Specialist Faith Carlton felt like she was going insane. As a communications expert, the reservist had been assigned to the NESTEGG command center; specifically she was in charge of relaying operational sitreps to Headquarters. Needless to say, that was the last thing she wanted to be doing; mainly because it was such grim task at this point in time. Intelligence had grossly under-estimated the abilities of the terrorist group and now HUNTER and KILLER were paying for that mistake dearly. As her headset once again sparked to life, she glanced down at the sight of an M-16 propped up against her equipment table. She remembered hearing a call come in a few minutes ago from the MPs stating that multiple hostiles were approaching NESTEGG. A part of her wished it would come to that. She wanted to be a part of the battle. She wanted to help. She felt she didn't have the right to sit back while the others risked their lives.
"NESTEGG, this is Control, come in over." An impatient voice called out over the channels for the third time, snapping Carlton back to reality.
"NESTEGG here, go ahead Control." She returned, giving her head a quick shake to help clear it. Snap out of it Carlton. What if that'd been a call for support? You may not like it but you've been assigned this task and you're gonna do the best damned job you can. Dad raised you better than that. Her restlessness quelled for the moment, the female reservist snapped her full attention back to the headset as Headquarters requested another update.


Ripcord had helped to cover Zap and Shaw as they escaped the hidden motor pool, giving them a two minute lead before the paratrooper put his plan into action. After giving them what little time he could spare, his narrowed eyes shot back to his map of the camp, giving the coordinates a final check. He was going to see to it that this area was flattened. "GOD, this is Kilo Bravo Zero-Three, status over." He called into his headset, his barely contained fury bleeding into his tone of voice.
"This is GOD, we are off station and have expended all stores, out." One of the pilots reported in frustrated voice. Shit. No air strike. One of the first things he'd learned in the military was that you always picked air support over artillery. Air crews could adjust their own damned fire, artillery crews couldn't.
"THUNDER this is Kilo Bravo Zero-Three, I need fire mission at these coordinates, I say again, bring down arty on this transmission, over." He spoke out as his eyes began scanning the area for possible safe zones. Who was he kidding? He was unleashing a black rain on this area. There would be no safe zones.
"Negative Zero-Three, no range." A voice returned casually adding an almost cordial tone to the transmission. No range? Who was this stupid motherfucker? THUNDER's position had specifically been chosen for the purpose of being able to provide support to both the camp teams and the convoy teams. No way. He refused to be stopped because the artillery team was skittish about the risk of hitting their own people.
"I have multiple tracks concealed at my location and GOD has reported expended all stores, insufficient weapons to counter, I require fire mission, over." Ripcord retorted, the harshness in his voice raising slightly.
"Zero-Three, this is Tango Eight-Two, I'm on it." A more familiar voice called out over the frequency. It was Covergirl. However, the usual rise of his spirits that occurred on the confirmation of her safety wasn't present this time; he was far too hell-bent on revenge for his executed subordinates to let his mind drift far from it. "Get your ass outta there, gimme a go when clear."


"C'mon, damnit." Ghostrider mumbled to himself as he impatiently tapped his foot against the side of the Ghoststriker's cockpit. His brown eyes stared out of the aircraft's canopy, intently watching as the ground crew swarmed over the two aircraft, attempting to rearm and refuel the pair of Joe multi-role fighters as quickly as possible. The veteran pilot again shifted in the ejection seat for about the hundredth time before giving his oxygen mask another tug; he'd never bothered to unlock the breathing apparatus or even raise his sun visor. He wanted to be ready at a moment's notice. Even in the current state of having only the drums for the Ghoststriker's three cannons loaded; he wouldn't have thought twice about hauling ass back to the operational zone if it got bad enough. Ghostrider knew the ground crew had to be setting a world speed record, but it still didn't seem fast enough. Before he could dwell on the thought any longer, a flurry of motion at the mouth of the closest hangar caught his attention. Several ground crew members were in the process of wheeling out ordinance to the two Ghoststrikers as fast as they could. The veteran pilot had called in his munitions requests shortly after he and Slip Stream had expended their previous stores, hoping to save as much time on the rearming process as possible. Ghostrider's eyes played over the weapons, allowing him to mentally confirm what ordinance was going to be loaded onto the two aircraft. Six AGM-65 Maverick guided missiles. Six Mk. 82 Snakeye retarded bombs. Four CBU-59 APAM cluster bombs. The ground crew had gotten everything he'd asked for; however Ghostrider couldn't believe what he saw next. Two Mk. 79s; each bomb containing a thousand pounds of the infamous napalm mixture. He hadn't meant for his mention of the Seventy-nines to be transmitted. How the ground crew found them that fast was beyond him; but he would personally buy them all a round of beers when he got back.
