A/N Isn't this fun? Yes, it is! Lol, R/R please. I apologise for any bad accents, I am English after all, and the French was done using an artificial translator so if it sounds stupid it's not my fault okay?

Nightshade 4

            A faint orange glow filled the eastern sky as the Blackhawk helicopter flew through the valleys and hills towards its destination, its dark, shark like body rising and falling with the land as it hugged the ground to avoid the Russian's prying radars. To any observer it would like a gigantic insect following the contours of some mighty sleeping beast, its minigun protruding out the front like a metallic sting. The pilots in the helicopter's glazed cockpit were obviously skilled, handling the machine delicately and gracefully whilst flying flat out only a few feet off the ground.

            In the amour-lined rear cabin, however, the helicopter's flight was practically nothing to what the five men sitting there, in full desert battle kit, were about to undertake. This was Major John's combat squad, the finest group of Allied soldiers in the North American theatre. All five of them were veterans, experienced and deadly soldiers who could on their own terms destroy an army. They had had an extensive training session together, and John couldn't help but smile at Rayvon's team choice, he had not lied about them being the best the West could offer.

            MacIntyre proved surprisingly reclusive. His ability with a gun was outstanding, he could wield his rifle like an extension on his forearm, but he didn't talk much. He seemed mysterious, only answering questions and never opening the conversation. He was taller than John, or anyone for that matter, standing at an impressive 6"9, and just watching him look down at you without saying a word was quite unsettling even for the Major himself. 

            Thornycroft was more talkative, and seemed more relaxed than the others. His accent was slightly clipped and he had the typical British sense of humour, the irony in his comments was often misinterpreted or missed completely. His aim was unbelievable, scoring 100% hit rates at a distance of 1400m, when John himself finding it lucky just to score a single lethal hit. He always carried two guns. One was an old Enfield .308; his weapon in the last war, which Thornycroft said was the most reliable and accurate gun he had ever fired. His other one, which he often carried but very rarely used, was a huge Accuracy International AW .50, a 15kg rifle that Thornycroft boasted he could stop a Rhino with.

            Peterson was quite short, though remarkably tough. In the gym he floored everyone else, and in the field exercises his ability to track a target would have embarrassed guard dogs. He knew how to survive behind enemy lines better than anyone, and he had a remarkable ability to just disappear out of sight when they weren't looking for him. He was a nice guy, cheerful and optimistic, but also superbly professional, obeying orders to the letter without any hesitation.

            Micou was interesting. His English was good, but he often slipped between that language and his native French, resulting in some almost comical mix-ups. He had a very philosophical view on life, and often went about trying to find as many meanings as possible from what the others said. He moved quickly, he could do a hundred metres in eleven seconds even with his battle gear on. However, he was bugged by who his father was, and felt insecure as though his place on this mission was given to him by his father's connections rather than his actual abilities. John thought differently though. Micou was a superb and reliable soldier, even if he was difficult to understand at times.

            John wondered what the others thought of him, as he sat back against the side of the cabin. He had tried to give the impression of a cool professional, but he had a feeling that the others may have an inkling of something not being quite right with him, something that he was hiding. But it didn't seem to bother them, or him for that matter, they were all soldiers, and they were all out here to do a job, personal secrets had little place on the battlefield.

            For now, nobody spoke, each man quietly preparing for battle in the way they knew how. John himself merely tapped his fingers on his rifle butt, trying not to think about the off too much. He was always impatient to go into battle, he felt vulnerable in a helicopter and always desperately wanted to get into a position where he could shoot back if need be. Thornycroft on the other hand, examined his rifle again, staring down the barrel to make sure the sights were all lined up. He adjusted the zoom on top of the gun, checked the safety, and removed and then reattached the gun's magazine. His face had turned to one of solemn determination, the actions with the gun seemed automatic to him. He clutched his rifle hard when he finished, before looking at John and nodding slightly.

            John nodded back, before looking across at Peterson, who seemed to be holding a crucifix in his hand and muttering a prayer under his breath. He kept his eyes closed, a single drop of sweat trickled down across his forehead as his wordlessly mouthed his promises to god. Next to him, Micou seemed simply passive and quiet; he just stared at the wall opposite, his eyes focusing on some empty point of space. He appeared to be concentrating hard. John remembered Micou telling him about his airsickness, and the only way he could stop vomiting all over the place was by thinking about somewhere else and concentrating on that particular place. John decided it was best not to disturb him.

