NationStates Jolt Archive

So it had all come down to this. The wind was rough, and the pilot of the C-130 Hercules was having a pretty hard time keeping the plane on a direct course to the drop zone. There were no controllers to guide the planes on a direct route. There was no "Inverted Y" in place at the DZ that the Waymakers had already set in place. There was only what knowledge the pilot had in his head, and his innate instinct that had got him to where he was. His bird was tried and true; he'd fly nothing else. Needless to say, as a top flight officer in the 113th TOAD (Tactical Operations Aviation Detachment), he was one of the best pilots the SCAF had to offer. However, even he was nervous toward the outcome of this mission.

In the rear, thirty-six men, clad in respective camouflage, camo paint, and equipment, waited patiently. Three stood, while the others sat, some reading, others sleeping, and still others making last minute checks over their equipment. The three standing were national heroes back home. First Sergeant Toby McKeehan and Master Sergeants Michael Tait and Kevin Max (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=10450593&postcount=5) stood, watching over their men. Each man had command of eleven troops, all hand-picked from the best of the best of the SCAF. The three had literally come out of retirement for the mission; none of them would have passed this up for the world.

No mission in SCAF history would ever have been considered this suicidal, and the SCAF had done some suicidal things in its existence. The mission was so what most would consider vile and evil that it was highly recommended that each man involved be avowedly atheist. The few Christians involved were told upfront that there was the sincere possibility that they would probably break every one of the Ten Commandments every day they were In-Country. The mission outline was actually pretty simple: Get in, and cause as much havoc and chaos as humanly possible. There was no premise for retreat. Only a few in the nation even knew about the mission. Aside from the men that were actually going In-Country, those who knew exactly what was going on could be counted on one hand. The men had no Sniper Country markings on them. In fact, as they rode on the plane, their family members were probably receiving word that they were all dead: killed in a tragic plane crash over the Atlantic Ocean; just so convenient that no body parts could be recovered. The SCAF had even gone so far as to crash an actual C-130 in the Atlantic. Yes, pretty soon, each member of the operation would be receiving a full SCAF funeral. Too bad if they died on this mission, nobody would ever know. No one would be recognized, no medals would be given, no tears would be shed, no records would be kept. If you die out here, you die; and that’s that. But that didn’t seem to bother any of these guys. They were the best soldiers in the Sniper Country Armed Forces. Arguably the best soldiers in the world, none of these guys was new to combat. Several of them fought in the Omzian War, while others fought in various locations around the world, and all had fought in the Revolution. They all knew the transgressions they were repaying, and even though many of them didn’t know the people for whom they were repaying, they all knew that it was something that had to be done. If not them now, it would be somebody else later.

First Sergeant McKeehan opened his oxygen mask and shouted, “Three minutes to DZ! Everybody up!” At this, the entirety of McKeehan’s group stood. The eleven men waltzed to the rear of the buzzing plane, and made one last, final check over their chutes and equipment. McKeehan gave a high-five to both Tait and Max, and headed to the rear with his men. They were loaded down with everything they could possibly need. Their backpacks were loaded down with extra ammunition, grenades, explosives, and anything else any soldier in the SCAF could come up with to go “Boom.” They had very little food, and only what water would fit into their HYDRAtion packs and one bottle. For the time they were going to be spending, they were going to live off the land. The troops felt the plane tilt slightly, as the rear ramp began to lower. The plane was already on its way back to Sniper Country. The green light went off, and into the pitch black of the midnight sky jumped twelve of the bravest men the nation had ever known. From 30,000 feet, in the hurtling wind and chilling rain, calling it a dangerous HALO jump was an understatement.

The ramp stayed down, as Master Sergeant Tait gathered his eleven men, and two minutes later, made the same jump, only about twelve miles north of McKeehan’s drop. The plane turned again, this time heading on a course straight back to Sniper Country. The most dangerous jump of all was about to commence. Master Sergeant Max gathered his troops at the rear hatch, and after saying a short prayer, was the first to jump. It’s going to be cold down there he thought to himself. Max’s troops were to jump offshore, and swim about four hundred meters to the shore, and from there commence their mission.