"Holy shit." Captain Karen Dover, his radar operator, said in an impressed voice as her own eyes caught sight of the Seventy-nines. "Those'll sure as hell come in handy."
"Yeah, if our boys are still there by the time we get back." Ghostrider responded in solemn tone.


Ripcord quickly relayed the coordinates to Covergirl and confirmed her read back of his position; wanting to hit the hidden tanks before they were brought into the fight. As he finished his transmission, a movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. His gaze shot up and landed on the spot where his two men had been executed, the guards still expressing their sickening joys over the deaths of the soldiers. However one of the terrorists was walking away from the scene of the murders. The executioner. The paratrooper's eyes narrowed as he gripped his rifle tighter. He still had unfinished business. The executioner seemed to be slowly heading towards one of the many tents in the area. Ripcord immediately stood and took off around the backs of the densely spaced tents, his feet carrying him as fast as possible to the one where he thought the terrorist was headed. The paratrooper knew he could never escape the coming artillery volley, he just wanted to live long enough to kill the man that had murdered his fellow soldiers. As the seconds dragged out into small eternities, Ripcord finally reached the tent, silently dropping prone as he risked a look inside. He carefully raised the thick canvas of the tent, peering inside as discreetly as possible. Good. It was clean. He quickly wormed his way under and into the tent before regaining his footing. Now what? The paratrooper cursed himself for not giving his plan to ambush the executioner more thought. Fortunately a plan quickly formulated in his head; wasting no time he quick strode to one of the corners of the tent closest to its flap. Ripcord quickly slung his rifle and withdrew his knife, trying his best to be as difficult to see as possible. The beating of his heart grew ever faster as time stretched out, making it extremely hard to keep his body motionless; his cold green eyes focused on the tent's flap, waiting for the features of the terrorist to appear. This was stupid, but it was needed. This asshole deserved to know he was gonna die. Once again, his ear piece sparked to life, causing the paratrooper to mentally curse himself for not turning the radio off; he could only hope that the executioner wouldn't hear its receptions.
"Zero-Three, say again, Tango Eight-Two. Holding fire until clear signal received." He didn't dare speak into his microphone. If the ear piece didn't give away his position then the slightest whisper would. He couldn't allow that. He wouldn't allow the brutal deaths of Addams and Blackburne go unavenged. Finally his worry started to fade as the figure of Arabic man slipped into the tent, oblivious to the soldier's presence. Just a few seconds longer. Ripcord held his breath as the man fully stepped into the canvas tent, letting the flap drop itself closed behind him. Now or never. The paratrooper shot forward, placing a gloved hand over the man's mouth and nose before landing a hard kick to the back of the man's knees, forcing him to the sandy ground. Ripcord quickly knelt as well, forcing his shin down onto the man's claves, pinning the terrorist in place. In another lightning fast move, Ripcord brought the knife around to the front of the man's neck. "This is for Blackburne and Addams you piece of shit." Ripcord hissed out, retaining enough sanity to keep his voice to the smallest whisper. The paratrooper was about to draw the knife across the man's throat when he suddenly stopped. This motherfucker didn't deserve such a quick release. Ripcord quickly lowered the knife to the man's abdomen, drawing it deeply across the flesh. Without the aid of skin and muscle to retain it's position, the terrorist's intestines quickly began to unravel and spill free from their cavity. Ripcord swiftly stood and kicked the man down; his ears detecting a wet, smacking sound as the executioner landed in a pile of his own digestive track. Without a second glance at the gruesome sight, he headed to the rear of the tent; hearing the barely audible sobs of the still-alive terrorist as he crawled under the canvas wall.

