United States airspace, northern California
December 4, 2017
01:52:59
01:53:00
01:53:01
The insides of the aircraft shook in light turbulence. Its engine screeched like a wailing banshee and drowned the faintest of noise. Rotors above vigorously chopped wind and static radio chatters filled the gloomed cabin.
Inside the Chinook helicopter seated two dozen men. Their noiseless presence was barely illuminated by dimmed red light emitting from the ceiling, their casted shadows blackening the floor they rested their feet on. Beside them were oval-shaped windows that revealed the blackened skies. Flashes of green scintillating from the exteriors of the aircraft occasionally shone on the men's concealed faces.
From head to toe, their identities were wholly concealed with the exception of their eyes in standardized, olive-green tactical bearings. Covering their scalps were helmets with adjustable quad-tubed, panoramic goggles for night-vision and thermal purposes. Blood types labelled in white texts in black backgrounds bridged over the sides of their helmets. Safety goggles covered their eyes, and black balaclavas shrouded the rest of their visages.
Black combat boots were worn on their feet and guards were strapped on their shoulders, elbows, and knees. Black tactical gloves concealed their hands. Strapped on their backs were CamelBak hydration packs worth a litre of water and assault packs full of supplies and gears. Communication headsets, which were connected to portable radios, were bridged on their heads with the mouthpieces hovering over their shrouded mouths. Chemical light sticks and navigation compasses were bound to their vests and waterproof watches their wrists.
Their integrated Kevlar vests, reinforced with ballistic steel plates, covered the breadth of their chests and backs. Several magazine pouches hung on the front of their vests. Explosive munitions of 40mms and various hand-thrown grenades were no exception to the arsenal on their body armors. All men sitting in the cabin were armed to the teeth.
Gripped on their hands were Assault Rifles for Special Tactics, or ARSTs. Attachments from holographic scopes to M203 launchers were modified on their intricately-designed rifles. The weapons' muzzles were pointed down and rested between the feet of the men to avoid friendly fire, or worse accidentally discharge rounds at the top rotors.
A few had combat shotguns, anti-material sniper rifles, and portable AT4 launchers strapped on their backs. One of them, a sniper, had a FGM-148 Javelin on his back. Another few wielded M249 SAWs in place of the rifles. Rattling and clinking on the light machine guns were belted 5.56s linked to one-hundred-round drum magazines. Pistols and combat knives were strapped on their thighs.
Velcroed on their left shoulders were a pair of tabs with one towering over the other.
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SOU
BSAA
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The emblem below was embellished with a green olive branch and a row of stars. Between them was a globe representing all five continents. Red, bolded letters inscribing BSAA streaked over the breadth of the globe.
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NORTH AMERICA
BSAA
BIOTERRORISM SECURITY ASSESSMENT ALLIANCE
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BSAA operators had demanding special operations backgrounds, mostly consisting of former SEALs, Delta, Special Forces, Rangers, and MARSOC personnel. Most were in their thirties and forties, and were deployed in multiple tours of domestic and foreign bioterrorism operations. What separated them from the majority of other unconventional combative units was their ability to conduct rapid-response counterinsurgencies against biological weaponries. They were widely considered as the tip of the spear in the anti-bioterrorism scene.
If not for their past interventions in counterterrorism, then hell would've had broken loose all across the globe. Speaking of hell, it was a common trend for BSAA troopers to go through it and back. They got dirty, the world stayed clean.
The men had easily one of the most dangerous and demanding professions in the world. The profession was clearly not for the faint-hearted. It wouldn't be inherently flawed for one to think signing up as a BSAA trooper was less merciful, and more terrifying, than preparing for an execution as a death row inmate. Willing applicants had to know the stakes before becoming fully-fledged operators.
Due to the organization suffering mass casualties over the years from the 2009 Kijuju incident to the 2013 Lanshiang counterpart, BSAA had skyrocketed in their demands for selecting frontline applicants. For the organization, simply being a volunteer with bare-minimum qualifications left unsatisfactory. What BSAA primarily sought for in their applicants was experience – preferably those who had been in multiple tours of intense combat whether it be bioterrorism or non-bioterrorism-related.
One among them was deemed a hero, if not a legend, in the bioterrorism scene. A former member of Special Tactics and Rescue Service, Captain Chris Redfield easily had the most experience in dealing with bioterrorism-related incidents out of them all. As the officer-in-charge, he was seated in the frontmost right row closer to the pilots. To distinguish himself from the rest, he was the only man aboard the aircraft that didn't conceal his face with a balaclava. His attire was moderately light with his head, arms, and neck exposed.
The expression on his rugged visage spelled nothing short of determination plagued in restrained trauma. Short black hair rested on his scalp with shaven goatee stretching from his temples to chin. He had a light moustache. Wrinkles creased below his frowning hazels reflected his coming age next to the greying of his hair. His jawline was chiselled. Chris was in his mid-forties.
