Battlefields of Killzone
The Hunted
Ch.2 Red October
As told by Lt. Robert "Rapta" Hernandez
It's been six days since we last saw them. Six days of having our backs turned, our tails between our legs. Six days of climbing, scaling, and scraping our knees against dark colored rocks and rough ice. I know the ISA firebase is on the other side of this mountain. I know that our platoon wants to make it back in one piece. I know that we're almost there…
But honestly, I'm tired. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of climbing. And if I had the chance? Hell, I would break ranks and fight these freaks myself. But, I have men to look after, men who will follow me and trust me… and if they want to get home safe, it's my job to get them there.
Three days ago was a close call for all of us. We had been pursued by the enemy for the past week before, and slowly, they were catching up to us. As we had crossed Gavon Bridge, a two lane concrete road that spanned a small gorge, my Specialist, Luger, suggested that she take the bridge out. A well-trained Shadow Marshal, she was among one of the four soldiers to take out the SD Platforms during the first invasion, and was considered a hero. It was an honor to have her as part of my team, so I took to her advise. What she didn't tell me, though, was that she was going to wait for the enemy to begin to cross, then detonate the charges, hoping to remove a large portion of the force. Well, when I realized that my entire platoon had left without her, I ordered them to double back. We got there just as the enemy started to cross the bridge, and Luger got caught in the crossfire. We were able to retreat, and she did manage to destroy the bridge, along with two APC's and a tank, but we suffered seven casualties and Luger took three rounds in the shoulder blade, along with a nasty graze along her left arm. She's tough, though; she'll make it.
Off to my right, the sun is going down. Considering that we are halfway up the mountain, and roughly 7,000 feet above sea level, the sun takes about another half hour for it to set. But at this time, on a clear, October evening such as this, everything… absolutely everything turns red. The sky, the mountain, the wide plains below, everything ranging from the dark crimson of the rocks, to the frosty pink of snow at this height. Unfortunately, my squad's tactical gear doesn't blend in too well. Woodland camouflage isn't the best solution to mountainous combat, and the unforgivingly pale snow seems to deepen by a few more inches every night. We're going to have to be careful.
About 15 minutes before, I saw that my team needed a rest. I split my men into two groups; one who would travel a bit ahead and rest, and those who still had enough energy in them hold their positions and set up a defensive line. I stopped my half of the platoon around a wide crevasse in the mountain, and positioned them into a "Deadly Moon" formation. The riflemen made an inner-curving frontline, the heavy infantry and support gunners made a similar line behind them, and two snipers would stay in front, at opposite ends of the crevasse, creating a crescent shape. I am holding the left point, perched atop a tall boulder.
I can see the other sniper, Private Adam Hans, also squatting atop a tall rock; the silhouette of his hunched body, the long barrel of his ISA anti-material weapon breaking the symmetry. It was a good weapon; great range, good accuracy, and the power to punch though tempered steel. Problem was, ammo was rare, it weighed a ton, and the oversized munitions clip only held four rounds. It's mainly good for taking out small vehicles or Elite troops.
Me? Well, despite some questioning looks from most of my squad, I tend to favor our enemy's sniper rifle, the HG-6. It's simple, lightweight, far more accurate than Adam's, and carries six rounds in it's drum magazine. That, and considering it's a weapon made by the enemy, the ammo it plentiful. Besides, it's much more rewarding to pick up the ammo from the corpse of an enemy sniper, especially when you were the one that out gunned him with his own weapon. It's an encouraging feeling, knowing that you survived because you were a better soldier, not because his gun was better. Good soldiers are made, not mass-produced.
I shift my weight around, trying to get the circulation back in my legs, and tuck my chin beneath my combat vest as best as I can. I've never really minded the cold, much. It was only a few years ago when I could walk my dog around my neighborhood in forty-degree weather with only my pajamas. But, when there's a wind chill factor of ten degrees, it's been twenty-four hours since your last meal, and you're recovering from a shrapnel wound, your blood seems to thin.