Ripcord quickly made his way further away from the hidden motor pool into an area that looked deserted, his careful trip taking roughly three minutes to complete. He should've known that Covergirl wouldn't have dared to fire with him in the area. This was it, he already heard a diesel engine begin to start up. He couldn't allow the T-72s to enter the fray. He quickly keyed his headset as he ducked down under the chassis of an unoccupied Ural 375 cargo truck. "Damnit Tango Eight-Two, where's the fire mission?" He spoke into the microphone, not allowing his voice to be become too loud. He wasn't keen on the idea of finding out that this area wasn't clear.
"Holding until clear signal received." Covergirl returned in a stubborn voice.
"Clear! Volley, damnit!" He hissed out. For a brief moment nothing happened but then his ears heard the tell-tale sounds of a small rocket engine. The sound grew louder and louder until it was cut short, replaced by the tremendous explosion of the artillery missile plowing into the ground. It was soon followed by another. Then another. A total of five fireballs raised from the nearby location of the hidden motor pool; the combined force of the high explosive warheads engulfing the area in flames and knocking down what ever tents it didn't burn into a pile of ashes. The paratrooper strained to see beyond the smoke and flames; his heart sinking when the area's condition was revealed. You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin'. That's too many damned tanks. He quickly keyed his mike again, not worrying about his voice level. If any hostiles were in the area then they'd sure as hell be focusing on more pressing matters.
"Tango Eight-Two, repeat! Repeat! Repeat!" He called out as he moved more of his body behind the doubled rear tires of the Ural. He knew he was close but he didn't realize just how close. Apparently when trying to evade the enemy, three minutes didn't buy much distance. Within seconds, three more missiles slammed into the remaining T-72s and the few temporary structures that hadn't burned up yet. Again, Ripcord intently watched the area, getting glimpses of the devastation as the smoke and fire boiled about. How the fuck? The paratrooper's assessment was grim. He counted two of the tanks that had miraculously gone untouched while another three looked damaged but intact. Looks like Lady Luck had finally went on her merry way. The area had taken what? Eight missiles? And the place still had tanks that weren't smoldering heaps of scrap? Covergirl couldn't have many missiles left if she had any at all. "Tango Eight-Two, status." He spoke into the microphone as continued to watch the tanks, hoping that he'd see them fall prey to secondary explosions.
"Four remaining, I say again four. Status Zero-Three." The female tanker returned.
"Great." Ripcord mumbled to himself before shaking his head. "That's not enough damn missiles." As he finished his ramblings he quickly keyed the headset again. "Recommend re-arm, Zero-Three will attempt to eliminate remaining tracks." Who the hell was he kidding? He had nothing more than his M-16 along with a few hand grenades and he thought he would take on five T-72s? Before the paratrooper could cast more doubt on the situation, another transmission came in.
"Goddamn Three, how many are fucking left?" Covergirl asked in an irritated voice. "Will volley two more, again, two more then copy rearm."
"Count zero-two tracks undamaged, zero-three functional." He returned in an equally bleak voice, finishing his sentence an instant before two more missiles screamed in and impacted the target area. Ripcord again saw the blossoms of fire and smoke; waiting for it to clear enough to get a picture of the odds. One of the damaged tanks had finally taken all it could and lay in ruin a good distance away from where it originally was; while one of the previously undamaged Soviet made tanks had sustained a good amount of damage and was on fire. Well, this is as good as it's gonna to get. Time to get to work.


