Raid in Progress
Savagery. That is the only word that does justice to the violence that global superpowers have aimed against the tiny, impoverished nation of Aldastan.
Unproven allegations of so-called 'terrorist' activity are being used to deploy unprovoked aggression against peaceful people. Rather than negotiate with domestic resistance forces, the regime in Beijing is exploiting the deaths of hundreds as an excuse to threaten the lives of millions, in a transparent ploy to control the oil and mineral resources of Central Asia. Chinese and Russian forces are confirmed to be mobilizing, and the United States has dispatched reinforcements, including their elite 'special forces' assassins, to Dugan Air Base in occupied Turkmenistan. All sources agree that war is imminent.
The Aldastan Liberation Council has promised to defend their lands at all costs with their small, outdated military and the bravery of civilian militias. As Chinese tanks mass and American bombers fuel nearby, the people of Aldastan hold their breaths and wait… for the storm to break upon them.
-Omar bin Ghazali, ARC News
November 3rd, 1995 - Bishkek, Liberated Aldastan (former Kyrgyzstan) - 0730 hours
The Aurora bomber's sonic boom thundered through the skies over Bishkek, almost as loud as its bomb slamming into the apartment building. The top floor of the target disintegrated into a brown cloud of dust and debris, obliterating the suspected Global Liberation Army missile site on its roof. The arrowhead-shaped bomber turned sharply and sped homeward, with a couple impotent RPGs from the streets lunging upwards after it.
"Achilles Six to Pinpoint," Colonel Burton said into his radio. "Confirm target destroyed. Tell those flyboys nice shooting, over."
Burton's squinting gray eyes surveyed the Bishkek cityscape from the open door of the thundering twin-rotor Chinook helicopter carrying his team toward their landing zone. The buildings, streets, and wounds of Aldastan's capital rolled by beneath them. His radio earpiece crackled:
"Pinpoint to Achilles, roger that." The calm, professional voice of Pinpoint belonged to Lieutenant Eva Lee, Task Force Stormbringer's main communications officer. "Spectre gunship arriving on station to provide additional fire support. They are cleared to fire on any target marked by your laser, out."
Bishkek had been a functioning city, once. Now, it looked like the apocalypse had already come and gone. The streets were cracked and cratered, strewn with rubble and refuse and wrecks. The buildings still standing were marred by bullet holes and disrepair. A pack of stray dogs loped along beneath the helicopter, barking upwards. Roadblocks, coils of barbed wire, and walls of tires sprouted like tumorous growths over a landscape dominated by warlords and militias. The decay of the city was a stark contrast to the looming majesty of the Ala-Too Mountain Range rearing up to Bishkek's South, up ahead of Achilles Team's helicopters coming in from the North.
The terrain was complex but the situation was simple, in Burton's view. Terrorists were cancer, and the USA's finest warfighters were here to carve them out.
And here came his scalpel. Jet engines roared overhead as a massive Spectre gunship, larger and deadlier than the Auroras, swooped into attack position. Burton knew that if he looked upwards, he'd barely be able to discern a pointed silhouette high overhead, circling like a vulture in the darkened early morning sky.
"Spectre here. Awaiting target coordinates, over."
As field leader of Achilles Team, Burton was authorized to direct the Spectre's awesome firepower himself, without any second-guessing from the Command Centre back in Turkmenistan. He opened up the ruggedized pocket terminal that controlled the surveillance drone loitering overhead, and called up the drone's grainy camera feed.
Through the drone's thermal eye, Bishkek was a world of grayscale, warm white bodies and vehicles against the cold black ground of early morning. The drone was watching a trio of white ovals with spinning halos for rotor, flying southward in a diagonal echelon formation: Pillar One, the Chinook with Burton's Alpha Squad, along with Pillar Two carrying Sergeant Sharp's Bravo Squad and Pillar Three, carrying the Marine sniper unit tasked with overwatch.
The transport choppers were flanked by Buzzards One and Two, the flight's sleek Comanche gunship escorts, their shapes gray and blurry on thermal thanks to their stealthy design. As Burton watched, Pillar Three peeled off to the West, heading for the burned-out communications tower that would be the sniper team's firing position. He frowned as he watched, as though he could will the Marines not to fuck things up for the mission.