The ramp went up, and the pilot continued on his way back to the homeland. He only hoped that the guise the SCAF put up, being a lost private C-130 air transportation plane getting off course in the rough weather and losing radar contact. It was a good front, as it could happen any time in weather like this. He wasn’t painted yet, and he only hoped he could get home without being tagged.

It was time for the world to stop bowing down and cowering in fear. The men falling through the sky right now knew that. Willing to put their lives on the line, they were willing to take the stand. Hopefully, others would follow suit. If not, then it was going to be a long nuclear winter if Damien ever found out who. With any skill and a whole lot of luck, this would commence Operation: Longshot Hero, the first infiltration of Automagfreek; at least, by SCAF forces.

The satellite had been tracking the plane ever since it breached AMF territorial waters, and the personnel that had been on duty that night snapped into action. Air traffic controllers had identified the plane as a lost C-130 and given it the green light to return to international waters, but per AMF military doctorine they were not to take their eyes off it until it wsa gone. From the cold confides of space the lone satellite continued tracking the plane with infrared sensors, relaying the real time imagery back to the operators and to the numerous digital recording devices that lined the security bunker walls.

Sir, we have an anomoly... The recorders continued saving the real time images that came in by the second, but the operators singled out a section of footage and showed it to their CO. As you can see sir, our infrared scopes have picked up several unidentified tangos exiting the rear of the craft as you can see here. He digitally zoomed in on the image, counting each heat source that fell from the heavens and towards the choppy waters below.

Interesting....how many other eyes do we have available? The private turned for a second, his fingers clacking away at high speed on his keyboard. We have two, one fifteen minutes northwest and another 10 minutes south. The Major scratched his chin for a second while the gears in his mind began to turn. Keep our primary eye on the alpha tango, divert our southern eye to the bravo tangos, and keep our northern eye close to the shore. I want these people tracked and found....dead or alive makes no difference to me. Probably some tinpot Kraven terrorists that are trying to raise a little hell. Get me a secure line to St. Freeksburg NOW.

Within minutes the garrisons at St. Freeksburg that had not been deployed to fight Kraven (yet again) were put on high alert. 2 1/2 ton trucks raced from the confides of the military base and headed towards the shore, though they would not be deployed to halt the inbound tangos directly; they would be kept in reserve as a secondary defense should their primary sweeper unit fail. The last five vehicles to exit the base were jet black ALSV's (Advanced Light Strike Vehicle), outfitted to real time images of the intruders on infrared scopes. With five men per vehicle, the twenty five Sentinel Stalkers raced ahead of their Sentinel counterparts towards the section of beach that would soon be infiltrated. The ALSV's sported turreted M2HB with thousands of rounds of .50BMG ammunition, though it was unlikely that the heavy guns would see action.

As they arrived on the target site, they quickly hid their vehicles behind cover and began setting up a defensive perimeter. With advanced infrared night vision optics, the deployed several snipers at strategic points overlooking the water and beach. The first line of snipers were armed with fifty caliber M-82 rifles, so powerful they could reach over two miles and kill the foes while they were still at sea. A secondary line consisted of silenced SR-25 rifles, that would cover the retreat of the first line once the survivors (if any) made it ashore. Deployed in an arc around the primary LZ, the Stalkers waited in the shadows with silenced SBP-90 assault rifles, their sights trained on the sea and their fingers on the trigger.

Their orders were to kill and ask questions later, though AMF Command suspected them of being Kraven operatives. They would kow for sure once their primary satellite followed the unsuspecting C-130 back to its base....

But for now the Stalkers, the most advanced units in the entire AMF arsenal, waited patiently.....

[OOC: Ah, tis' is the clash of the titans and the tier role-players on NS. Good luck Sniper Country! Good luck Automagfreek! No matter who wins, everyone else benefits from a good read!

*subscribes to thread*]

OOC: Damn firefox won't let me use my thread tools... so I gotta TAG this to read later, can't wait to see the usual eye candy...