            Then there was MacIntyre, more distant than ever, and now appeared to looking out the cabin window out onto the desert landscape outside. His eyes blinked incessantly at the rapidly increasing sunlight, and John guessed that they would soon be arriving at their drop off point as he turned round and looked at the rim of red light that was the morning sun slowly rising over the desert horizon. He could already feel the temperature increasing, and he took a big gulp as a crackling voice over the intercom announced that it was 60 seconds before they touched down. John sat for a second, and then decided to speak.

            "Well men, this is it, this is what we have been training for. This mission is the most important one any of us has undertaken, good luck, and Godspeed guys!" He felt his stomach lurch as the helicopter rapidly decelerated and began to descend. He grabbed his rifle fully and undid his harness. The other guys did the same, each one rising with a mixed expression of readiness and expectation. The Blackhawk stopped moving for a second, hovering a couple of feet in the air as it's pilots made sure the area around was safe. Then they lowered it to the ground, each wheel making a small thud before it sunk into a couple of inches of the sand below.

            "All clear" yelled the voice from the intercom, and John stepped forward and opened the hatch. He brought his gun up as he crouched down, staring at the landscape beyond for any hidden enemies. When he was sure it was clear, he gave a silent hand signal to the others, who then in military fashioned jumped out onto the sand and ran towards some nearby cover. They did this one at a time, the first man, MacIntyre, reaching the outcrop and setting up a defensive position. Then Thornycroft followed, hauling his large kitbag behind him as he sped across the sand and into the rocks to join MacIntyre. He bought his rifle up to his shoulder and scanned the area with its ocular sight. He gave a thumbs up sign to John, who then signalled for Micou to join them. The Frenchman jumped out and made the distance in an amazingly short time considering the load he was carrying, and he was soon in the outcrop with MacIntyre and Thornycroft. Then Peterson left the chopper, his rifle trained as he marched across. The man always struck John as paranoid, and he never took risks. In times like this that wasn't always a bad thing.

            Soon enough, Peterson joined the other three within the rock cover, and John himself parted the helicopter. He crouched for a second, checking the area was clear, and then swiftly joined the other soldiers. As soon as he was within the rocks the Blackhawk took off again, the huge downdraft throwing large amounts of sand in all directions, forcing the team to cover their eyes as the helicopter rose up into the air and pulled away towards the Northeast. It rose to around fifty feet, turned and completed a single pass above the clearing before heading off again in its original direction.

            The men waited for the Blackhawk to disappear beyond the horizon before doing anything. They surveyed the surrounding area once more, checking for curious enemies that may have heard the chopper. They could see none, and so they turned to one another and started to assess the situation.

            "Well," began John, "we've landed okay, and it doesn't appear that the enemy has spotted us, we hope anyway." Peterson looked nervously around; in fact most of the men made one or two furtive glances behind them. Their outcrop of rocks was positioned on a small knoll, giving them a good view of the surrounding area. A road ran from West to East about a hundred yards or so to the south, a thin strip of black asphalt spread out over the pastel sand, with a bridge over a ravine about half a kilometre from where the men were standing. Several deserted and burnt out buildings and vehicles were spread out over the flat sands, but there was no sign of anything moving apart from a haggard looking dog sniffing the blackened remains of an IFV just before the bridge over the ravine.

            "We better get moving," muttered Peterson, "they'll have patrols out, and it doesn't take a genius to spot where a helicop…" He was interrupted by the echoing thud of an explosion. It seemed to come from the North. The men all looked at each other. "Shit."

            "Do you think that was the chopper?" Asked Thornycroft nervously, bringing his rifle up to a firing position as his eyes scanned the area surrounding them.

            "I think so," Replied John, who also readied his gun, "but we can't break radio silence to find out. We need to get out of here, where there's explosions there are soldiers, and I doubt they would be Allied ones around here." Peterson pulled out his map and started tracing a route with his finger.

            "Right," he began, his voice slightly shaky, "Rigsby is three clicks West of here, down along that highway and just beyond those hills in the distance. We will have to use the road bridge, and that could put us in a vulnerable spot should the Reds catch up with us. I suggest that we trail the road, either a hundred yards north or south of it. Unfortunately its flat out there and we won't have much cover unless we lie down." He looked up at John.

            "Very well," replied the Major, looking cautiously in the direction of the explosion. "Its as good a plan as any. We need to get out of here, that's for sure. Okay men, you heard the guy, lets move!" And sure enough the five men carefully left the outcrop, their eyes and ears primed, trying to discern any hostile site or sound from the dusty and forlorn backdrop. They marched down from their drop off point, and reached an old power substation that had been hit by the heavy 2000lb bombs that the Kirov airships used, without being seen, stopping for a second, and then preceded as planned to shadow the road to Rigsby.  