Nudging the terminal's little black joystick, Burton pointed its infrared laser at a trio of men standing with boxy tubes on their shoulders. They were posted beneath camo netting within a ring of sandbags set up in a dusty lot: a 'Stinger Site', the GLA's low-tech version of a SAM battery.
"Achilles Six to Spectre, cleared to engage enemy position, out."
The drone was a new toy in the USA arsenal. It was unarmed except for its camera and signaling laser, which made it the deadliest piece of hardware in the war zone. Whoever controlled that laser could unleash the full power of America's unparalleled air force to vapourise their enemies in a rain of missiles, rockets, and shells.
Colonel Bruce Burton could kill anyone in Bishkek, anytime he wanted, by pointing at them.
The three figures under the netting showed no awareness that they were about to die. They were all facing North, readying to target the choppers as they approached. Word of the incoming American raid would be spreading across Bishkek by now, and the GLA paid handsome bounties for downing an aircraft.
Yellow tracers rained down on the Stinger Site like divine wrath from on high, followed by pounding shells from the Spectre's airborne cannon. The drone's camera watched the target vanish from existence in a flash of hot white light, swiftly obscured by swirling black smoke and dust. The explosions rumbled out over the city, mixing with thunder from the other USA airstrikes hitting Bishkek.
Burton knew that if he zoomed out the drone's view or even just lifted his head, he'd see orange fireballs rising above the Bishkek skyline alongside columns of black smoke. Stealth Fighters, Raptor multirole jets, and Warthog attack aircraft were all pounding suspected GLA positions across the city, sowing terror and confusion among the enemy. The buzzsaw whirrr of the escort Comanches' chain guns joined in as they engaged targets of opportunity. Anyone down there carrying a weapon or possibly carrying a weapon was fair game.
Smoke blasted from an alleyway below, spitting an RPG at the chopper. Burton looked up briefly, and saw it rocketing straight at him. He looked back down, focusing on the terminal.
Red light flashed from the chopper's underside, jabbing out at the RPG. The projectile fell back to Earth, cut neatly in two smoking halves.
Point-Defense Lasers. Burton loved serving under 'Pinpoint.'
"Pinpoint to Achilles Six: be advised, five mikes to LZ, out."
"You heard the man," Burton called, his rough voice roaring over the thunder of the chopper and of the explosions outside. "King, final checks."
Burton's second-in-command got up from the chopper's bench behind him, his dark skin streaked with gray tiger stripes of camo paint, eyes hidden behind mirrored wraparound sunglasses. A neat black chinstrap beard peeked out beneath his helmet strap.
"You got it. We MOPP'ing up on this one?"
Burton shook his head. "Keep it stowed unless Gladys throws gas at us. Masks on when we hit the target building."
Heavy and awkward to fight in, the Mission-Oriented-Protective-Posture gear could get its wearer killed in battle. Yet they were targeting someone who called themselves 'Dr. Thrax' with a straight face. Burton had chosen to prioritize the certainty of a firefight over the possibility of a chemical hazard. Like so much else on the mission, it was a calculated risk.
King triple-checked the other six members of their squad, verifying that equipment was secure, weapons were loaded, and troops were solid. At Burton's order, each of the handpicked Rangers had their names written on their helmets and their blood types taped on their boots. Young, fit, eager, and heavily armed, they were the cutting edge of the USA's elite infantry, clad in digitized gray-green urban camo that Burton had personally insisted upon.
While King did his work, Burton was using their air support to draw a line of fire and smoke through the city ahead of their flight path, preceding their arrival like a herald of doom. He pointed at a house flying a GLA flag, fortified with barbed wire and sandbags. He designated a roadblock bristling with RPG tubes. He indicated a pair of Technicals surrounded by armed personnel, parked in the middle of Victory Park. The Spectre wiped them all off the map in a downpour of tracer rounds and cannon shells, leaving nothing behind but flaming wreckage and dismembered bodies.
Burton's thick, corded neck was stiff from looking at the terminal. It popped as he rolled it, his shaved bulletlike head rotating like a boulder at the peak of his muscular body. Most soldiers of Burton's rank and age weren't leading field ops, but most soldiers weren't legends in the SpecOps community.
Among the cacophony of explosions, rotors, and jet engines, Burton could make out another sound: a megaphone-boosted voice, bellowing orders that echoed among the streets below. Burton's Kyrgyz was rudimentary, but he knew a call to arms when he heard one. And he could recognize the phrase 'AK-47s for everyone' in almost any language.