1 mile down, I can see a ring of armored vehicles just off of a worn-out road. Thick, ash gray tents dotted the makeshift camp, and a hover tank, with it's four, leg-like tread supports, lower themselves to the ground. Portable food burners, using a gas native to their planet, burn green dots in the distance, and the shadows cast from the troops black attire almost seem to blend in within the dimmed out plains.
Out of curiosity, I shoulder my rifle against my left side and peer down my 20 x 140 powered scope. I take the time to adjust the elevation, the windage, and the sensitivity of the photoreceptors. My eyes adjust to the orange glow of the scope; something the enemy is especially fond of.
I bring my sight over the camp, the entire platoon covering only a small portion of my crosshairs. My index finger presses a toggle switch over the trigger, and the scope starts to zoom in. All I hear is the whistle of the mountain wind, and the whir of tiny motors as my vision magnifies twice, by five, ten, all the way up to twenty times normal sight. I breathe deeply, hold my breath, and try my best to steady myself as I try to observe the enemies movements.
Through the orange hue, I see them, dozens of them, milling about; some seeming to bark orders in that hellish, European accent, some cleaning their weapons, and some removing their facemasks and World War II styled helmets to eat their rations. I scan across, trying to figure our odds if they were to plan an attack
As I scout, my eye catches one particular soldier. He's halfway out of one of the armored personnel carriers, his torso behind a mounted machine gun turret. I've seen those things in action before; with its dual-auto cannons, high rate of fire, and insane accuracy, it's not something you want to face without a guided missile.
Anyway, I can see him within the gun mount, leaning back, his hands resting behind his head.
Bastard, relaxing like that when we're up here freezing our asses off. I bet it feels good being able to sit down on a shock absorbent sling rest, you in your warm little tank…
I can feel my heart beat faster and my blood pressure rise. I know I'm pissed; my scope is shaking. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. My hand tightens the fore grip of the rifle, then relaxes. My aim steadies.
If only I could get one good shot…
My headset crackles, then clicks, "Hey Rapta?"
That's my nickname. Besides being squad leader and a sniper, I've been known to use my switchblade a lot in combat. There have been times where buddies have made fun of me for pulling out the six-inch pushbutton blade to sharpen it; there have also been times where respect is gained when I show them the stained blood that I file off of it.
"Yeah? What's up, Private?"
Adam is a big guy with long, shaggy brown hair, big arms, and a pretty good shot. He handles that cannon of his like it was a BB rifle, and he's also a good radio operator. He's been in my platoon for a few months now, and we've become friends.
"Whatcha lookin' at? That base camp?"
"Yeah, I've got a pretty good bead on it. Why?"
"I'm having trouble seeing now. That scope ya got is a lot better than mine, with it's light sensitivity and stuff…"
"Yeah… just lookin' down at that bum in the APC, chillin' out while they've been running us down. Shame that those vehicles made it through the blast on the bridge…"
"Uh huh…" Adam drifts off. There is a moment of silence before his voice crackles through my headpiece again. "Hey! I bet you fifty credits that you can't take his head off."
I scoff to myself, "No thanks. Too far away… besides, I don't really want to give away our positions this late in the day. The boys have been asleep for only an hour or two."
"Aw, come on, man! You got the best shot in this whole damn platoon up here! Besides, I'll give you two of my rations if it's a head shot!"
I think about my men, then I think about the score I would like to settle with these bastards.
"Okay then, but only on two conditions."
"What's that?"
"One, they're not any of those Mexican flavored MRE's. Two, you start calling me Sir like you're supposed to!"
"No problem!"
"Say that again, soldier?"
"Ha ha… no problem, sir!"
As I ready myself, I could see the silhouette of my buddy sniper shift, the barrel of his rifle rise.
"Heh heh, I don't wanna miss this! I gotta make sure that you're not lying to me, eh?"
A smirk tugs at my face. Now I really want to kill that glowy-eyed son-of-a-bitch. I can't be the best shot on an empty stomach now, can I?
I lower myself a bit, sitting down on a folded leg, wrap my right arm across my right knee, and rest my rifle between the fold of my elbow.