It was freezing, cold, and miserable. Yet, to most of the men falling through the sky at terminal velocity, it was strangely fun. What seemed like just before hitting the gound, First Sergeant McKeehan and his men pulled the cords on their chutes. The black parachutes ejected, simply slowing the tremendous force with which the men would hit the ground. They all landed within a few meters of each other. They grouped up and gathered around, packing their parachutes into small bags and tossing them into nearby shrubbery. No one said a word. Almost immediately, the twelve men were on their stomachs, covered in camouflage which, for the most part, resembled ghillie suits used by snipers. McKeehan looked over, and with one movement of his hand, a member of the team slowly pulled out a pair of binoculars, and began scanning the surrounding area.

-----

Master Sergeant Tait was in a similar position, although roughly thirteen miles north of McKeehan’s location. The members of his team were all on their stomachs, lying in very tall grass, just to the side of a large farmer’s field. Tait waved a few hand signals with his hand, and soon enough, two team members jumped up and darted to the rear. They ran low, so that the grass almost came up to their ears. The two stopped at the trunk of a tree about fifty yards behind the rest of the team. One of the men had a sniper rifle; the other ran with his assault rifle. The sniper took out a set of binoculars and began to scan around the immediate area. Just as he began scanning, he dropped the binoculars and pulled out his silenced 1911. He and the other team member dropped to one knee.

-----

Master Sergeant Max and his team pulled their cords at a lower altitude, and smashed into the churning sea. They unhooked their chutes and began their slow, 400 meter swim to the shore. It was cold, yes, but it didn’t seem to bother anybody. Not only was it a churning sea, but they were loaded down with equipment and gear; swimming under these conditions was suicide. Several minutes later, the twelve men pulled up into a small, cave-like crevice on the shore.

“Groundhogs, seahorse in position. Report,” Max said into the SECNET-rigged COBRA headset mounted on his face. “One groundhog burrowed, waiting for the seahorse,” came one reply. Several seconds passed, and the next transmission came in. “Another groundhog burrowed, but looking at fireants in the nest. Standby,” it came. Max, though floating in some very cold water, could feel a bead of sweat fall down the back of his head.

McKeehan stared down the binoculars. His man had spotted several infrared signatures in the distance. And one thing was for sure now: If we can see them, they can see us. He switched the setting on the binoculars to Millimeter-Wave Radar and peered down them once again. It was almost horrifying. He could see signatures all over the place: behind the few houses in the area, trees, behind cars. He counted several individual signatures, along with a few larger pockets of signatures. “Seahorse, groundhog had an itch. Preparing to scratch,” McKeehan reported over the COBRA.

“Groundhog, hold off on scratching. Stay burrowed. Sending in a goose,” replied Max. He turned to one of his team members, and nodded. The man opened a pouch, in which resided several small objects resided, about the size and relative shape of a 20oz bottle. “Which one?” the soldier asked. “Just observation,” Max replied. The soldier pulled one of the objects out of the pouch and tucked the pouch back away. He held the object in his right hand, pressed a small switch, and tossed it into the air. As it went several feet into the air, a small, barely noticeable “poof” sounded, and small rotating blades atop the object began to propel it higher into the air. The soldier pulled out a small gadget, which greatly resembled a civilian PDA, and pressed a few buttons. Soon, the object, known as the GUOS (Grenade-launched Unmanned Observation System) “Goose” Drone, darted in the direction of the detected, supposedly enemy presence. As it arrived, it hovered silently overhead, scanning the area for human life, and as it detected, sent back feed to the small PDA. It zoomed in, and could clearly see weapons and an undoubtedly enemy presence.

“Groundhog, seahorse confirming presence of fireants. I’m reading about thirty two ants: twenty to twenty-five workers and about seven guardians. Guardians are the loners. Have yours scratch theirs. Follow up on the workers if they continue to itch. Prepare to leave the nest and find refuge at your back. Seahorse moving to intercept from side.”

With that, the men of McKeehan’s team were ready to engage. There were three snipers in his team, each armed with his own, customized weapon, and each one had taken a bead on the enemy snipers in the immediate area, and were watching the locations of the others. The other members of the team, including the two machine-gunners, were ready to begin firing on enemy concentrations, or, as Max had so rightly put it, the workers. Little did they know that they were soon to be engaging the best that Automagfreek had to offer.