"Pinpoint to Achilles Six. Overwatch reports successful deployment. They have eyes on the LZ and report all-clear. Overwatch One requests clearance to engage targets at his discretion, over."
"Achilles Six here, copy." Burton frowned. Knowing 'Overwatch One,' the request had been phrased more along the lines of 'hey, let's shoot some assholes while we wait for the Colonel to show up.'
"Interrogative: is Overwatch staying on-mission so far?"
There was a pause on the other end. Burton's hand tightened around his radio mic. This mission was too important for their hotshot sniper support to cause any problems with his renegade attitude.
"Uh, Achilles Six, Overwatch One has been cautioned on his chatter, and uh, has already commenced firing at this time. We make three confirmed kills so far, over."
Burton sighed, and hung his head. "Copy. Tell Overwatch to keep a sharp eye for hostile snipers while he's having fun, out."
Everyone had a new respect for GLA sniping after what Jarmen Kell had done in Beijing
The LZ was in sight now. Renamed 'Liberation Gardens' after the GLA 'revolution', Victory Park was now little more than a waste dump, strewn with plastic bags, animal waste, and rusted vehicles. But it was a flat open space where the choppers could drop off troops, and it was only a block away from the target building.
Burton would have preferred to fast-rope into the building directly from the chopper, but the brass had learned not to risk birds that way after that shit-show in Yemen last year. Downed aircraft in enemy territory had a way of turning the simplest operation FUBAR.
"Achilles Six, LZ is clear and intel confirms Gasbag is at the target building. Proceed with deployment, out."
"This is it!" Burton called to his troops. "Fireteam One on me! Fireteam Two, form up on King! When the ramp drops, move fast to cover and engage at will!"
"Hooah!" A chorus of Army shouts was the only response given or required.
Burton disconnected his uplink, returning control of the drone and the gunship to their respective operators as he shut down the hand terminal and stowed it in his bulky tactical vest. He felt the familiar lurch in his stomach as the chopper slowed, flared, and dropped downwards for landing.
Alpha Squad stood up, faced the rear, and prepared for war.
The Chinook touched the ground, almost teasing it, then settled fully in a cloud of rotor-borne dust. The rear ramp gaped open and disgorged a swarm of Special Forces, bristling with rifles and grenades and plastic explosives, moving out with weapons raised. Eight of America's best with eight more on the way, ready to destroy anything that came between them and their objective.
It was cold and clear, just peeking above freezing, and the sun's red sliver was creeping above the horizon. The ferocious air bombardment had silenced most enemies in the area. Achilles Team's Alpha Squad entered Victory Park unopposed for the moment. Behind them, their helicopter rose up and flew away.
Bodies were already strewn across the ground, courtesy of air support and Overwatch's sniping. The dead militants mostly wore a rag-tag mix of civilian clothes and old Soviet gear, flaired with green scarves and GLA emblem patches.
Burton led Fireteam One to cover behind the scorched remnants of the Technicals destroyed by the Spectre. He knew without looking that King's Fireteam Two was doing the same behind them. The fireteams moved in the lopsided wedge formation that was as natural to every team member as putting one foot in front of the other. The two halves of their squad would leapfrog each other, one covering while the other moved, all the way to the target building.
"Achilles Six to Pinpoint, report smooth deployment," Burton said. "LZ is clear, tell Bravo they're good to go, over."
"Pinpoint to Achilles, copy that. Pillar Two is inbound with Bravo. General Townes wishes you good hunting. Out."
The shooting started just as Burton lowered his radio. Faint rattling reports indicated scattered small arms fire from long range, without the distinctive *whizz* or *snap* of near-misses. A few gouts of dirt roiled the ground, a good thirty feet from Burton's position.
Fireteam One shot back, laying down short, controlled bursts from rifles and loud, ripping streams of suppressing fire from Private Collins' M249 machine gun on Burton's right. The Colonel himself hoisted his scoped M4 rifle, sighted a bearded GLA gunman firing from a second-floor window four hundred metres down the street, and dropped the man with his first rounds.
The incoming fire swiftly quieted as the enemy either ducked down or died for their bravery. Burton heard Corporal Westbrook, their beefy grenadier on his left, call out "Got one!"