            They marched quickly, occasionally turning round for a second to check the road, and all eyes constantly changed direction. Every random noise was met by a training of guns, and weird shapes in the desert haze constantly forced the patrol to stop. They made slow progress, taking a good fifteen minutes to reach the burnt out IFV. The dog has long since vanished, and the men too turned and avoided the wreckage when the wind caught the badly charred arm of a dead crewman and let it fall out of the upturned hatch. There was something ominous about the way it slowly creaked in the wind that sent a chill down the men's spines. John swallowed loudly, his hands gripping the gun tightly. The desert was too warm even at this time of day, and as they passed over the bridge he could feel several beads of sweat slowly channelling their way down his back.

            But all of them were relieved at the lack of any Soviets. The sun gradually rose through the morning sky as the patrol became more accustomed to the searing heat and weird desert phenomena. Little noises stopped halting them and the weird shadows now bought little more attention than a quick gaze. But the men still had their guard up. This was the enemy's territory and it was no place to relax their guard.

            After another kilometre had been travelled they started to ascend the hills that hid Rigsby. They passed six badly damaged and abandoned Grizzlies, their dented and smashed cannons aimed at four similarly wrecked Rhinos a mile or so to the South. As they passed the last one (whose turret had been completely blown off by a direct hit), Micou suddenly raised his hand and told everyone to stop.

            "What is it?" Asked John, turning round.

            "Listen, monsieur." He whispered. Everybody stopped moving and trained their ears. At first John could hear nothing, and then he heard it. A low growling noise, barely audible, the sound of a distant engine chugging its way towards them. He looked at his men who nodded in agreement as they too understood would the noise meant.

            "Crap" muttered John. "Right, behind the Grizzly, quickly!" The team obeyed instantly and within a second they were all crouched behind the turretless wreck. John tapped Thornycroft on the shoulder. "Take a look to the East, tell me what you see." Thornycroft nodded and gently stood up, resting his rifle on the tanks hull. He stared down the road through his scope, looking for their pursuers through the haze. Then he saw them, at the head of a trail of dust, coming up towards their original landing point.

            "I've got them," he whispered to John. "One…two…err…three…yeah, three Flak tracks, heading up towards us pretty fast. They just are passing the drop off zone now."

            "Shit, they'll spot us as soon as they get here, any ideas?" John muttered back, his fingers tapping on the steel hull of the Grizzly. To his surprise Thornycroft turned round and grinned at him.

            "Just leave this to me sir." He turned his head back round towards the incoming Flak tracks, and brought the scope up to his eye again. His thumb released the firing lock and he breathed in deeply. John watched him in anticipation, and decided to take a look for himself. He took his binoculars and peered over the edge of the Grizzly's hull. He watched them come closer, past the IFV and had nearly arrived at the bridge. He could hear Thornycroft muttering something, urging the enemy to come closer.

            The Brit waited till the first Flak track drove onto the bridge itself, and then he fired. The bullet whistled through the air and took out one of the Flack track's tyres, sending black rubber everywhere. Its driver was taken by total surprise and lost control of the vehicle. It hit the side of the bridge, turned over, and landed with a thud in the middle of the road. The second Flak track fared worse. Its driver didn't brake in time and it hit the first Flack track head-on as Thornycroft hit the first vehicle's now exposed fuel tank. Both trucks were flung clean into the air by the explosion, red and black metal flying off in a thousand directions. The third truck stopped just before reaching the start of the bridge. The driver opened his door but Thornycroft put his third round through the Russian's neck. He toppled out the door and fell clumsily and bloodily onto the hard asphalt below.

            Then the rear door opened, and three panicking conscripts jumped out. They ran from the vehicle, firing wildly at their unseen attacker. Thornycroft put a bullet in each of their skulls, staining the sand behind them scarlet red. When the last one hit the floor, Thornycroft lifted his gun and released the now empty magazine. He quickly replaced it and aimed his rifle again, but the only thing moving now were the flames dancing over the wreckage of the first two Flak tracks and the open rear door of the third swinging forlornly in the wind. Thornycroft put down his rifle again and nodded at John.

            "All clear sir," he said, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. John looked at him in amazement.

            "You're good at this…." John said, looking again at the three distant, now derelict vehicles.

            "I'm the best sir, that's why we are all here, because we are the best." Thornycroft grinned. John smiled back.

            "Yeah, we all are…I hope so anyway. Come on men," he called to the others. "Lets get moving…they know how serious we are now."