"Warhawk flight, what's your status?" Brad heard over the radio as his headset did it's best to mitigate the deafening thrum of rotors and engines through the open door of his UH-60. The chatter continued, the same as it had.
Brad felt someone grab his elbow in the cramped space. He turned and saw Jason, who motioned to his headset and held up two fingers. Swap to alternate channel two. He did.
"What's up?" Brad asked, more to let Jason know he was on the channel than anything.
"You think they're gonna scrub the mission?" he asked, gesturing out of the open door just as a flash of lightning lit up the sky. For a brief moment, the intense, wet, black was illuminated. Still, there was only cloudy sky, rain, and rolling ocean.
"Dunno," Brad admitted. They'd been flying for about half an hour since refueling at the coast. At this rate they'd have...maybe 45 minutes to find the island, raid it, and get onboard before the pilots needed to start worrying about having enough fuel to make it back.
"Well, something better give." Jason bumped Brad's shoulder with a fist to close the conversation and they both switched back to the primary channel.
The original mission plan had called for the F/A-18's to find the target, soften it, and simultaneously mark it for the strike team. This storm had come out of nowhere though and visibility in the dense rain was shit.
Normally, that might not be such a problem, but satellites, scanners, and all other manner of sensitive equipment that might normally be used to find a damned island seemed not to be functional. A lot of their gear had been hardened so that it could continue working around magic, but the avionics in Navy fighters apparently hadn't received that particular upgrade.
"Checkmate, Mystic 6, possible contact, three o'clock." Mystic was the callsign being used by the flight of Blackhawks carrying the strike force, Checkmate being Colonel Boyd's callsign. There might be hope yet.
"Checkmate copies, possible contact by Mystic 6, you're clear to investigate." The order hadn't even finished and they were banking toward three o'clock. Evidently the pilots had the same worries about the timeline. Brad wasn't sure whether to pray this was it or not. The assault would probably go a lot smoother if the F/A-18's softened the target first.
Several long moments ticked by as they flew closer. Brad tried to get a peek through the front canopy, but between the darkness and the rain, he couldn't make anything out. The pilots had the front blacked out and were flying with their night vision on. For battery conservation, none of the assault team had theirs down. Best not to waste your resources en route to a fight.
"Checkmate, Mystic Flight has positive contact. ETA to landfall, 2 mikes." Brad felt the adrenaline spike like a shot to the neck. They were assaulting the island without the airstrike. Almost as one, the operators in the back of the helicopter began checking weapons and gear for the last time.
"Warhawk, Checkmate, burn to grid-" The radio cut to static for a long moment. "-for possible CAS mission."
"Checkmate, Warhawk, repeat destination grid, too much static."
"Warhawk, that's grid-" The static cut in again.
"Sixty seconds," the pilot up front called. The green hue of the cabin switched to red.
"Checkmate, you were cut off by static again, repeat grid?"
"Warhawk, adjust your heading-" static, "-degrees to the-" static, "-how copy?" Checkmate was enunciating slow and clear, but the static kept cutting everything important out of the transmission.
"Uh, Checkmate, we keep getting interference. We're going to break apart and move toward the center of the grid, see if we can't make visual contact."
"Checkmate, copy. All callsigns, be advised, location markers appear to be ineffective over radio as well."
"Jesus…" The pilot muttered, probably not intending to transmit. Still, Brad looked forward through the cockpit. They were close enough now to see the island and its castle looming ahead. Through flashes of lightning he could make out black dots pouring from the doors and windows and into the skies.
"There must be hundreds of the fucking things," one of the soldiers from Echo said, and Brad had to agree. His thirty round magazine of probably-it'll-work Patronus rounds and a pair of the Mk-II packs didn't seem wholly adequate in the face of all those Dementors.
"Remember your training and stick to the plan," Brad said, sounding every bit as confident and authoritative as a leader should. He wouldn't be mentioning the pit in his stomach to the others, however.
As they approached the final stretch of water and the helicopter banked toward the drop zone, the operators pulled down their night vision goggles. The dark sky and land illuminated into a whitish-blue but clear picture before Brad's eyes. That didn't help him feel any better about the number of Dementors they could see, which were still coming out of Azkaban.
"Ten seconds."
The crew chief let go of his minigun, pushing the fast-rope into position. Gravity increased and Brad felt his knees try and buckle as the helicopter came to a rapid halt above what looked to be a flat spot of land near a dock.
No one was waiting for an engraved invitation. The crew chief kicked the rope out of the side of the helicopter and watched it fall. As soon as it hit the ground, he gave Brad a thumbs up.
For his part, Brad let the training take over. He leaned out of the safety of the cabin, grabbing the rope with both hands and catching his feet against the rope. Gravity did the rest.
As soon as his boots hit the ground, he let go, shouldered his rifle, and got out of the way. He felt wet mud give way to his knee as he took up a firing position facing the entrance of the castle. The steady stream of Dementors seemed to have slowed down. They were sticking near the castle, perhaps not sure what to make of the sudden appearance of muggles on their little island.