Burton looked over his shoulder to Fireteam Two, hunkering behind a thick swell of garbage that had grown a grassy coat. He waved his arm forward. King got his people up, and they moved fast and low past Burton to their next position, a rusted-out school bus.
As they moved, a woman's voice screamed something harsh and ragged from an upstairs window down the street. Burton didn't need an interpreter to translate curses, and he didn't care.
The Colonel heard rotors thundering behind them as Pillar Two swooped in to drop off Bravo Squad. Right on time and according to plan. Alpha would blaze the path that Bravo would follow, and if needed, Bravo would support Alpha against any trouble. The next phase was to push hard and fast to the target building before 'Gasbag' could slip away.
Incoming fire had dwindled to a few scattered pops and cracks. Burton snapped off a fresh series of hand signals, and then got up to lead, 'bounding' his Fireteam past King's. They left the park, crossing a dirt-paved road to take cover in the husk of a storefront, scrawled with daggers and guns in green paint. As they arrived, a new voice crackled in his ear.
"Overwatch One to Achilles Six. Hey Colonel, lookin' good out there. You've got a Technical loaded with shooters inbound from the East about five hundred yards out. No worries - I'll say 'hi' for you, over."
The sharp report of a semi-automatic R59 'Pierce' sniper rifle followed, four shots in quick succession, a quick pause to reload, then two more. Frowning, Burton held up his fist for his team to hold position, and drew the hand terminal from his vest. Calling up the drone feed, he pointed the camera at the white blob of the enemy pickup truck and zoomed in.
By the time he got the picture focused, it was all over. The sniper had fired six shots and made five kills in ten seconds, picking off the vehicle's driver, gunner, passengers, and putting a hole through the Technical's engine for good measure, bringing it to a dead stop.
"Ya like that?" The sniper gloated. "And that was left-handed!"
Burton ground his teeth and snatched at his mic.
"God *damn* it Parker, if I've told you once I've told you a hundred times - cut the chatter! This is a real mission, not your personal shooting gallery! Acknowledge, over!"
"Could've fooled me. Don't lose any more hair over it, Colonel - me and Diaz will keep you nice and safe all the way to the target. Overwatch out."
A vein pulsed in Burton's forehead, and he once again cursed the political interservice bullshit that had saddled his Army team with Marine sniper support on this op. Burton had no idea how any sniper could talk so much and still qualify for Special Ops.
Burton pocketed the terminal and waved King's team forwards. Achilles Team continued to fire on any hint of motion in the windows of the cracked, dusty gray buildings around them, checking corners and alleyways for any hint of an ambush, always hugging cover to limit their exposure to hostile snipers. There was no coordinated enemy response yet, just lone gunmen firing intermittent bursts before fleeing or dying to the Americans' more accurate shooting.
A textbook Special Forces operation, so far. Burton would know, having written the book.
"Pinpoint to Achilles Six, be advised, air units are tracking large numbers of armed civilians converging on the LZ. ETA fifteen mikes, repeat, fifteen minutes. Uh, estimate crowd size as at least two hundred and still growing, over."
"Achilles to Pinpoint. No worries. We should be long gone by then, out."
The target building was in sight up ahead. The plan called for Achilles Team to storm the building, take Gasbag dead or alive, and get out and back on the chopper inside of ten minutes. Colonel Burton prided himself on completing missions ahead of schedule.
The target building was roughly L-shaped and painted a sickly green, with two wings connected by a central two-storey tower, overlooking a barren four-way intersection. The faded wooden sign over the front door called it a tea house. Intel called it a Black Market, where everything from armour-piercing rockets to heroin changed hands to help fund the GLA's war on the world. The tip from their new Chinese friends said that 'Gasbag' was there now, supervising an important purchase.
The tip had also said that the package would be heavily guarded. Which made it suspicious that no one was shooting at them as Achilles Team closed in.
"Hey Colonel, Overwatch here. We're seeing zero, repeat, zero movement inside the target building. Wasn't this place supposed to be crawling with elite bodyguards or something? Over."
Burton ignored Parker, focusing on scanning the area for traps. But the sniper had a point.
The Colonel held up his fist, halting his people behind an abandoned vendor's cart, long since picked clean. The intersection was almost silent, except for the flapping of laundry on a clothesline strung overhead. An overturned garbage can lay in front of the building, refuse spilling from it like entrails from a gutted animal.