His age was hardly an obstructor to his burly physique. Weighing in around ninety to a hundred kilograms of lean muscle, Chris boasted the frame of a bodybuilder. On his arms were protruding veins serpentining across his bulging biceps. The breadth of his neck and limbs were close to resembling that of tree trunks. In his younger days as a Special Operations Agent in West Africa, he was even brawnier.
Chris had his back hunched with his elbows on his knees. Like the rest he had his eyes aimlessly drifting to the floor in obstinate silence. While most wondered their thoughts of their upcoming mission, Chris had his on a fallen brethren, who he had lost four years ago. For him, the screeching of the engine and the slicing of the rotors drowned in muffled silence. His vision was that of the floor no more. It was that of his comrade's bloodied, half-mutated visage.
I'm sorry..Captain..I did it for the BSAA..For the futur –
"Twenty mikes to rendezvous," interrupted a pilot through comms. The once-faded noises came howling back at Chris, who snapped to reality. The ceiling lights brightened from red to white, paving visibility for the men inside.
"Alright, listen up. This is what I've received from Command," notified Chris, adjusting the communications piece in his left ear. He was resolute and commanding in his tone.
His subordinates returned him the due attention. The look in their eyes was sharp, and spelled hunger for their upcoming objective. As the captain sat upright, the rest followed and eagerly awaited for Chris to debrief them of the situation they were about to plunge themselves in.
"At 12:04, SOA elements had corroborated a suspected BOW presence. Class A – you know what that means."
Some of the men jumped beats in their hearts, and their breathing went subtly irregular. It was neither terror nor cowardice getting the best of them, but it was more of uncertainty. While they believed they had enough experience, manpower, and armaments to deal with virtually any bio-terrorist threats, Bio Organic Weapons, or BOWs, weren't to be taken lightly under any circumstances. This feeling of uncertainty was mitigated with Chris operating by their side. They looked up to him as an older, if not wiser, figure since he had dealt with a fair share of Class A BOWs in his career and proved himself worthy to breathe in the forthcoming days.
BOWs categorized in the "A" range were the most resilient and deadliest of them all with the more unpredictable ones boasting highly-erratic mutations. No amount of experience nor technological advancement could truly prepare one against such monstrosities. As anti-bioterrorism adapted and evolved constantly to engage novel threats, so did BOW mutations. When BSAA hit them hard, they either hit just as hard – or much harder.
The men were very well expecting casualties raking up in their ranks. They knew the mission wasn't going to be anywhere near the easy-breezy clean-up that involves "cleansing" a town or a city full of mindless, flesh-eating hordes of infected. No matter how flawless the executions, very few BSAA-led operations involving BOWs left every trooper unharmed. Operations involving Class A hazards, which were lethal enough to terrorize an entire city, easily wrecked the most casualties by far.
"The place is town-sized, inhabiting around a hundred personnel. They're no ordinary country folks forking bales of hay and tending livestock. They're a doomsday cult, but they're no Los Illuminados. Intel deem them armed and dangerous – as armed as the Davidians in the '93 Waco Siege. Rules of engagement applies. They shoot, give them hell. Otherwise, they're to be restrained and brought to the designated casualty collection point. Chances are, they're already long deceased. At 11:38, HRT and SWAT elements had launched a joint assault to bring the cult down."
Chris retrieved an audio cassette from his trouser pocket and wired it to his radio.
"This was their last transmission."
He thumbed a button on the cassette and had its reels rolling. The men were welcomed with a chorus of muffled, aggressive gunfires discharging from their headsets. Faint, animalistic cries shrilled in the chaos. Next emitted the distressed voice of a HRT operator, who was busy firing away his rifle whilst breathing unevenly.
"This is Echo Zero-Five. We're being engaged by unidentified hostiles from all fla – "
"ABOVE US..! ABOOOOOVE..!"
Congregated screams from the men drowned the gunfires, and the audio abruptly halted. Chris had the wire off his radio and stashed the cassette in his pocket.
"Satellite imagery had gone static in the incursion. We have no leads on who the perpetrators are, what they look like, and what they're capable of. We're moving in blind. This isn't the first time we've done so, so expect the unexpected."
Slinging his rifle on his back, he got up his seat and brought out a folded map and a marker from his vest. He unfolded the map and pasted it high up a wall beside him so that his men could see. Aside from scribbles of grid coordinates and numbered letters, two colors predominated on the map. Red and green.
The red-highlighted area was a hostile zone. Anywhere else was the safe zone, which was in green. The hostile zone was vertically-stretched in an oval and within it were small clusters of structures labelled in numbered letters. Wholly encompassing the hostile zone was the safe zone that predominated in thick vegetation. Chris pulled the cap from the marker and with it referenced to relevant locations shown on the map.
"Blue Umbrella has the place on tight lockdown. Our objective – is to conduct the following ops. First is search and rescue. This applies to any non-hostile elements. Next, search and destroy. Hunt the perps down, and eliminate them in extreme prejudice. Now, the details."