Max’s team, now climbing out of the small crevice and in the grass just a few meters from the beach, was watching from nearly three hundred yards. They could see McKeehan’s team through their own MWR scopes, and barely make out enemy presence since it was so far away. Slowly, they began moving forward, keeping their eyes open. If the stuff hit the fan, they were going to move in and flank the enemy.

-----

Back to the north, Tait’s men were still lying in wait. His unit was, for the most part, operating alone. Tait turned around to see his two scouts returning. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Well, we can’t see anything out there. I’m guessing that, if they are actually engaging Max McKeehan’s guys down south, that’s where they massed their troops, because I’m not seeing anything up here. All we really have is a few signatures in that farm house over there,” he continued, pointing toward a large, cabin-like home about five hundred meters away. “There’s six signatures, and we’re guessing it’s probably the guy who owns this land and his family.”

“Good place to start, I’d say,” Tait replied. “Okay, Castillo and Vega, you two stay back and watch our backs. Gold team, move up to clear the building. Blue team, on me; we’re overwatch and outside perimeter. Let’s go.”

The team, aside from Castillo and Vega, the two team snipers, got up, and slowly began trudging toward the house. There were still no signatures aside from the ones inside. Gold team got to the outside of the house, and stacked up on the rear door. Blue team circled the house, and watched the perimeter for activity. “Gold, you’re set. Make it happen,” Tait said into the COBRA. The five members of Gold team took a deep breath. The last man in line slowly snuck to the door, took one final breath, and WHAM!, his foot smashed against the door as it burst off its hinges.

-----

“Seahorse, groundhog prepping to scratch,” McKeehan informed Max one last time. Just as he got done, the faint whispers of the silenced sniper rifles, two Remington 700s and one M14, shot through the ears of McKeehan. So it began.

None of the men involved in the mission ignored the capability of the enemy they were going up against. They knew the enemy Sentinels were probably some of the most feared soldiers in the world. They studied their tactics and habits. They watched satellite feed of past wars in which the Sentinels pummeled over enemy troops. It was engraved in their minds. They knew. And yet, when told all this, one soldier, Sergeant Second Class Jonathan Woods probably put it best: “We can take ‘em.” The question now was: Were they ready for the Stalkers? Automagfreek, already being in a war with the terrorist state of The Kraven Corporation, would hopefully take the SCAF troops to be simple-minded insurgents, and therefore undermining their capability. It was one thing that they had going for them right now. And they needed all they could get.

The Stalkers in the beach area were receiving live data feed from the satellites overheard, and in conjunction with the forward spotters they knew exactly where their enemy was hiding. Even when the silenced rounds started impacting the trees and ground around them, they did not break cover. They sat in the darkness and waited as the first barrage of .50 caliber rifle rounds broke the silence, their aim assisted by the infrared/night vision sights on their bulky guns.

After each of the M-82's had fired, the three Stalkers received suppresive fire on the enemy's location from the silenced SR-25's that were supporting them from behind. This allowed them to move to their secondary positons along the flanks of the waterline and set up for another shot while the other Stalkers in the rear began to move forward silently. After the move had been made, the supporting snipers fired off their remaining magazines and shot several infrared strobes onto the beach from the M203 grenade launchers that were attached to their SBP-90 assault rifles. The resulting surge of infrared signature would render the enemy's scopes useless and allow the rear elements of the Stalker unit to move even further forward unnoticed. The satellite overheard continued broadcasting the GPS signals of the entire team, as well as monitoring the enemy's position for movement, which would promptly be locked on and tracked. Though they had deployed strobes, they were far enough away from the enemy's last known contact point so as to not render their own satellite scopes ineffective; the satellite merely zoomed in closer as to avoid excess thermal 'bleeding' into the image.

Smoke grenades were also on the ready to further mask their forward movement should the enemy detect them and begin firing directly into their ranks. One by one they crept closer, the watchful eyes of the 3 M-82 rifles and assorted SR-25's covering their advance. The Stalkers on the beach were careful to stick to the shadows and soft cover so as to avoid detection, all the meanwhile tightening the noose around one of the enemy squads. Not knowing the potential their foes had, two of the spotters in the rear began setting up a mortar tube and dialing it in to the coordinates the forward elements transmitted back to them. Should the enemy attempt to break out, they would soon find themselves under not only intense sniper, assault, and machinegun fire, they would also be showered in HE and fragmentation mortar rounds.