Specialist Anthony Gambello, codenamed Flash, ducked down into the bomb crater as he slapped a fresh magazine into his M-16. This mission was turning out to be a lot more hairy that anyone had made it out to be. After roping in the El-tee, Falcon, had immediately ordered them to the link-up point, hoping to combine the remaining infantry forces as per the plan. After a while the combat ready survivors of Hotel Alpha had made it to the spot; but they were the only ones. Kilo Alpha was pinned down just under a mile away while Kilo Bravo was either dead or scattered. So now the link-up point was where he sat; using a bomb crater for a make shift foxhole while enemy infantry kept his team pinned down. The enemy had brought in tanks at one point but someone on a nearby dune had taken care of that problem. Suddenly he saw two men break free of their foxhole and begin advancing towards the enemy. Were they insane? It didn't matter. They were his fellow soldiers. He couldn't let them down. Quickly finishing the reload, he charged his rifle and brought it up again; laying down covering fire for the two soldiers as best as he could. Fortunately the duo of maniacs had made it into another crater, seemingly in one piece. Within a few seconds the rest of the Joes started leaping out of their craters as Leatherneck, Hotel Alpha's NCOIC, waved them forward. They were finally going to advance. But wait, what about the guys on the dune? They had saved HUNTER's collective asses. Flash had to go check on 'em; they might be wounded. He had to help. As Prata, a member of Hotel Alpha, the only other soldier that shared his small crater, started up Flash immediately reached out and took hold of Prata's pistol belt, yanking the tall black soldier back into the hole.
"What the fuck Flash? We're gonna get left behind!" Prata shouted out as he gave the Joe a light shove. "This ain't the place to be cut off in."
"No." Flash responded simply as he pointed towards the dune. "They're gonna be cut off if we don't do something."
"The dude that fired the missile?" Prata asked quizzically as he twisted his body to look at the dune without exposing himself to enemy fire.
"Yeah." Flash responded with a nod. "Who knows what condition they're in and it looks like we're the only ones who saw it. So it's up to us to take care of it." He finished with a shrug, speaking as calmly if he was having a light-hearted conversation at a bus stop.
"Alright. Let's do it." Prata said with nod as he a gave a single pound to Flash's ballistic vest.


Zap and Shaw had long since given up on the prospect of trying to leave the side of the dune that they were pinned down on. Each time they'd try to work their way around or over the dune they'd be met with gunfire. Shaw had suggested that he use his M-203 to hit the enemy positions but Zap quickly shot that idea down. They had no way of knowing exactly where the enemy was so launching a grenade could lead to ammo being wasted or worse, hitting friendlies. Without being able to move, the two merely dropped prone in opposite directions, each one covering a different side of the dune. At one point, two hostiles had worked their way around on Zap's side; the demolitions expert quickly dispatching both of them. However for the most part the two soldiers had just waited, hoping for the infantry on the other side of the dune to be dealt with.
"Contact." Shaw whispered, breaking Zap's tunnel vision on the northern side of the dune. The demolitions expert quietly waited for Shaw's M-16 to sound. He didn't dare take his eyes away from the northern side of the dune; the enemies may have gotten smart and sent a team around each side of the dune. "Friendlies!" Shaw suddenly shouted out, causing Zap's spirits to soar. Gracias a Dios! They'd finally broken through!
"Signal them over." Zap called out to Shaw, still not letting his joys cloud his judgment enough to cause him to pull his eyes away from his field of fire. Within seconds, the demolitions expert heard a clanking of gear and the shifting of sand under foot before a new voice sounded out.
"Thanks for the save with the tanks. You guys okay?" The newcomer asked.
"Yeah, we're fine. How's HUNTER doing?" Zap responded, his eyes still focused on the same point.
"They're starting to advance." The voice returned, raising a nod from the demolitions expert.
