "LZ Alpha. Set up a blocking perimeter, make sure those things don't get any further into the city. Lethal force is required on all subjects, don't let any live.
"Support: The ground forces will be allowed one .50 caliber heavy machine gun to help quell the group. In addition, the MH and AH-6 Little Birds will be armed with the standard miniguns and rockets-"
"Sir, don't you think that's a little extreme?" Tom suddenly piped up. The thought of lethal force on civilians was hard enough, but miniguns and rockets? The group couldn't be this bad, right?
"Don't look at me, Sergeant. Chief Irons requested this one," The captain answered honestly. Tom sighed. Of course Irons would; he was a sick bastard.
"Alright, individual assignments: Sergeant Martin."
"Sir." Master Sergeant T.J. Martin, leader of Delta Ten, a tall man with a hooked nose and beady eyes.
"You're the ranking sergeant on the ground. Keep the line together at all costs."
"Yes sir."
"Sergeant Sanderson."
"Sir."
"Your team will provide sniper cover from the air."
"Yes sir." Sanderson at first thought he had heard incorrectly. His team was never in the air. Delta One was usually the team that provided support.
But wait- if Delta Five was in the air, then did that mean…
"Sergeant Bradley."
"Sir." Bradley was secretly hoping the same thing. Would this be the mission where his luck changed?
"Your team will be the first one on the ground. You will set up a defense pattern while the rest of the team is inserted."
Yes. Yes it was. Across from him, Bradley could see Arnold's face look both shocked and angry, but he didn't say anything. Yeah, whaddya say to that, Sam, huh? I'm back on the ground.
"Sergeant Arnold." Sullivan's voice snapped the Delta Three soldier out of it.
"Sir."
"Your team will carry out the extraction procedures. When Sergeant Martin gives you the go-ahead, you will take your team to this garage," he tapped a point on the map about three miles from the fight, "here. There, a group of Humvees have been placed at our disposal. Get in, drive back, and the force rolls out, leaving the other units to finish the job. Clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Alright, any questions?"
None of the sergeants seemed to have any questions, so it was Cribbs who asked, "Rules of Engagement?"
"Defend yourself, if threatened. However, don't let your guard down for a minute."
"When are we going out, sir?" This came from Bielski, who was sitting with Shipley behind the others.
"Early night time, in between 0900 and 1000 hours."
Tom still couldn't process this fully. It was all so sudden; using lethal force on these citizens, people he actually knew. And if it was a desperate situation, why the hell were they going out so late? Captain Sullivan regarded him for a few moments.
"Alright, everyone, dismissed."
The D-boys got up and began walking away, discussing the mission amongst themselves. "Sergeant Horan, you stay." Horan turned to find his C.O. packing everything up.
"Cribbs, get back to the others, tell them to start getting ready," Tom ordered.
"Sure thing, Boss," his corporal nodded, hauling off. Tom returned to the table. Sullivan sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Look, son, I understand that this isn't the easiest mission for you, right here in your hometown. But I'm proud that you're still here. You know you could've sat this one out if you'd wanted to."
"Yeah, I know." The truth was, he had wanted to sit it out. But the prospect of being back home, where his family and friends- and Anna- and maybe being able to see them was just too much. Of course, that was before the news hit him.
"Still want to go in?"
Tom frowned and looked up. Was Sullivan offering him a chance to not go out on this mission? "Sir?"
"It's tough when a soldier is called to neutralize a threat in his home town. I've known guys my whole life, wouldn't go near the trouble. If you wanna stay on rear security here at the base, I wouldn't blame you."
For a moment, Tom considered taking the captain up on that offer. Why should he have to kill people he might know? But then, he realized that if he did, then Delta Five would go in in their place. And that wouldn't be fair to him, or his men, all who had worked just as hard as he had to get there. He was Delta, not a pussy National Guard soldier who only fought when called for. He went into the most dangerous situations to go and kick some ass. If he couldn't even do his job, then how would he handle the rest of his life? Running away from every little situation, no matter how personal, that came his way? Then he'd really be a screw-up.
"No sir, I'll go. I owe it to the men," Tom answered.
Sullivan actually managed to crack a wide toothy smile- the first time Tom had ever seen him do so. He slapped the sergeant on the back.
That's the spirit, son. Alright, get your boys suited up. Dismissed."
88888
"Jackson, when we hit the ground, I want you to check that radio and make sure we get good reception in case we need air support."
"You got it, Sarge."
All around, the Delta ops. were suiting up, checking what they would need, leaving what they didn't in their duffel bags. On this mission, however, they pretty much just took everything, no matter how trivial- on a night mission, with no one knowing the outcome, each and every trinket and gadget they had seemed to serve a purpose.