Meanwhile, the other team had been tracked as they made their decent into the grassy field. Each of their heat signatures were also locked on and being tracked from the heavens, their every step being broadcast to the AMF forces in the area. They watched as the team entered the farm house and began securing the perimeter, unaware that the ALSV's in the area had set themselves up in a hasty and rather random defensive line. As the enemy team appeared to have paused at the house, the quiet was soon broken as the barking of .50 caliber fire erupted from three of the vehicles. The wall of lead was directed at the house itself as well as the right and left flanks of the structure, and each gun swept across from side to side without the aid of tracer rounds.

The enemy instinctively dropped for cover as wood and steel fragments from the structure filled the air from the violent impacts of the extremely powerful rounds. The chaos was further intensified as two AT4 HEAT rounds were fired at the base of the house on both the left and right sides. The massive explosion of searing fire caused the house to erupt in flames as it began to collapse from within. The Stalkers ignored the screaming of the farmer's family as they used the M2 fire to crawl and slink closer to the action. Knowing that the enemy would likely attempt to silence their heavy guns as soon as possible, the Stalkers that remained in the rear opened up with heavy machine gun fire as well, supplementing the already powerful wall of lead that was being tossed forcefully at their target. M203 rounds flew randomly from the surrounding woods and tall grass towards the house and the immediate grounds around them, and in conjuction with the firepower already spent, it was indeed a sight to behold. Certainly not a covert operation by any means, though the Stalkers kept true to their titles and skillfully tracked and engaged their foes accordingly.

Though it was unclear if any of the enemy team members inside the house survived the onslaught, the Stalkers in the front and middle of the defensive line began dialing in their thermal and night vision sights on the area, scanning for sighs of activity while the satellite overhead silently continued recording and transmitting data to the men on the ground. The enemy was at an extreme disadvantage due to the ability for the Stalkers to receive birds eye view imagery of the area, something the AMF team exploited viciously.

With the howling of machine guns continuing on and on, the team began to spread themselves out along the flanks, throwing down an occassional burst of silenced assault rifle rounds into the vicinity of their targets. They spoke not a word, for each team member knew the next moves of their comrades by memory, however they glanced quickly into the upper left corner of their eyewear every so often to check on not only their positions, but the field positon of the enemy.

In the very rear of both firefights, the deuce and a halves that carried the standard Sentinels began to unload and move into the staging areas. Though it was unclear if their services would be needed, they were not taking any chances.

Pff… BOOM! And that was it. Explosions of fifty caliber rounds exploding around the men of McKeehan’s team broke the silence of the night in a fury. Several rounds hit, and almost immediately, the whizzing of what had to have been suppressed weapons were heard and felt all around. Two men were hit thus far, one effectively blown into pieces by the incoming heavy weapons fire. Shrapnel and dirt was flying all over the place, yet nobody broke the small line they had.

“Take those f*cking snipers out! Take them out!” McKeehan screamed over the sounds of bullets flying through the air. The three snipers on his team were busy firing their rounds into enemy sniper positions, firing once for a (hopeful) kill, then shifting fire to another position. As the infrared strobes lit the place up like a red Christmas tree, the troops, both from McKeehan’s team and Max’s team switched to Millimeter-Wave Radar scanners. The scanners were not affected by the infrared. They were probably one of the greatest things the SCAF had ever purchased, and they were getting their use now. Both teams could see exactly where the enemy was, even if they resided behind trees or in a sinkhole where they would normally not be seen. It didn’t really matter where the enemy was anymore: they could be seen.

“We need some help over here,” McKeehan called Max over the COBRA headset. The two snipers on Max’s team took a knee, and began firing toward the enemy sniper positions. One of the snipers on the team was the only member of the entire operation to carry an M82, who began to fire with a vengeance. Max waved to another team member, who pulled out a small tube from his back. He set it down, stretched it out, and began lobbing 40mm mortar rounds through the small “Toe Mortar” to positions between McKeehan’s team and enemy fire. “Max, contact, five o’clock to Mick’s rear,” hollered a team member, as he pointed to several MWR contacts which seemed to be creeping around to out-flank McKeehan’s team. Yet, there were more contacts approaching McKeehan’s team from Max’s side. The enemy on Max’s side seemed as if they were closer to engaging, though the enemy further away posed just as great a threat. There was plenty of sniper fire going on.