"I'm gonna check it out. Watch this side of the dune for me." Zap said as he rose to a knee, finally glimpsing at his relief. Two soldiers. Both just with M-16s. One was a short and stocky man of obvious Italian decent while the other was a tall and athletic black man. Gambello and Prata. Gambello? It was familiar. Zap knew him from somewhere. The demolitions expert pushed the train of thought aside as he carefully worked his way up towards the crest of the dune. He had a job to do. He could worry about the rest when he got himself in a more hospitable environment.
Much to his delight, Zap wasn't fired on as he carefully exposed his head to eye level, taking in the scene before him. HUNTER had worked its way forward, ending up in another series of craters slightly more north than its previous position; almost at the edge of the clearing created by a part of GOD's original air strikes. Most importantly, the area looked to be devoid of hostile forces. The demolitions expert withdrew the pair of binoculars he'd taken off of Goldfine's corpse before leaving the Tomahawk and began to more closely search the surrounding area. Shit. He spotted an enemy infantry force a fair distance away from HUNTER's position, slowly and carefully working their way north towards the unsuspecting soldiers. They had to be stopped. Zap quickly slid down the dune, kicking up a thin cloud of sand as he moved down the sloped surface, before coming to a halt near the other three soldiers. "We got problems." Zap said, instantly getting the attention of the men. "There's some infantry coming towards HUNTER's position from the south. We gotta take care of 'em before they reach HUNTER's flank. Let's move." Zap said, getting a nod from each of the other three soldiers. Without another word said, they all headed off at a full run to interdict the enemy force.


Ripcord had been carefully working his way towards the tanks when an explosion sounded out, causing his eyes to snap in the direction of the close-by noise, catching sight of fireball where one of the tanks had been. The T-72 that had been ablaze had finally reached its limits. Still that left three tanks that Ripcord had no viable way of taking out. Whatever he did, it would have to be in close, he had no way of going up against the tanks at a distance without a missile. In order to do that he'd have to be as fast and agile as possible, meaning that the first thing he'd need to do would be to ditch his ruck. His ruck! He'd been so consumed about the artillery strike that they'd forgotten about the not using all of his C-4 charges. The paratrooper quickly shrugged the LC-2 ruck free of his shoulders and dumped its contents onto the sand in front of him. Three charges. Three tanks. No room for error. Ripcord took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts on how to go about the dangerous anti-tank task. After a brief moment, he stood, placing one charge in an empty ammo pouch while the other two were placed in his leg pockets. Now came the tricky part, getting close enough to plant the C-4 without getting vaporized by the tanks' cannons. The paratrooper stared at the remaining tanks for a moment, thinking of the best way to approach them. Sneaking around earlier was easy. However with the absence of the tents and temporary structures came a disturbing amount of open space. Two of the tanks faced east while the third faced west. No matter which way he went, he would be seen. Better by one than by two. After another deep breath, he took off towards the tanks at a full sprint.