To either side of him, Brad could see dozens of soldiers fast-roping and taking up positions. Four of the Blackhawks continued past, two to either side of the castle, preparing to disgorge their interdiction teams to on the other side of the castle.
"Mystic 4, insertion complete, moving to holding pattern." Brad looked up to see the rope falling to the ground as their Blackhawk lifted away. Everyone was on the ground behind him.
"Mystic 7 to Mystic Flight, there is no LZ on the-" static cut in, "-side of the building, repeat no LZ. We'll have to insert up front."
Well, no plan survives contact with the enemy. Brad was about to start issuing orders to his group when the Dementors, almost as one, swarmed toward them. Reacting on instinct, Brad snapped his rifle up. As his laser, one among a sea, connected with one of the flying demons, he snapped out several shots.
A cacophony of gunfire erupted around him and there was no doubt that in this target rich environment, the shots were finding their marks. Still, the surge of Dementors continued on unfazed. It took Brad a moment to realize that he didn't see any of the Dementors so much as slowing down.
"These fucking rounds aren't working!" someone shouted behind him, giving voice to his own thoughts. Brad watched white streams of tracer fire pour from the sides of Blackhawks that were circling back from behind Azkaban. Didn't seem to matter.
The wave of Dementors washed over them. While dozens flew past, Brad managed to fire several shots into the center of mass of one of the approaching creatures, right before it crashed into him. Cold fingers locked around his throat and Brad knew this was it, this was how he would die. Despair pushed every positive feeling away-
A flash of white light erupted from somewhere to his side and the hand disappeared. A wave of clarity struck as the Dementors around them shrieked and retreated, but only for a few hundred feet.
"Checkmate, Echo Actual, ammunition is ineffective! There are too many hostiles, suggest abort!"
"Warhawk, Checkmate, what is your location?"
"Checkmate, Warhawk is-" static.
Dementors surged in toward Brad and the assault team again. The Blackhawks containing the other half of the assault group pulled back, detaching the ropes before anyone could descend.
Brad let his rifle drop and reached into the drop pouch for one of his Patronus packs, his hands shaking in protest as every fiber of his being revolted against him. Dropping his rifle in the middle of this shit felt like suicide.
The Dementors were right in front of him as he got the primer pulled. White light erupted from his lap and the Dementors fled back once again, giving them a moment's reprieve.
"Get your packs out, that's the only thing keeping 'em at bay!" Brad shouted. Around him, the entire assault element had collapsed behind him, toward the dock. When the shit hit the fan like this it was hard to beat back the idea of safety in numbers.
Dozens of rifles fired up at the swarm of Dementors as operators ineffectually lashed out at the creatures. A pair of Patronus packs went off behind Brad.
"Save them until the Dementors come in. Reaper, use yours on the next attack! Checkmate, what's the status of our evac?" Brad called out over a rising cacophony of rushing sound and gunfire, even as dozens of Dementors swooped in at them. Jason and Sara waited until the Dementors were almost on top of them before setting off their packs.
"Reaper-" Checkmate started, but someone walked over the traffic.
"-say again, Warhawk has a visual on the island."
"Warhawk, Checkmate, you're cleared to fire. All assault elements, keep your heads down!"
Brad hadn't recognized that rushing as the sound of jet engines. The distinct whine marking the impending airstrike was clear now. The assault group looked around at the sparse bushes and rocks for non-existent cover.
Several more Patronus packs detonated as Brad laid into the ground, pushing himself down and willing it to be enough. The jet engines roared, drowning out all other sound.
Hands grabbed Brad, flipping him onto his back. A pair of Dementors held him down and again he felt...everything...everything draining from him. Flashes of memories ran before his eyes, the DI calling his name for the Operator Selection Program, Fleur in her gown at the Yule Ball, the island house-
A deep and deafening whump sounded above him and suddenly everything was white. For what felt like an eternity, everything was white and there was no sound. Brad started to wonder if this was death...plain, white, nothingness.
Then, the light started to dim. It was slow, but after a moment it was noticeable. When his NVG's started to feed correctly again, he looked around and saw...nothing. He was surrounded by his hunkered down troops, far from cover, and rain was pelting his face, but he didn't see a single black figure around them.
Feeling started to return to his limbs at about the same time it did with the others. The whine of jet engines had started to fade away and Brad realized that someone was talking on the radio.
"Anyone on the assault team, this is Checkmate, please respond."
"Checkmate, Reaper 1." Brad's voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat, looking around. Aside from the receding sound of jet engines, the shuffling of gear as soldiers got up and checked their comrades, and the steady thrum of rain, he heard nothing ominous. He scanned the air around them in every direction and caught no sign of Dementors. The soldiers around him were either up now or getting up. "Assault team is intact, I don't see any sign of Dementors currently. Suggest we take advantage while we still can."
"Checkmate copy, Mystic you are clear to return. Warhawk, good effect on target, you can RTB."