“Mick, you have contact, to your ten o’clock and five o’clock. Engage to your ten; we’ll get your five,” Max said calmly over the communication set. Max directed his men to begin to engage the enemy encroaching upon his buddy’s rear. With this direction, three M203 HE rounds were pumped directly atop this enemy position, while simultaneously, one M240E and one M249P erupted with fire, sending groups of about ten rounds at a time downrange, either into the enemy mix or just above their heads as to keep them from approaching any faster than they currently were. Max’s team members began taking precision shots with their various, customized weapons. Another member of the team pulled out his Toe-Mortar, and began lobbing fragmentation mortar rounds onto this particular enemy’s position. Still, the snipers of Max’s team and one member firing his mortar continued to engage those snipers in the distance.

McKeehan’s team, aside from the snipers still engaged in combat with the enemy snipers, turned to face their enemy. Seen in the MWR scopes and scanners, the ten men of left of the team began opening fire. First, the M249P burst with sporadic fire, strafing the knees of the enemy, as the others began firing away with their own, delicate, yet deadly precision rounds. Ain’t no way Kraven could shoot like this. However, with all the explosions and shrapnel hitting around, four of the men took shrapnel to the legs and sides. Though wounded, they continued to fight, not in any way going to allow the Freeks to win before everyone was either dead, or… dead. The enemy had to have been expecting a retreat; not today.

“Wilson! You got claymores, right?!” McKeehan yelled toward a team member a few feet away, never looking, simply firing striking shots toward the enemy. “Howard that, Top!” came the reply. “Rush and plant, thirty feet! Cover!” The M249P erupted with a continuous stream over fire, no tracers, as SFC Wilson jumped up, claymore mine in hand, and began running as fast as possible toward the enemy. He ran low, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible, as well as his possible sight picture. He counted off the seconds, and as he got to five, dropped down into the midst of the surrounding grass. He quickly set up the mine, and jumped back up, and darted once again to rejoin his teammates. As he dropped down again to regain his weapon and continue firing on the enemy, he felt a sharp pain rip through his side. “Hit!” he yelled as he hit the ground. By the time his entire body was on the ground, he was already pulling the gauze pad from its packaging, and applying it to the wound. Another fifty caliber round hit a team member, effectively slicing him into several pieces. So far, the death count was three, wounded was five, and five others were in good condition. The fight continued.

-----

No sooner had the door been kicked in, and the first member of the entrance team made it into the door threshold did all the powers of Satan himself seem to fall upon the team. The first team member to enter the door, Sergeant Thomas Duke, looked into the kitchen, which was the room they had entered, where a man was apparently finishing up eating. Their eyes met, and immediately, the walls seemed to implode, as the sounds of screaming women and children filled the air. The members of Gold team dropped down and began crawling away from the house. Blue team dropped to the ground in respective prone positions, and began providing security fire for Gold team to get out of the house. Smoke trails were noticed as the enemy rockets pounded the house, and soon enough, the structure was a huge, burning hulk. The members of the teams switched their scopes and scanners to Millimeter-Wave Radar, as the burning explosions going on around them would render both night-vision and infrared sensors useless, especially given their close proximity to the building.

Gold team rallied outside, several feet from the burning house, where it began exchanging fire with the enemy. “Where’s Duke at?!” asked SSC Luke Andrews as he reloaded his M4. No one replied, and therefore gave Andrews the insinuation that he was still trapped inside the burning mass. He proceeded to get up and dart to the door, where he dove in. Rounds of M203 shells impacted the house, rocking it even further to it’s collapse. Andrews found Duke lying on the floor, next to the man he had made eye contact with. The man looked at Andrews, and proceeded to ask for help. Andrews grabbed Duke’s arm, and was in the process of beginning the Fireman’s Carry, when he dropped one of the arms. He pulled his Mk.23 SOCOM from his holster, and fired one round into the cranium of the near-death Freek. The M2 rounds continued to pummel the house into oblivion, but Andrews pulled up, and, with Duke on his back, hustled outside and back to his team in the back yard. Dropping Duke on the ground, Andrews pulled his M4 back up from being slung across his back, and preceded to fire.

