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."