Ripcord weaved back and forth as he ran trying his best to avoid hunks of debris; if he had to stop he was dead. He quickly slid to stop at the first tank; dropping his body into a baseball slide as he skidded along the sand and under the body of the first, undamaged T-72. Working quickly he withdrew the one of the C-4 charges from his leg pocket pressed it against the metal of the tank's under-belly before hitting the timer. Thirty seconds. Moving faster than he'd ever moved before, he high-crawled free of the Soviet made tank; rolling to his feet before sprinting away. He felt the heat of the explosion full force on his back while the deafening report assaulted his ears. Before anything else could happen, he caught sight of an orange flicker on his shoulder. Shit! He was on fire! On sheer reaction he dove to the ground and immediately sent his body into a roll that he carried through back to his feet. He hoped to God that he got the fire out, if not then he was toast. Another movement caught his eye as the hatch on the closest T-72 rose upwards before a figure popped out. The paratrooper could barely hear the clatter of machine gun fire over the ringing in his ears as the tanker manned the anti-personnel gun. Ripcord quickly brought his weapon up, barely trying to aim as he threw several hasty three-round bursts in the tanker's direction, never stopping his run. Much to Ripcord's amazement, the tanker fell back in a spray of crimson on the fourth burst. Breathing heavily he slid to his knees at the back of the tank, while he tore another C-4 block free. Shit! The baseball slide under the first tank had badly deformed the charge to the point that it would have an unpredictable blast pattern. Before he could reach for the final block of C-4, the tank started to turn, causing him roll away to keep from being crushed under the massive tracks. As the tank rotated on the same spot, he heard the sounds of assault rifle fire. The other guys in the turret were trying to find him. But if they were firing then they were outside. Ripcord quickly pulled a grenade free of his ALICE gear, pulling the pin and letting the spoon fly away before sending it in an almost powerless arc right above him two seconds later. He was rewarded within a quick moment with a dull explosion that silenced the assault rifle fire. Working quickly, he leapt onto the deck of the tank, avoiding its dangerous track. A quick glance at the gore covered turret confirmed his hopes that he'd been successful. He hoped to God that the driver was stupid. He quickly darted towards the front of the tank, slinging his M-16 while freeing his M-1911 in the same motion. A forceful yank of the driver's hatch proved his luck; the metal covering rising to expose the driver who looked fearfully up at Ripcord. Before the paratrooper's mind had processed any details of the man, he quickly fired a double hammer into the driver's head before he rolled free of the now motionless tank and onto the sand below, right in line with center of the third tank. The driver of it had covered the distance between his T-72 and it's former counterparts in an amazingly small span of time. It wasn't stopping. It was gonna run him down. Ripcord quickly ran towards the oncoming tank, dropping prone and rolling onto his back at the last second. Only one shot at this. He quickly pulled his last block of C-4 free of the ammo pouch, pulling it close to his chest as he set the timer for twenty seconds. As the tank rumbled at then over him, he waited until the massive T-72 had almost cleared him before slapping the charge against the under-belly of the engine compartment. Without any hesitation he quickly stood and dove behind the now crewless T-72, seconds before a large explosion filled the air. Slowly, and still breathing heavily, the paratrooper rose, his eyes taking in the burning husk of the final tank. With a single nod of his head at the image of the three once proud war machines, he unslung his M-16 as he keyed his headset. "Kilo Bravo Zero-Three here. Proceeding to Rendezvous Charlie, out."


"Fire!" Hotseat shouted an instant before he saw another HiSS Armored Personnel Carrier transformed into a fiery slag through his sights. The veteran NCO had lost count of how many kills his crew had made today. The enemy units seemed to just keep coming. However, JACKAL had recently been making head-way. The Cobra vehicles were starting to thin out.
"Acquired!" Adams, his gunner, called out. Hotseat reverted his attention to the tank's sight, seeing a withdrawing STUN under the crosshairs.
"F-" Hotseat started, only to have his command dramatically changed. "MISSILES!" He screamed as he pulled his face away from the sight and put a white-knuckled grip on the bottom of his chair. A heartbeat later the massive MOBAT rocked backwards with incredible force. Before the tank had even completely stopped, Hotseat swept his eyes around the inside of the turret. Adams was already moving, unstrapping himself from his seat and pulling his helmet's communications cord out; Hotseat knew he would, he'd trained with Adams since becoming a part of G.I. Joe. A glance at Carson, the loader, wasn't so uplifting. The reservist was slumped to his right, his body unmoving. Shit. Hotseat reached over, stripping off his glove before holding his fingers against the side of Carson's throat. He was alive. Hotseat quickly withdrew a knife from his vest while he keyed his microphone. "Padowski, status." No response. He honestly didn't expect one. He'd seen two missiles streaking right for his tank. He wasn't dead so that meant they hit the front of the vehicle. Hotseat quickly finished cutting Carson free of the restraints, pulling him into the commander's seat as he freed one of the M-4s from its rack. In a motion that didn't reflect his age, he swiftly pulled himself through the commander's hatch, noticing Adams kneeling beside the tank and laying down cover fire with the M-240B machine gun that was normally mounted in front of the loader's hatch on the MOBAT's roof. The veteran NCO quickly tossed the M-4 to the sand below before he used all his might to haul Carson free of the crippled tank. His breathing became more taxed as he dragged his loader off of the vehicle. "Dune, four o'clock!" He shouted as he scooped up Carson in a fireman's carry. The M-4. Hotseat started to reach down but felt his knees start to give under his loader's weight. Fuck it. "Move out!" He called to his gunner before he moved as fast as he could for the dune. Once he reached his cover he finally collapsed under the weight of Carson. Trying hard to catch his breath, Hotseat slipped out from under the loader, drawing his pistol as Adams turned the corner, firing off another hasty burst from the machine gun before ducking behind the relative safety of the dune.