"Looks clear," murmured Lopez, the team's fresh-faced rifleman. "No sign of Gladys."
"Stay sharp," Burton ordered. "Mask up and let's get this done."
Another string of hand signals later, King's team was stacked up on the left wing of the building while Burton's team arrayed themselves outside the peeling wooden door on the right wing. Bravo Squad had advanced smoothly up the street and was setting up a perimeter around the building. They would cover Alpha Squad's back while they breached. Burton kept his breathing deep and even through the filter of his gas mask, his shield against whatever poisons 'Gasbag' might have inside.
A gunshot sounded, splitting the intersection's silence. A shape flopped out of an alley across the street, a young gunman in goggles and a green helmet coughing his last on the dusty street.
"Overwatch One to Achilles Six: you're welcome. No other visible hostiles right now, but that crowd's getting closer, over."
Burton could hear them now: deep, roaring chanting. Intel had promised that people in Bishkek hated the GLA, that they would be happy to see the Americans despite all the airstrikes. Intel could blow him.
"Set for breach, sir."
Lopez had his shotgun out from behind his back and aimed at the door's hinges. With time pressing and no reason to believe the door to a market would be booby-trapped, a fast and loud breach was their best option.
"Hit it."
Lopez pumped two shells into the hinges. Burton donkey-kicked the door in.
A dead body fell out.
"The fuck?"
Lopez spoke for them all.
Burton carefully leaned into the doorway, minimizing his exposure as he swept the hallway with his rifle. Two more bodies were twisted on the floor. They all wore the tan body armour, black masks, and green armbands they'd been briefed to expect from Gasbag's bodyguards. One of them wore a pair of gas canisters on his back, connected to a rubber hose: a chemical spray weapon.
None of them had gotten a shot off before dying.
"Achilles Five to Achilles Six - we're in. Looks like we missed the party. Multiple enemy KIA, got a passport here from Qatar - foreign fighters, looks like. No clue who did it, over."
"Copy King, we're seeing the same thing here," Burton said. "Stick to the plan - clear room-by-room, we'll RV in the central tower. Out."
As he spoke, Burton turned one of the bodies over with his boot. Beneath the man's soaking-red mask, the head was soft, pulpy, and still warm. His skull had been crushed, and crushed recently.
Burton swallowed, then silently waved his fireteam in after him. The only noise in the hall came from the rotors of the circling Comanches outside as his team stepped carefully over the bodies in single file.
"What the hell did this?" Lopez sounded nauseous, even with his voice muffled by his gas mask. Behind him, Collins shouldered his SAW and crossed himself.
"No chatter," Burton hissed.
He knew they were all thinking the same thing. GLA veterans in the heart of their own territory, slaughtered at close range, seemingly without a hint of alarm or struggle. Burton couldn't do something like this on his best day, and his best days were pretty damn good.
"Spectre to Achilles Six, we're mission complete and headin' home. Good luck in there, over."
"Roger Spectre, thanks for the assist. Achilles out."
Burton wasn't worried. They still had air support on-call from the Comanches, if needed.
They moved forward into the building, passing silvery canisters of chemicals blazoned with bright warning symbols, racked in an alcove. Burton signaled Lopez to take photographs for intel, then knelt by one of the bodies. He smelled cooked meat. The glint of spent bullet casings caught his eye.
This fourth man had gotten a single burst off from his rifle before a charred hole was burned through his chest. Burton looked around for where the rounds had hit, but saw no bullet holes.
Then he saw the bullets, on the floor a few feet away, next to a spilled box of neatly wrapped heroin bricks. The bullets had been flattened on impact, like they'd bounced off a battle tank.
Automatic gunfire rattled from outside. Bravo Squad had contact on the perimeter. Burton put it out of his mind. Bravo had their mission, Alpha had theirs. Sergeant Sharp would radio if things got hairy out there.
"Five to Six. Got civilian casualties," King whispered on the radio. "No weapons, looks like local forced labour. Poor bastards don't even have shoes, over."
"Copy that," Burton whispered. "Heads up, RV in sight, out."
The hallway opened up into a wide, circular tea room, with half a dozen more bodies. Blood pooled across the stone floor. The dead had their tea and food in front of them, a game of mancala permanently unfinished between two slumped men with charred holes between their shoulders. A winding staircase in the back led to the upper level. Burton heard King shouting the challenge phrase from the opposing hallway.