Those of Blue team, giving perimeter security around the house, were returning fire with a vengeance. The three machine guns of the team were all on Blue team, and each one was letting go with all their might.

“Tait, you guys need to fall back. We’ve got you covered in the back yard. Get back in this field back here and we’ll leapfrog to the rear,” the leader of Gold team, SFC Mike Elder, said over his own COBRA. “Howard that,” was the only response MSG Tait gave.

Two Blue team members tossed canisters of CS Gas into the treeline where the enemy resided. It wasn’t deadly, but holy crap did it hurt. It would slow the enemy advance, if even for a few seconds; right now, anything was better than nothing. One by one, the members of Blue team began falling back, leapfrogging to the rear of Gold’s position. Various team members fired off M203 rounds into the treeline, causing a few dilapidated trees to fall over, while massing assorted explosions toward the enemy positions. Tait looked over his shoulder as it was his turn to fall back, and noticed the last man to fall back was on the ground. As he ran, he stopped to check on the fallen comrade, but it was too late. Tait continued to fall back into their designated position, and began giving cover fire for Gold team. Three team members had taken rounds to either the shoulder or arm.

Gold team prepared to fall back, yet as they did, one member was exploded by a fifty caliber round. A nearby M203 explosion sent two members hurtling through the air. They were shaken up, but alright, as they began to fall back into the field. Nearly all the men of Gold team had taken some sort of injury, from a bullet wound to the side to various pieces of shrapnel. However, they continued to the rear, unable to give up their fighting. The one thing they did have going for them was that huge burning fire, tagged along with their MWR. If they enemy was using infrared or night vision, that hulk would blind them, not to mention if they were using neither, the light emitted from the fire would take away their own, physical night vision.

In the rear, the two snipers were busy taking care of enemy personnel around the house. They would take a shot, and then move on. They were doing their best to cover the rest of the team’s falling back. For now, it was all they could do. SGT Vega pulled out his AT4 rocket, and aimed it at a large hulking tree toward the front of the enemy fire. He fired, and as it hit, the tree came toppling over on its side. “Take that motherf*ckers! Yeah!” He screamed as he took his rifle back up and began firing once more.

-----

Commander-General Mark Spitz watched the real-time sattelite feed. It was intense down there, and he knew it. As much as he wanted to send in aerial support, he knew he could never authorize such a strike. Well, he could, but there was only so much one could do in support of a covert mission like this. Outside his office, the C-130 that had taken the men overseas in the first place had just landed, and the pilot stepped out. Spitz stared outside. A lone B-1 stood in its hangar. It belonged to the 113th TOAD as well, and was always suited up with a full payload for immediate deployment. Oh, how he wished he could simply send it over there and waste those Freek troops. He was sure there was napalm onboard, as well as its share of cluster bombs and JDAMs. It was probably one of the only B-1 bombers in the world that was specifically designed for direct infantry support. That was usually an AC-130's job, not an aircraft such as this. The more he stared at it, the more he saw the opportunity. It was stealthy enough to where the enemy wouldn't know it was there until it opened its cargo doors and was raining death upon them, yet the chances of it returning home were nil. The Freeks didn't know they were the culprits, and that was a good thing. He couldn't risk it. However, winning this battle would give the guys over there an opportunity to regroup and scatter, giving the enemy little to go after them with in regard to troops, as most from the nearby bases were deployed to The Kraven Corporation. He reached over to the phone, and dialed up the 113th TOAD.

"Hey Lieutenant, Colonel Blake around there? Yeah, thanks," he said, as the lieutenant went to get the colonel.

"Yeah?" Colonel Blake said nonchalantly into the phone. He and Spitz had known each other nearly all their lives.

"Blake, I need you to go get to your bird. You're on standby," Spitz replied slowly.

"Standby? For what?"

"Just get out there. If you're called up, I'll come brief you myself. Just go," Spitz said, hanging up. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. He'd wait a few minutes. For now, our boys were holding their own.