"Wh...What's it look like Harry?" The veteran NCO forced out, spitting on the ground at the end of his sentence.
"Like shit boss. Fuckers with rockets everywhere. We rolled right into an ambush." Adams said as he looked into the M-240's ammo box and began counting rounds. "We better get ready. Without infantry support the rest of our boys are fucked too."


Psyche-Out ran his hand through his close cropped blonde hair as a heavy exhale escaped his lips. This was getting bad. JACKAL had just been ambushed and was getting cut to pieces, Kilo Bravo was scattered, Kilo Alpha was pinned down, and with all the infighting THUNDER was useless. His thoughts were broken as the radio sparked to life again. However this time was different. The voice wasn't panicked, or even urgent for that matter.
"NESTEGG, this is team HUNTER, we have eliminated hostile force at our position and are awaiting new orders, do you copy over?" The voice of Falcon called out over the frequency.
"Tell them to sweep the northern area and try to link up with Kilo Alpha." The psy-ops officer relayed to Sparks as his eyes remained locked on the maps scattered about on the central table of the command center.
"Sir," A voice started speaking from the direction of the command tent's entrance. "We extracted SPYGLASS back to the perimeter but..." The voice trailed off, causing Psyche-Out to raise his eyes off of the maps and level them at the speaker. It was Law. He saw a distant look on the stocky MP's face before he started again in an almost detached voice. "We lost two men. McMillan and Downtown." As soon as Law had finished the sentence, he his eyes refocused on Psyche-Out while his voice became more urgent. "Is there anything else I can do to help sir?"
"Get yourself back out on perimeter. We need all the eyes we can get out there." The psy-ops officer responded with a nod in the direction of the MP. "Cause this thing is likely to get worse before it gets better." Psyche-Out mumbled under his breath as Law turned and exited the tent.
"Sir!" Specialist Carlton called out joyfully from across the room. "Control has managed to reroute a AC-130A, call sign GUNFIGHTER to this area for additional support!" As soon as Carlton had finished, Sparks cut in.
"Sir, we've also gotten word that GOD has re-armed and is inbound." Sparks said, spitting out his words in rapid fire succession.
"Alright," Psyche-Out said, as the corners of his mouth raised slightly and his eyes grew brighter. "Sparks, get GOD on the line and get them to give support to JACKAL, then contact GUNFIGHTER, get their ETA, relay them the positions of all personnel inside the camp, and tell them that excluding the areas that hold my people I want that place to cease to exist."


"Shit! I'm dry!" Adams hissed out as he tossed the M-240 aside and drew out his M-1911. "I think we're fucked boss." Hotseat didn't respond but he sure as hell agreed with his gunner. This was pretty grim. Carson had snapped out of it but that was the only good point. The infantry keep pouring out of spider-traps like nobody's business and the enemy vehicles were starting to resurge again. Then to top it all off, they were just down to three M-1911s with a single magazine each. Hotseat moved past Adams and looked out at the oncoming enemies. There were just too damned many of 'em. Without warning a distant HiSS went up in a massive fireball. Before the explosion subsided, another followed, a STUN mimicking it's comrade's death. Another HiSS was the next to fall. That's when Hotseat saw it. Two shapes not much more than a couple of hundred feet off ground slid by noiselessly.