Tom examined his firearm. It was a CAR-15, a very reliable weapon, as it was light and maneuverable, with thirty-round detachable clip and scope, and could switch between burst and single shot. Since he was an expert marksman, he always kept it on single- no point in wasting a lot of ammo. Once he was sure the rifle was in working order, he went to his sidearm- an M-9 Beretta, a very reliable .45 caliber pistol with a 15-round detachable clip. Tom was known to be quite the dual-wielder on the training grounds- one was standard N.C.O equipment, and the other was a gift from his dad. But tonight, he was only bringing one- no room for playing tonight.
He then went on to his other gear- eight M-67 fragmentation grenades, ball-shaped explosives that were useful in battle; six M-18 smoke grenades, used for securing LZs and making it hard for enemy scouts and armor to identify them; six M-84 "flashbang" stun grenades, especially useful for blinding an enemy and clearing rooms, which was Delta's main specialty; Passive night vision goggles (PNVs), their eyes during the night; five Claymore mines, which during this fight would set up a minefield with the combination of the other teams' Claymores to make a minefield to help them out; and some C-4 plastic explosives, which, though they didn't look like much, were probably the most useful demolition since the Composition B. Tom knew this was a hell of a lot of stuff, especially since he would also have nine clips of CAR-15 ammo, three clips of M-9 ammo, his canteen, his trusty combat knife, and, because he was team leader, a pair of binoculars. Hopefully, he would get rid of the stuff he didn't need.
Nelson, however, had a lighter load, despite his role as medic. He decided not to bring his M-18s or C-4; instead, he carried a medical bag filled with IV bags, plasma, sulfa powder, small bandages, Compress bandages, and morphine. His weapon was also considerably lighter- an MP-5 semi-automatic submachine gun, which was an ideal weapon for night missions requiring stealth missions, as it held a 30 round detachable clip and could be taped to a second one for easy reloads, a flashlight under the barrel, and a night-vision scope on the top. He also built a flashlight on top of his helmet, which would be easier for when he was helping wounded in dark rooms.
Jackson, who would be acting as both radioman and machine gunner, carried an M-249 machine gun, affectionately called the SAW (which stood for Squad Automatic Weapon), which held a belt of 200 rounds from a detachable ammo box under the barrel. He usually brought about two or three extra belts, but tonight, he decided to take about three extra belts. Just in case. He hoisted his radio onto his back- a SINCGARS, just in for this mission. Before, he had had to work with the AN/PRC-77, but this new one was supposedly better. He also carried the standard load as his sergeant did.
Cribbs carried an M-4 carbine- a light gun, relative to the standard M-16, had a capability of full-auto and single shot. It had a 30 round clip, and an effective range of 360 meters. A useful weapon for a Special Ops. soldier. In addition, he had a M1911 .45 pistol, which only had a seven-round clip, but they were very powerful.
The rest of the soldiers packed their stuff the same way. Some brought a little more ammo. Some decided to ditch the knife. Others packed more C-4.
"Foley," Connors laughed at his friend, who was examining his night vision, making sure it worked, "why the hell are you gonna waste your time bringing that thing? It's not gonna be that dark, and we'll be back before long. 'Sides, those things are too damn fragile."
"I'd rather have them with me and not need them than need them and not have them, y'know what I'm saying?" the sniper insisted, taking them off and placing them in his pack before checking his rifle. Connors shook his head before going back to his machine gun, but stealthily added his night vision to his gear.
Over at Delta Two's area, Owens and Mabrey were arguing yet again about their guns.
"The firepower just doesn't make up for the weight of it, I'm sorry, man," Mabrey insisted.
"Aiight, if that's how you see it, hows about we put a little wager to it," said Owens.
"How so?"
"Whoever gets the most kills wins. And that gun becomes the best. Simple enough for fifty bucks?"
"Deal," Mabrey slapped Owens' hand, confirming the deal.
"My God, you guys, show some respect, huh?" Slowenski snapped, loading a fresh belt to his SAW, "I mean, you're talking about a city full of innocent people! Jeez, man!"
"Ski, relax. All the innocents were pulled out. The only ones in the city are the ones who got the balls to try and kill others," Owens checked the clip and then slammed it into his rifle.
Slowenski just shook his head and tied his bandana to his head. Waters sighed and loaded up his M-4, all the while more nervous.
This wasn't the kind of mission he had hoped to go all-guns out on. He had hoped, if he had to kill someone, it would have to be in Europe or Asia or somewhere- not some mid-western town out in the middle of nowhere. This wasn't right, in more ways than one. And Waters knew this was just as bad as Horan, who had had to grow up here and was now forced to go in and kill his own kin. If he were in his shoes right now, the Delta Two sergeant wouldn't know what to do.
This was the thing that separated Waters from some of the other sergeants- he was a humanitarian, and he didn't truly believe in this mission. But he knew that if he didn't, more innocents would die. So he would go along and see what it was all for. Every mission had to have a purpose, that's what Sergeant Arnold had always told him. This one was just waiting to be seen.
