David fidgeted with his detonator. It had been a while, and he was out of
practice. His thumb was itchy now, and it was the Major's fault. The POWs
could wait. David wanted to blow shit up. Regardless of his digits, the
lieutenant led some GIs to the POW camp. The GIs surrounded the complex
and fortified their positions in the tropical canopy. A lone SEAL
approached the front gate and stated in rudimentary Russian,
"You are surrounded. Hand over your prisoners or we will resort to military force."
"Americans can't fight an honest fight, show your men!"
They always wanted the hard way. David sighed and pushed his detonator. 40lbs of C4 exploded behind the camp. The Russian in charge shuddered. SEALs were here. He'd heard horror stories about them; they could play games with Spetznaz soldiers. He capitulated and shouted out the window. "You can have your prisoners; they're in the last two tents. I think you've already opened the back gate."
"Liar," David shouted, "We have rock solid evidence that you have over 40 men here. Two ten-men tents can't hold that. You had your chance."
The SEAL signaled, and the GIs opened fire on the small guardhouse. The sheer volume of rounds pumped into the small wooden building assured 100% casualties. The captives were liberated, all of them. Hushed cheers coursed through the camp. Unfortunately there was no time to party and no rest for the weary. Light was coming, and Lieutenant Hyrin urged them onward.
The crossing back to main camp was harder. There were a lot of weakened soldiers, many of whom had to be carried back. David once felt something crawl across his neck and was embarrassed to ask a GI to check for spiders, but he couldn't think easy until he knew. His arachnophobia was a demon he had never faced off with, and he hoped to God that every deployment he made was free of Soviet Terror Drones. Their uncanny likeness to his devils made him an endangerment to his squad in that kind of situation. SEALs aren't supposed to be afraid of anything, and they certainly don't ask grunts for a bug-check.
Once they had gotten to camp, the undermanned medical crews got to work on the former prisoners. It had to be done quickly, tanks and tents needed to be laid with camo-netting and campfires needed to be buried. Soviet reconnaissance aircraft went out at dawn. Once the medical checks were completed, everyone hustled to string out the nets. Every tank, every inch of canvas needed to be fully covered or there was risk of detection.
The nets were up. Dirt had covered all the campfires. The men had to stay in their tents unless called for. With impeccable timing, two Soviet spy planes flew over their position at the crack of dawn. They took hundreds of photos of the nearby jungle. Developed on the plane, they would be analyzed by professionals in the regional command center as soon as the aircraft returned. Hopefully a grunt hadn't left his coffee pot by the fire, David had heard of miracles worked by those analysts on pictures. If any of the camp, even one trace, remained, they'd be found. Central America was where most of the Russian troops were unloaded. They'd have no problems finding reinforcements, and the Commies wouldn't rest until the American camp was trampled.
***
Nolen braced himself and thought of his wife. He heard the familiar zap of a charging tesla weapon, the heat of its proximity. The whining current buzzed louder and louder before it abruptly stopped at its peak. The Russian soldier checked his weapon for jams while cursing in his native tongue. Nolen was a pilot and those quick reflexes happened to help him here. He grabbed his .45 from its holster and, just like the old gunslingers, pointed it at the Commie's head. A tesla trooper's visor slit is small, but Nolen couldn't miss at this range.
Kolikov quickly cleared the dirt from his gauntlet and raised it back up to the pilot. He was surprised to see a pistol in his face. Very surprised, and very startled. For a minute he lost track of what he was doing and why he was doing it. A quick refocus reminded him and he re-powered his weapon. The American spoke in attempted Russian, substituting words he did not know for the English ones.
"Drop the glove."
Kolikov didn't have much choice. He unfastened his gauntlet and it dropped to the floor.
What the fool did next either was a result of his stupidity or his trust in strangers. He holstered his gun. Sergei Kolikov surged into action at that moment. He tackled the other man right in the torso, pinning his body against the flight seat behind him. The pilot had much more strength than what showed. The American's hands began to beat down on Sergei's back, each one hitting as heavy as a stone. Soon the Russian's grip and strength faltered and he and Nolen tumbled out of the cockpit. They grappled for minutes, seemingly hours to the combatants. They also made an ungodly amount of noise.
The noise was loud enough to transfer into the gunner's seat of the plane. It was now Lieutenant Campbell's turn to rise from his sleep. He heard a god-awful commotion from outside. His canopy was covered in dirt, the pushed the button to raise it and a most peculiar sight awaited him. There were two men, one of whom he saw to be his pilot, Jack, and a Commie tesla trooper. The both of them were rolling around on the ground, going for each other's throats and cursing in whatever language befit them.