He circled the western structures with the marker.
"Alpha and I'll clear structures, Alpha One to Seven, to the west. You, Lieutenant – "
Glancing at the lieutenant, who was sitting directly across him, the captain highlighted the eastern structures. The lieutenant could be distinguished apart from the rest since he wore a darker-hued helmet that had a dimmed chem stick taped on its temple.
" – will lead Bravo through the rest of these structures, here, to the east. Once Bravo One's secured, we'll set up CCP there. Snipers will set up an overwatch – "
Chris then glanced at the pair of snipers seated at the farther back and circled a portion of the map at the south-east.
" – here. A klick south of the primary hot zone. The elevation there should get you a bird's eye on the entire objective. Questions?"
"Are we expecting any support elements?" inquired a trooper. Chris let the second-in-command do the honors.
"Lieutenant."
"QRF's on Charlie. If their intervention isn't enough, and the situation escalates, we're cleared for airstrikes from a Predator and a Spectre gunship – that is if we clear all structures of non-hostiles and consolidate them to a safe distance. If that alone fails, and we go FUBAR, anything's game. Command will do whatever means necessary to contain the threat from spreading," informed the lieutenant.
"As usual, UAV's got our back. They see anything out there, they'll let us know. Anything else?" continued the captain. There was lingering silence.
"Keep your eyes peeled, and watch each other's backs. We're elite, not some sorry-ass ROTCs. Let's act like it out there."
"Ten mikes to LZ. Descending altitude. Standby. Crew chiefs to your stations," informed the pilot. From the cockpit, two crew chiefs got up their seats, headed for the extremities, and manned the miniguns, keeping a lookout outside.
Chris clasped his hands.
"Look alive, men. Equipment check."
The men cocked their weapons and engaged them to safe. They used whatever time they had left by checking the signal of their comms, the functionality of their panoramic goggles, and the infrared lasers beaming from their firearms. Chris wore his own helmet that had its own set of goggles.
"Five mikes."
The cabin light flushed back to dimmed red. Wind savagely gusted in as the ramp declined in a steady descent, flapping the sleeves on their uniforms. The chopping of the rotors grew rougher, and they could feel its vibrations drumming their ears. With years of experience on mission-deployment aircrafts mounting behind their backs, they were well used to the wild sensations relentlessly pounding on them.
The men brought down their quad-tubed scopes before their eyes. Activating night-vision, their eyes dimmed in dull green under the cover of darkness. Facing the tail-opening of the Chinook, they got on their feet and held onto handrails for stability.
"LZ in sight. Sixty seconds. Prepare for landing."
The men could see tall evergreens peaking outside – skies dark and moonless. They were about to land in an open field surrounded by conifers. Meters away from reaching ground, the pilots slowed their descent for safe landing.
"Alpha, Bravo, you are green."
Upon landing, Alpha Team and Bravo Team rushed out with the rear of their weapons shouldered. The men formed a circled perimeter around the Chinook on one knee and vigilantly scanned their surroundings for hostile movements. Wind from the rotors harshly gusted on them with the grass they were kneeling on wavering violently. Nearby trees gently swayed along.
"Viper Three-Four to Command, Alpha and Bravo deployed on deck. Returning to base. Over," informed the pilot over comms.
"Received, Three-Four. Return to base. Out."
The Chinook screeched its engine harshly and lifted from ground. Once high enough, it flew to where it came from. The farther the aircraft from the men, the more its form shrunk to obscurity. The chopping from the rotors grew quieter and silenced to serenity.
A myriad of stars twinkled above them. All that was left filling the men's ears were cricket chirping to gentle rustling of vegetation from occasional blowing of icy wind. Their breaths steamed from their noses and mouths. At this time of night, it was extremely cold. The dry and chilling Californian weather was nothing they couldn't handle.
"Move out," ordered Chris on comms.
They went on their feet and treaded for the tree line ahead in steadied pace, bristling the grass below in each step. They went in the similar circled formation with Alpha Team, spearheaded by Chris, leading the way with Bravo trailing behind. They were positioned three meters apart from another as standard tactical procedure in night-time operations. Their infrared lasers, which only they could see through night-vision, actively beamed on the trees surrounding them. His eyes warily fixed ahead, Chris briefly tilted his muzzle down and used his non-firing left hand to signal his radio.
"Alpha to Control, comms check. How copy?"
A gruff, static voice emitted from his headset.
"Command to Alpha, five of five. Loud and clear. Over."
"Command, we are Oscar Mike. En route to primary AO," informed the captain.
"Acknowledged."
"Have the targets been IDed?"
"Negative. Surveillance indicates no movement at this time. Only bodies. Command will keep you posted. Adherence to extreme caution advised."
"Wilco. Out."
Returning to high alert, Chris doubled his pace in a light jog. The rest trailed him through the woods. Their silhouettes faded the farther they ventured in. Darkness brooded over them.