Chapter 1

York woke up in a cold sweat; it was the second time he woke up this early. He sat up in his bunk in the barracks and rubbed his eyes. He looked over at the clock which read 2:15 am. He let out a sigh and pushed himself back down on his bed and closed his eyes, and woke up three hours later…..

BEEEP! BEEP! BEEP! York jumped up and nearly fell out of his bunk. To him it was like he had just closed his eyes. He held himself back from saying some choice words, got out of bed, and headed for the showers. Everyone else was already showering… North, Wash, and Maine.

North was York's best friend, Wash was a close friend, and Maine was just the silent brute. They were all good at something different; York was the infiltration man, North was the marksman, Wash was just really good with his assault rifle, and Maine was a ridiculously built man that for some strange reason always ended up in a fist fight no matter who it was.

After finally getting into his shower, York took some 'Suave for Men' shampoo and set a generous amount into his hands and rubbed it through his hair. Shit, he thought after noticing he had failed to turn the shower water on. He did after groaning rather loudly, and washed his hair. He then took out a washcloth and then put some 'Axe Apollo' on the cloth and cleaned himself. These showers were rare, so each of them took a nice long shower to enjoy the lukewarm water.

After they all finished showering and brushing their teeth, they headed to the mess hall. For York, North, Wash, and Maine it was a small tent where they were given their daily ration of MREs. They each dug into their MREs and enjoyed them for a good forty-five minutes.

They heard some footsteps from behind them and an African American man yelled, "Officer on deck!" They each jumped up from their benches and popped into a salute, standing there for a few moments as the Platoon commander entered the tent.

"Hello men," the strong Southern-accented man started, "you are some of our best soldiers in the platoon, and I have a job for y'all." The currently saluting men did not know what to think of this on-the-spot offer, so they remained silent. The officer sighed for a moment before saying, "I suppose y'all would like some more details, hmm?" He then realized they were still saluting him, "At ease fellahs." York, North, Wash, and Maine followed his orders and relaxed from their salute, and turned to face him.

York spoke first, "So... uh... what exactly does this entail for us?"

"Well, 'York', this will involve you and your team being sent deep behind the Taliban's lines. You are familiar with Guerilla Warfare, yes?" York nodded, "Alright. You drop in tonight."

York and his team all said in unison, "What?!" They all shook their heads at the Platoon commander, "Sir, we know you are our Captain, but you are-"

"Captain Church," the Southern man pointedly cut off before walking out of the tent without another word. He was followed by the African American man, which left the four friends surprised and unsure of what to do.

"What?" Wash said with a squeak of his voice.

"What do you mean, 'what?'" Maine said with a gruff tone.

"I mean, what the hell was that about? He barely even said what he wanted us to do!"

York shrugged and turned to face Wash, "I think he might have wanted us to go see him." Wash nodded.

"You're probably right."

North finally spoke after standing there with a look of deep thought on his face, " Lets go."

The four of them walked up to Captain Church's tent. They were each in their standard UCP camouflage fatigues, which were pretty sweaty (Northern Pakistan is a weird place).

"Sir," they each said in unison as they entered his tent.

"Ah, it seems you four have made a decision or something?" Captain Church said in a questioning tone.

York took the lead. "Yes sir, we have, and we have decided to accept your offer." He looked back at Wash and North, who gave him a reassuring nod before he looked back at the captain.

"It wasn't really a choice, but do you have any questions? Most people do," Church said before he let out a brief chuckle.

York nodded and said, "Yes sir. What exactly will we be tasked with?"

Church sighed. "Like I said, you are going to drop in behind Taliban lines. Your job will be to kill a Taliban leader located in the town of Nandwal, Pakistan." He paused and nodded to Maine, who looked like he had a question.

"Isn't Bin Laden… dead?" Maine said in a confused voice.

"That's Al Qaeda, not the Taliban, and that doesn't mean he can't be replaced, son." said Church in a slightly irritated tone.

"Well sir, what kind of equipment will we be given?" North said to change the topic before it got more hostile.

"You will be allowed to use your standard equipment: York will be given his shotgun, you will be given your rifle, Wash will be given his assault rifle, and Maine will take on the role of Machine Gunner; However, you may bring any other equipment you deem necessary to complete your objective."

They all nodded and Wash spoke up, "When are we leaving? It's nearly 5:15 pm."

Church smiled and said, "You leave in exactly one hour, so get packing."

After about 20 minutes of setting up their plate-carriers, rucksacks, and helmets, they brought their gear to the MH-60 Blackhawk, which was specially equipped for stealth raids.

They got their gear and weapons set in the helicopter, they each took their seats in the chopper. Captain Church walked up and poked his head in and gave a few nods before pulling his head out and walking off.

"That was weird," Wash said.

"Yep," the other three agreed.

About a minute after the weirdness, the helicopter pilot yelled back at York and his team to tell them to strap in for the ride. York looked at his watch as they lifted off; it read 6:16 pm.

A minute late, he thought to himself as a smirk crept upon his face. He watched as Wash leaned his head back on the not-so-comfy headrest and closed his eyes; York decided to do the same.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The Taliban were taking pot shots at the helicopter.

York and Wash were rudely awoken by North, who managed to hand everyone their guns as the gunfire grew in number. One bullet had apparently gone through the windshield and killed the pilot, and the co-pilot was struggling to keep the helicopter out of the fire. After three minutes of absorbing gunfire, the co-pilot finally found a suitable landing zone and the team ran off the Blackhawk with their gear and weapons.

York looked down at his watch again and it read 8:02 pm. The team ran off into what little brush coverage there was and slowly crouched down into a would-be 'prone' position. It was an extremely humid night, and they were already sweating. The 80 lb rucksack, 20 lb plate-carriers, and 8 lb to 10 lb weapons did not help their case either. After sitting under the brush for a good 20 minutes, they heard some voices speaking in Arabic, and they were getting louder.