"KNEES! EARS!" Hotseat screamed, dropping to a knee and covering his ears. As he finished the two rushed words he let his mouth hang open. As if on cue two separate and deafening sonic booms rolled across the area. Hotseat saw a good portion of the enemy infantry loose their footing, unprepared for the rush of air that followed being so close to a supersonic aircraft's passing. The veteran NCO's ears barely heard the sounds of the roaring jet engines followed by two more distant sonic booms; the planes were dropping speed and turning inbound again. Within a matter of minutes, the two aircraft returned, again at low altitude, this time six objects detached at irregular intervals from the aircraft. At the back of each object, four fins popped free, which sent the bombs into a lazy fall. Hotseat saw the retarded bombs hit across the area, devastating large areas of land, vehicles, and bodies. Once again, the two aircraft made another run, this time causing a single object from each aircraft to somersault free of the airframe. "Aw fuck..." Hotseat trailed off before his senses got the better of him. "DOWN! COVER!" He screamed out as he dove behind the sand dune. The blast that followed was nothing short of catastrophic. The two large napalm weapons raised a gigantic fireball and deafening explosion. Hotseat knew there was still fire burning, he the felt tremendous heat of it but he couldn't hear it or anything else for that matter. He slowly stood, shaking sand free from his body before he stumbled out from behind the dune which had incidentally, shrunk quite a bit. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the devastation before him. He'd seen napalm used a lot in Vietnam. But that was jungle and the enemy was hidden. This was almost completely different. The sand had turned to glass-like material in several places close to ground zero. Everything that was steel was on fire. Everything that hadn't been steel simply wasn't there.


He couldn't hold out much longer. Ripcord had gotten in contact with an enemy force and had ended up being pinned down in one of the smaller impact craters. He knew he was close to Rendezvous Charlie and he'd even heard M-16 fire other than his own fairly close by. But for now the paratrooper was stuck in the crater and running dangerously low on ammo. He just had a little over two magazines and a single grenade left. Once those were gone he was down to the M-1911 and his knife; and Ripcord had no intention of trying hand to hand combat against these odds. He pushed the thoughts away. The more his mind wandered, the less people he'd hit with the rounds he had left. 28. Shot to the hip. Damnit. 29. Shot to the lung. No ballistic vest. Out of the equation. 30. Shit. Ripcord quickly ducked down into the hole, ejecting the empty magazine before slapping in his next to last. As he charged the rifle he heard a call from NESTEGG ordering everyone to give their position. Ripcord did. As he half-listened to the other transmissions he heard Zap's voice. His position was very close by. If he could link up with Zap he could fight his way free of this shit-hole. However before Ripcord could even think about leaving his current position he had to clear it first.
"All units in the camp, All units in the camp, hold positions and keep your heads down, out." A voice called out on the open channel.
"Yeah right." Ripcord mumbled to himself. "If I stay down I'm gonna get overrun pal." Ripcord mumbled to himself as he started to sight up for the third round in the new magazine when suddenly his enemy disappeared in a spray of sand and blood. "What the fuck?" Ripcord said in a dumbfounded voice as more sand was kicked up. Then it occurred to him. A Spooky. They had picked up a Spooky. Without any more hesitation, Ripcord ducked down into the bomb crater, tossing his M-16 aside while he drew his M-1911. All he had to do now was waste any asshole that stepped into his hole; the gunship would handle the rest. Ripcord sat motionlessly and undiscovered in the unintentional foxhole for a full fifteen minutes before the gunfire subsided and an all clear was given. Ripcord scooped up his M-16 before he slowly emerged from the hole and took in the scene. Very few structures remained intact. Bodies tore apart by high caliber rounds were haphazardly strewn about like broken sticks. Small to medium pocket marks were everywhere. It was total devastation. "It's about fucking time."