Campbell took out his handgun and after cocking it pointed it at the two men. To the Russian in particular he said, "What the hell are you doing?"
At first, Kolikov was terrified. There were two of the scoundrels; just one was giving him a hard time! The two Americans had bound the trooper, and at first Sergei believed they would execute him. They simply told him to stay put. The one he had been wrestling with, 'Jack,' surprisingly was the kindlier one. The other was of lower rank, younger, and much more of a firebrand. He was Kyle. It confused him greatly that they would disclose their names so easily and that Allied uniforms had the nametag right there on the jacket. Sergei kept quiet about his personal life, spoke little, but took offers of rations from Jack. Kyle muttered that a captain shouldn't feed the animals and kept his pistol in his hand, loaded. The Russian was also amazed at the rations the Allied soldiers had. Such small pouches contained food of many varieties that was almost delicious. The Red Army had field rations, but they were canned and tasted rancid. Mostly, Soviet troops were fed in field kitchens that served better food than these pouches, but it was inconvenient to have to leave battle to answer a hunger-call!
It astounded Sergei that the Allies could be so kind to their prisoners. Soviet POWs were treated like animals, being underfed in horrible living conditions. They were often beaten. If there were female soldiers captured (another thing that greatly confused Kolikov, Russian military women were clerks or secretaries, not pilots and troopers!), the officers might do a little more that beat them. Jack seemed to see Sergei's bewilderment.
"You're lucky it's us," he stated.
Sergei snapped from his trance, "I do not understand."
"Most others of us would have killed you a long time ago. I'm fairly sure Kyle here would have already done so if it weren't for me."
Sergei didn't doubt it. His short exchanges with the other man were riddled with insults. It looked as though Kyle might explode. He was still young and had the fire in his heart. Jack was older, and could see the greater purpose behind things.
Kyle was too preoccupied to care about killing the commie he had prisoner. He had lit several flares and was now scanning through every radio channel and issuing the same S.O.S. It was a good cause, but he should have known better. Radio frequencies are universal things. 8.5 on an American radio is 8.5 on a Soviet radio. Kyle had succeeded in getting an Allied infantry battalion to come pick him up, but he also managed to get several Red tank battalions as well.
"You are surrounded. Hand over your prisoners or we will resort to military force."
"Americans can't fight an honest fight, show your men!"
They always wanted the hard way. David sighed and pushed his detonator. 40lbs of C4 exploded behind the camp. The Russian in charge shuddered. SEALs were here. He'd heard horror stories about them; they could play games with Spetznaz soldiers. He capitulated and shouted out the window. "You can have your prisoners; they're in the last two tents. I think you've already opened the back gate."
"Liar," David shouted, "We have rock solid evidence that you have over 40 men here. Two ten-men tents can't hold that. You had your chance."
The SEAL signaled, and the GIs opened fire on the small guardhouse. The sheer volume of rounds pumped into the small wooden building assured 100% casualties. The captives were liberated, all of them. Hushed cheers coursed through the camp. Unfortunately there was no time to party and no rest for the weary. Light was coming, and Lieutenant Hyrin urged them onward.
The crossing back to main camp was harder. There were a lot of weakened soldiers, many of whom had to be carried back. David once felt something crawl across his neck and was embarrassed to ask a GI to check for spiders, but he couldn't think easy until he knew. His arachnophobia was a demon he had never faced off with, and he hoped to God that every deployment he made was free of Soviet Terror Drones. Their uncanny likeness to his devils made him an endangerment to his squad in that kind of situation. SEALs aren't supposed to be afraid of anything, and they certainly don't ask grunts for a bug-check.
Once they had gotten to camp, the undermanned medical crews got to work on the former prisoners. It had to be done quickly, tanks and tents needed to be laid with camo-netting and campfires needed to be buried. Soviet reconnaissance aircraft went out at dawn. Once the medical checks were completed, everyone hustled to string out the nets. Every tank, every inch of canvas needed to be fully covered or there was risk of detection.