Okay, Rapta, you can do this. Give your team one less freak to worry about…
I line my eye with my scope once again and search for my target. After a moment, I find him, still in the gun turret. He has no idea that a mile away, a fairly large, pointy bullet has his name on it.
As I start to control my breathing and tighten my grip, I notice the soldier starting to shift. He lowers his arms to cross them across his chest, and turns his body a little, the turret lazily following his body's movements. He nods his head to the right, then to the left, as if cracking his neck, then…
…turns his head right in my direction.
My breath gets caught midway as I see his beady, round orange eyes seemingly look strait into mine.
No way… it can't be. He can't be looking at me right now… it's impossible. It has to be coincidence or something… he must just be looking at the mountain, not me. He's just looking in one general direction, right?
My headset hisses, "Whoa… you see that? Kinda creepy, huh? He's looking right at us, right?"
"I dunno… but he won't be looking for long…"
I do my best to focus, trying to keep the crosshairs on my target.
Damn it… target's so far away… I just can't keep the sight from shaking…I might even give away our position… I don't even know if I should…
What I see next makes my blood freeze.
Right now, the soldier has rose his fist in front of him, and with a thick, gloved finger, flips me the bird.
He's flipping me off… he's flipping me off! How the hell is he…
Wait, he's not just giving me the bird, he's giving my whole team the bird. He knows that we've been running from them. He knows that they have been chasing us down, one of the few remaining ISA platoons left on this country. He knows that within a course of a day or two, they could catch up to us and stop us from clearing the mountain. A few dropships, a squadron of jetbikes or even a guided missile strike could do us in. And now, just like saying that it's not even worth his time…
He's telling us to "F" off.
"Dude… Rapta… you see that?"
"Yeah… I see that…"
You know what? Screw this.
My grip tightens.
Screw your army…
My aim steadies.
Screw this war…
My trigger finger tightens.
And most importantly…
I squeeze, my focus on the soldier's hand.
"Screw you!"
BANG!
My weapon kicks hard into my shoulder, the force shifting me back slightly, my vision blurred. The echo of the rifle, and the sound of a six inch, fifty caliber shell fall to the ground is all I hear. For a second, I try to refocus, checking my target.
The black soldier's hand is now missing, a deep shade of orange blood spurting through it's stump, and one of it's glowing eyes no longer part of it's head. The dismembered stump drops, and the body falls back, limp.
I got him.
"H… holy… holy shit, sir!"
I got the bastard.
Take that.
"Hey, Adam?"
"Y… yes, sir?"
"If a kill is fifty credits, and a head shot is that plus two rations, then how much will you offer for an F.U. finger shot, huh?"
"…um… hell, how 'bout my grenades!"
"Heh heh, don't worry about it. Ready to take a break?"
"Damn strait, sir."
Satisfied, I lower my weapon.
"Fine, round up the troops and switch them out for the men resting right now. Go ahead and get Luger to take your position. Give her your gun; she's as good as you are. Tell her and the new squad to indicate me immediately if they see any sign of enemy activity. If they do, we move out. And, Adam?"
"Yes, sir?" His voice still with a bit of disbelief.
"You go get some rest, okay?"
"Absolutely, sir!"
I look through my scope one last time. I zoom out a bit to see troops scrambling about, trying to make heads or tails of where the shot came from. I even see one soldier on top of the APC, staring at the corpse of the once alive turret gunner. He picks up what seems to be the rest of the soldier's middle finger.
I lower my rifle again, and rub my eyes.
Well, odds are it will take a few minutes for them to figure out what happened, a few more to figure out what to do. Whether or not they will move out? I'm not sure. And quite frankly, I don't give a damn. If they do start moving, the armor can't get up here, and we already have a day or two head start as it is. As long as we stay up here we will have the upper hand. We have the defense, the range, and the elevation. I'd like to see them try to attack us up here in the mountains… our mountains…
Despite our fatigue and numbers, we would still kick their asses…
And if they don't move? Then better for us. We can figure out how long it will take to get to the firebase tomorrow…
As for now?
I could use a nap…