Meanwhile, the pilots and co-pilots were all having their own separate briefing. Chief Warrant Officer Hal "Popeye" Briggs, the pilot for Star Four One, the lead MH-6 Little Bird, was giving the instructions.
"At 0845, all pilots will report onto the airspace to start up their birds. When we get in the air, it's a five minute flight to LZ Alpha; we're never off the main course. At approximately 0905 hours, my bird will touch down and drop in my team, signaling the beginning of the operation. When each pilot has dropped its team, they will fly into a holding pattern to provide support for the ground forces. Howe, Wilkes."
"Yo," Howe called out. Hughes smirked a little. Howe had been a pilot so long, he didn't even go by rank anymore. They were all pretty much one in the same, but Hughes hadn't really adapted to it yet. This guy was a pro.
"Since you've got Delta Five on your benches, you will have the unlucky honor of heading the holding pattern. Don't screw up, clear?"
"Sure, Boss," Howe rolled his eyes to Hughes and to Howe's co-pilot, Howard Wilkes, a beefy man with a good forty years as a pilot. Both sniggered.
"Be advised, guys: This is supposed to be some real serious crap. Something out of Assault on Precinct 13 or something. And they will be trying to kill those guys, and maybe us, depending on what kinda weaponry they've got. So stay alert, keep your guard up. I don't want to lose any pilots to a RPG round. Clear?"
"Right, Boss," the pilots all chimed in. Briggs grabbed his helmet.
"Alright, guys, dismissed. Good luck." He walked out. The rest of the pilots got up and left as well.
Hughes started walking away when he felt a hand tap his shoulder. Howe and Wilkes were right behind him, both with big grins on their faces.
"You alright, man?" Howe asked his buddy.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm cool," Hughes replied sheepishly, "I'm just a little…"
"Nervous?" Wilkes finished, his grin widening.
"Yeah."
"Don't sweat it, man. Just don't fall asleep at the wheel, you'll be fine," Howe laughed, walking off with Wilkes.
Don't fall asleep- that was the least of Hughes' worries. But he'd do it. This was his mission.
"Bill," Arnold sat next to Waters, who was nervously tapping his fingers on his gun, "how you doing?"
"I'm alright, Sam," Waters answered, not looking at his comrade.
"Hey look: I know you don't wanna be doing this. But, y'know what? We got to. It's our job. When we put the uniforms on and when they drop us into that city, all thoughts of innocent and guilty, of civilians and rebels, just discard it. Once the shooting starts, all you better think about is firing in the direction of those trying to kill you. If you can't do that, then more innocent men and women- and kids, hell- will get torn up by these things. OK? You need to think, not of who you're killing, but how you can prevent more of who they are killing. You see what I'm saying?"
Waters finally turned to face Arnold. He nodded. He may not understand fully, but it was enough to boost his confidence. He'd be a savior, not a villain. This thought comforted him.
"Tell you what- when we hit the ground, you stick with me. I'll make sure you get it right, alright?" Arnold insisted, holding his fist out.
Waters slammed it. "No problem, man. I watch your back, you watch mine."
Arnold winked, slapped his buddy's back, and walked off. Waters definitely felt calmer. Despite the prick he could be, Sam knew how to do things, how to take care of the guys. It calmed him. This will be OK.
Meanwhile, Tom, having finished packing his gear, was slaving over the telephone, trying desperately to see if Anna was still there and that she was safe. The damn ring tone went on forever. And his patience wasn't.
"Come on, you bastard, come on. Anna, please, for the love of God, pick up," he snapped nervously, biting his thumb nail. The ring went on for some time. Then-
"Hi, you reached Anna's and Kelly's dorm. Sorry, we're not available right now, please leave a-"
BAM!
Livid now, Tom slammed the phone on the receiver again and again, screaming something with every slam.
"STUPID! GOD! DAMN! PIECE! OF! SHIT! SON! OF! A! BITCH!"
"HEY!" Sanderson's angry voice shouted behind him, "Don't take it out on the phone. Some of us still need to make a call."
Tom threw the phone down and walked away, hands on his head. He sat down and left his head in his hands, furious and helpless.
Sanderson looked over at him, then handed the phone to Shipley, who went on to call his wife while the sergeant went to go talk to Tom.
"Horan, what the hell's your deal?" he asked.
"You know what my goddam deal is," answered Tom, not looking up.
"Right. Anna," Sanderson sat down next to the younger team leader and sighed, "Man, I know how you feel-"
"What the hell are you talking about? You have no goddam idea what I'm feeling right now."
True. Sanderson had never had to worry about his wife being trapped in a city with a band of murders. But still, he had to say it.
"You're right- I don't," he said, "but I do know one thing- it's gonna be alright."
"How do you know?" Tom finally looked up.