The nets were up. Dirt had covered all the campfires. The men had to stay in their tents unless called for. With impeccable timing, two Soviet spy planes flew over their position at the crack of dawn. They took hundreds of photos of the nearby jungle. Developed on the plane, they would be analyzed by professionals in the regional command center as soon as the aircraft returned. Hopefully a grunt hadn't left his coffee pot by the fire, David had heard of miracles worked by those analysts on pictures. If any of the camp, even one trace, remained, they'd be found. Central America was where most of the Russian troops were unloaded. They'd have no problems finding reinforcements, and the Commies wouldn't rest until the American camp was trampled.
***
Nolen braced himself and thought of his wife. He heard the familiar zap of a charging tesla weapon, the heat of its proximity. The whining current buzzed louder and louder before it abruptly stopped at its peak. The Russian soldier checked his weapon for jams while cursing in his native tongue. Nolen was a pilot and those quick reflexes happened to help him here. He grabbed his .45 from its holster and, just like the old gunslingers, pointed it at the Commie's head. A tesla trooper's visor slit is small, but Nolen couldn't miss at this range.
Kolikov quickly cleared the dirt from his gauntlet and raised it back up to the pilot. He was surprised to see a pistol in his face. Very surprised, and very startled. For a minute he lost track of what he was doing and why he was doing it. A quick refocus reminded him and he re-powered his weapon. The American spoke in attempted Russian, substituting words he did not know for the English ones.
"Drop the glove."
Kolikov didn't have much choice. He unfastened his gauntlet and it dropped to the floor.
What the fool did next either was a result of his stupidity or his trust in strangers. He holstered his gun. Sergei Kolikov surged into action at that moment. He tackled the other man right in the torso, pinning his body against the flight seat behind him. The pilot had much more strength than what showed. The American's hands began to beat down on Sergei's back, each one hitting as heavy as a stone. Soon the Russian's grip and strength faltered and he and Nolen tumbled out of the cockpit. They grappled for minutes, seemingly hours to the combatants. They also made an ungodly amount of noise.
The noise was loud enough to transfer into the gunner's seat of the plane. It was now Lieutenant Campbell's turn to rise from his sleep. He heard a god-awful commotion from outside. His canopy was covered in dirt, the pushed the button to raise it and a most peculiar sight awaited him. There were two men, one of whom he saw to be his pilot, Jack, and a Commie tesla trooper. The both of them were rolling around on the ground, going for each other's throats and cursing in whatever language befit them.
Campbell took out his handgun and after cocking it pointed it at the two men. To the Russian in particular he said, "What the hell are you doing?"
At first, Kolikov was terrified. There were two of the scoundrels; just one was giving him a hard time! The two Americans had bound the trooper, and at first Sergei believed they would execute him. They simply told him to stay put. The one he had been wrestling with, 'Jack,' surprisingly was the kindlier one. The other was of lower rank, younger, and much more of a firebrand. He was Kyle. It confused him greatly that they would disclose their names so easily and that Allied uniforms had the nametag right there on the jacket. Sergei kept quiet about his personal life, spoke little, but took offers of rations from Jack. Kyle muttered that a captain shouldn't feed the animals and kept his pistol in his hand, loaded. The Russian was also amazed at the rations the Allied soldiers had. Such small pouches contained food of many varieties that was almost delicious. The Red Army had field rations, but they were canned and tasted rancid. Mostly, Soviet troops were fed in field kitchens that served better food than these pouches, but it was inconvenient to have to leave battle to answer a hunger-call!
It astounded Sergei that the Allies could be so kind to their prisoners. Soviet POWs were treated like animals, being underfed in horrible living conditions. They were often beaten. If there were female soldiers captured (another thing that greatly confused Kolikov, Russian military women were clerks or secretaries, not pilots and troopers!), the officers might do a little more that beat them. Jack seemed to see Sergei's bewilderment.
"You're lucky it's us," he stated.
Sergei snapped from his trance, "I do not understand."
"Most others of us would have killed you a long time ago. I'm fairly sure Kyle here would have already done so if it weren't for me."
Sergei didn't doubt it. His short exchanges with the other man were riddled with insults. It looked as though Kyle might explode. He was still young and had the fire in his heart. Jack was older, and could see the greater purpose behind things.
Kyle was too preoccupied to care about killing the commie he had prisoner. He had lit several flares and was now scanning through every radio channel and issuing the same S.O.S. It was a good cause, but he should have known better. Radio frequencies are universal things. 8.5 on an American radio is 8.5 on a Soviet radio. Kyle had succeeded in getting an Allied infantry battalion to come pick him up, but he also managed to get several Red tank battalions as well.