"Chrysler!"
"Building!"
The two fireteams met.
"Not exactly what we were briefed for, is it?" King said as his team swept into the room. He motioned for two of his people, Randall and Alavi, to sweep and clear upstairs. "Think the Chinese didn't tell us everything?"
All Burton could do was shake his head. "You might have been right, King. But right now we need to grab all the intel we can and get out. Masks off, everyone - get to work."
King had suggested something was off with the mission during the briefing. Why would China tip off the USA and let a foreign power have the glory of taking down the world's current most-wanted terrorist, the man who'd attacked Beijing?
Burton had brushed him off, saying that China wanted the job done by the best, and everyone knew that was the USA. Now, he wasn't so sure.
"Hey," said Westbrook, his face sweaty after pulling off his gas mask. "Reckon this might be him. Same jacket as the file photo, at least."
He paused, swallowed hard. "Mighty hard gettin' a positive ID without a head, though."
The body was sprawled across the largest table, occupying the biggest bloodstain in the center of the room. It was indeed wearing the green camo jacket favoured by Dr. Thrax - and by his reportedly numerous body doubles. The neck's stump was ragged and raw with tattered sinew, with no sign of a blade's clean, cutting edge.
Burton's stomach lurched. He was no stranger to GLA decapitations or wartime dismemberments. He knew the difference between a head that was cut off… and one that had been *torn* off by overwhelming brute force.
He narrowed his eyes, and reached out to snag a folded piece of paper protruding from the jacket's pocket. He unfolded it expecting Kyrgyz, Russian, or Arabic. Instead, he was able to read the neatly typed large block lettering aloud in English.
"His views did not coincide with ours."
King sucked his teeth. "Ice cold."
Burton handed him the note. "See the symbol at the bottom?"
"Scorpion's tail. Wasn't Scorpion Cell General Aziz's outfit?"
Burton shrugged. "Intel said they broke up after we wasted him in Beirut. Maybe they're back."
"Wouldn't be the first time they did our job for us. Gotta love GLA infighting."
"Sir!" Lopez pushed in on them, waving a blood-spattered ledger. "Found this under the table. Buncha fuckin' chemical shit I can't even pronounce, next to some real big dollar signs."
Burton took the ledger, flipped through it. Phosphorus. Diethylaniline. Difluoro.All in English, but he spoke more Kyrgyz than he did this shit. One item didn't fit: "Dossier on European Green Crystal."
Whatever that was, Dr. Thrax had been willing to pay five million US dollars for it. Cash. And there was no sign of the money. Had their mysterious party crasher taken it?
The Colonel nodded. "Good work Lopez. This might be what Thrax was after. We need to get this to the Strategy Centre for analysis."
The scattered gunfire outside sounded more like a full-blown firefight now, punctuated by the explosions of grenades and rockets. The Comanches' chain guns were buzzing overhead, their spent brass rattling down like hail on the roof. Bravo was fully engaged, holding off the enemy so Alpha could complete the mission.
"Overwatch One to Achilles Six. I'm picking off the ringleaders of that crowd for you. It's slowing them down, but you gotta hurry it up. Bravo's getting heavy contact on the perimeter." Parker paused. "Whole lotta angry civvies down there. I'm seeing people bleeding, carrying their dead. Somebody tell those flyboys to watch where they're bombing! Over."
Burton scowled. Parker really was just a kid beneath his swaggering tough-guy attitude.
"Achilles Six to Overwatch One - every person in that crowd is coming to harm Americans. They are all legit targets that you are cleared to engage. I want you to keep firing on that crowd until they're fully dispersed or you run out of ammo. Acknowledge, over."
"Come on, Colonel, there's old ladies and kids with rocks down there-"
"It's an order, Parker!" Burton snapped. "Prioritize tangos with firearms, but get it done, out."
He shook his head, and turned to King. "Call in our exfil. Everyone else, get ready to move. We're gonna double-time it back to the LZ and-"
A dozen angry giant sewing machines thundered from outside. Burton saw King's face fall just as his own did. They both knew the sound of Quad Cannons in action.
"Pinpoint to Achilles Six, IMMEDIATE. Be advised we have, uh, multiple mobile triple-A vehicles in your AO. They just popped out on us, must've been concealed in buildings or- holy shit, Pillar One is hit! Wait one, out."