"Because I'm gonna make sure we get her out in one piece, if she's still in there. We'll do it, man, alright?"
Tom nodded softly. With any luck, she was already out. If not…
Those murdering bastards were seriously gonna catch some hell.
88888
At last, it was time. The sunny day had been replaced by nighttime clouds. Lights had been turned on, the air deadly calm. And the Delta boys were suited up.
Tom waited impatiently for the call- the one for them to finally get onto the birds and get this shit stain of a mission over with. He wasn't the only fidgety operator- Jackson couldn't sit still. Nelson loudly chewed a piece of gum. Cribbs constantly ejected the clip from his .45 and then slid it back in again. And there were others that were just as bad.
Shipley and Bielski weren't. Both thought of this simply as a game. Nothing ever got them down. They had been best friends since basic and before- kids growing up in the fields of Kentucky. They had long since made it a rule that if they felt good about things, then everything would be OK. Right now, they finished up watching Groundhog Day and finished checking their guns.
"Hey, man, whaddya think- M1911 or M-9?" Shipley held both handguns up.
"Uh… I'm partial to the M-9, but I think you might wanna bring the former," Bielski said.
"Yeah, does pack a hell of a punch," his buddy agreed, stuffing the .45 in his holster.
Hallings was giving his SAW a routine check-up. For a newbie, he certainly knew his stuff. But that wasn't what worried Sanderson. The kid looked like one who would fall apart once rounds went over his head. He needed watching over.
Meanwhile, Bradley had just returned from the bathroom when he ran right into Arnold. The two old Desert Storm vets just stood in stony silence, not taking their eyes off each other. The grudge obviously still there.
"So… finally back in the field," Arnold started.
"Yup," said Bradley.
Silence.
"Well, I guess it was about time command threw you a bone."
"Yup."
That was all that really needed to be said. Bradley walked past him and towards his area when-
"John."
Bradley turned around. Arnold hesitated, but finally said, "Good luck out there."
The Delta One sergeant at first couldn't believe his ears. Arnold, wishing him luck? But when the man grinned at him, Bradley knew a truce of some sort had finally been reached. Not that they were friends yet- but they would at least fight together. He grinned back.
"Yeah. You too," he said.
Arnold nodded, said, "See you on the ground," and left for the bathroom. Bradley went back to his men, where Jones slammed a clip into his MP-5.
Suddenly, the loudspeakers made that noise when something was too close to it, the high-pitched "oooom." All the soldiers cursed it to all sorts of hell, especially because they all knew what it was for.
Then, at long last, the call:
"All personnel, out on the airspace. Pilots, start your helicopters."
At this, the bunker sprang to life. The soldiers grabbed their weapons, slung their bags across their backs, placed their helmets on their heads and snapped the goggles in place, and ran half-sprinting to the air strip. Tom, being a former track runner, ran a little ahead of the others. But it wasn't all because of that. He knew that the sooner they all got on the birds, the sooner they'd move out. And he was now itching to get out there and kick some very serious ass. They were gonna rue the day they had picked a fight with Delta.
The MH-6's had little benches in which the four-man teams sat and rode the flight out. In a way, it was kinda like Space Mountain at Disney, but a lot cooler. Right now, he took a seat on the pilot's side of the bird, where Hughes already had the engines rearing and ready to go. Cribbs sat next to him, and Jackson and Nelson took up seats on the other side of the bird.
In the cock-pit, Hughes and his co-pilot, Warrant Officer Chuck Greeno, began setting the systems up. Landing gear, radio, both rotors- all was looking good.
"Four Eight, all systems go," Greeno responded into the comms link.
One by one, all pilots radioed in, saying they were all set to go. Briggs got on his to radio the Command Room, where Captain Sullivan and his staff would be watching the battle from the many monitors to make sure everything went smoothly.
"Command, this is Four One, we are all systems go, ready for launch, over."
"Roger, Four One, green light, repeat, green light. Good luck."
Bradley felt his chopper make the pivot-left turn, then began to gradually go up into the air and already felt the feeling he had when the roller coaster went down the steep hill. He smiled. He hadn't felt this happy in years. Finally, he was going back into the thick of it.
The choppers all followed in suit, with all the boys passing by screaming at the top of their lungs, finally going out.
Tom looked out into the horizon. Somewhere, out there, a hornets nest was brewing. And he was gonna go exterminate.
This is gonna be fun, something inside of him said.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
… eh… this chapter could've been a lot better.
A few notes:
Foley's quote on PNVs- I say that often on why I lug around all my school books every day. All of them.
Tom's phone slamming- I've done it. No lie. That phone can be a real bitch sometimes.
Weapons, grenades, and all that stuff- that was tough. I actually had to go on Wikipedia to look a few things up, mainly grenade types and night vision and radios.
Well, tell me what you think. I'll try to have the next chapter out, hopefully today.
Review please.