Burton lowered the radio and took a deep breath. "Trap."
King nodded. "We walk in to grab Thrax, then the Quads cut us off from air support and Gladys rips us up on the morning news. And with this level of coordination, I'd bet that's a body double lying on the table. What's the play?"
"Gimme a sec." Burton set the drone terminal on the bloody table, and called up the feed to get an aerial look at the situation.
The intersection around the Black Market had been quiet minutes ago, before they breached. Now it was swarming with enemy infantry, pressing on the target building from the South and West. Flickering muzzle flashes from rifles and machine guns pointed like accusing fingers at the eight members of Bravo Squad, huddled in their positions. The crumpled white figures of enemy dead in the street announced that Bravo was giving as good as they got. There was no sign of the Comanches, Buzzards One and Two.
Nudging the joystick, Burton redirected the camera to see the awkward white rectangle of a Quad Cannon a block away, a simple flatbed truck turned into a half-track. A four-barrelled anti-aircraft gun was mounted on its back, an old design but still deadly effective.
Just as Burton got a clear focus on the Quad, the turret rotated to point up at the drone. There was a burst of white flashes from the four cannons, then static.
No more drone. No more air support. They were on their own.
"Achilles, this is Pinpoint Actual." The clipped, tense voice of General Leonard 'Pinpoint' Townes was speaking now. "Pillar One and Two are RTB with damage, escorted by Buzzard Flight. We need time to re-establish air superiority before we can extract your team. Be advised that Chinese forces and UN observers are en route to enter your AO and render assistance, over."
Burton frowned. "Say again Pinpoint - the UN?" He looked at King, who shook his head and looked away.
The United Nations was a sore point for Ben 'King' Solomon.
"Confirmed, UN personnel accompanying Chinese troops in a 'fact-finding' capacity. Reinforcements are inbound Colonel - you just need to hold out until then, over."
"Roger that, Pinpoint," Colonel Burton said. "We'll hold. Out." He dropped the radio and turned to his people.
"Listen up! King, tell Sergeant Sharp to pop smoke, and pull Bravo Squad inside. Then call Overwatch and tell them to give us all the cover fire they can. We're going to strongpoint this building, kill every terrorist that comes near us, and hold until relieved. My fireteam will take the tower. King, your team and Bravo hold the ground floor."
He looked at each of the Rangers in turn, boring into their eyes, daring them to show a trace of fear.
"No American dies today. Hooah?"
"Hooah!"
They went to work.
A/N: This mission was originally going to be all one chapter, but its length became problematic, leading to it being split and ending on this cliffhanger. The reader will find out what becomes of Colonel Burton's mission in the next chapter, with more information about Dr. Thrax's interest in a 'European green crystal' pending.
A fair amount of research went into depicting Burton's forces and methods here. While this story is not overly concerned with *accuracy* in military affairs- reality being terribly lacking in alien crystals and Ion Cannons- it was important to make the portrayal of an elite Special Forces operation *convincing*, to convey that Burton and his troops are among the best in the world because of the discipline and protocols they practice. Hopefully this balance was effective.
'Overwatch One,' the currently unseen Marine sniper who is exacerbating Burton's blood pressure, is indeed a younger and more untested Nick Parker, who will one day be the GDI commando called 'Havoc.' He is already using the 'Pierce' sniper rifle, a weapon from the Renegade game. The author noted Havoc's protective streak toward civilians in Renegade, hence his insubordination to Burton in this chapter. This will not be the last we see of him.
In Generals, American briefings are given by a faceless 'Lieutenant Eva', who has been blended with Red Alert 2's Lieutenant Eva Lee in this timeline.
Some liberties were taken with military technology to have Generals units like the Raptor and Comanche flying in 1995. This reflects the long-established weirdness of C&C's alternate history, which saw M-16s and Hind helicopters on the battlefield in the 1950s.
In Zero Hour, point-Defense lasers are deployed by the Air Force general, but in Echo Nine they've been added to General Townes' arsenal. Since he's the laser general.
Finally, while this story's alternate history depicts Bishkek in 1995 as a decayed city overrun by an extremist group, it should be noted that modern Bishkek is by all accounts a lovely place.
Hope the chapter was enjoyable, and thank you for reading! The next installment should be coming soon.