Atlantis: chapter 10
FINALLY!!!! DOUBLE DIGIT CHAPTERS!!!!!! We're planning to get the book to at least twenty five chapters, maybe thirty or so. Probably around 35. But sweet! Maybe more, if we think it's too short.
Please note that this page and all related articles are a work in progress and the authors reserve the right to edit, expand, delete, and/or reformat this page and all other related pages. Please also note that in writing this we mean no disrespect to any country or culture, a book merely needs protagonists and antagonists.
Let the nightmare begin!
Chapter X: Waking Nightmares
Paul Daniels swept the rocky, mountainous terrain with the LED spotlight for the thousandth time. Nothing new at all. As the ghostly white beam raked the cliffs and boulders, it revealed more and more nothing. Who knew the a mythical lost island could be so boring and dreary? He'd been looking at this same landscape for the past five hours. The moss covered rise in the jungle on the right that swept around the perimeter of camp, with the narrow openings every few hundred yards. To his left was another CGT, and between two, Paul was confident that nothing would even come into sight, much less get through.
The large tropical trees made even more convenient killing fields between their large trunks, narrowing here and thickening there. Each level of the three-floored CGT was staffed by one man, each able to fire up the tower's large 7.62mm Silicon Chainguns mounted to the walls on each floor within seconds. For heavier firepower, each floor had a locker occupied by a Mikor Machine Grenade Launcher (MGL), a six-round weapon of death. It could be filled with a number of munitions, but these were all stocked with 40mm Saber rounds, the warheads filled with napalm for extra boom-boom.
So, big or small, nothing was getting through this guard post.
But it was so ungodly boring. The one fun thing of the shift was breaking out on of the MGLs and scattering a group of Compy scavengers who had nosed in too close. Paul had watched fixedly as the grenade landed, detonated, and instantly the flaming Napalm had consumed half of the pack in a small-scale inferno.
But then everything else had steered clear, and now Paul was wishing he could just go back to bed.
One floor below, Rob, Paul's little brother, was wide awake, staring attentively off into the trees, his Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) bathing the ground in Opaline and making the already jungle-green jungle look iridescent. A flicker of movement caught his attention, but it was only a bug of some sort, crawling off the mountain, curious at these large metal structures. Rob turned and sprayed it with a good half dozen rounds from the Chaingun, making sure to blow it apart into three neat little sections. Well, not exactly neat. Nothing involving greenish cockroach gore spraying a rock and leaving radio-active-looking smears when a bunch of rounds from a machine gun tore into it could be tidy and clean.
He half-grinned at the thought, then returned inside the cabin-area of his level of the CGT. The banks of monitors looked unnecessarily complicated in the wan moonlight, but they ran the most sophisticated detection and early-warning gear currently on the market. So therefore the designers had had to make the receivers complicated and sophisticated too.
Paul was still fighting to stay awake. He must've lost the fight sometime though because the next thing he knew, he was awakening.
Undergoing maintenance. Please be patient while more content is added.
Tom was already up when they came looking for him. He was siting on top of the stockade wall, looking out over the Raptor pen and up at the sunrise now claiming the sky. A bloody red light was rising over the trees. In front of it were gorgeous orange and yellow hues working their way up the midnight blue sky. Tom breathed out and inhaled deeply, thankful to be alive and well, so he'd have the opportunity to see this. At that moment, he felt himself lucky, despite all the war, the hardship, the pain that his battles were.
MY battles. Tom thought. It was at moments like this where he could just appreciate life. Life and death.
He looked down, fifteen feet below his, at a juvenile Raptor looking hungrily up at him.
They can get out. Tom thought. Why don't they? Just one hop, onto the wood, and over, or maybe they could even claw their way through the wood, or dig under it. Why don't they?
Needless to say there was a large portion of men guarding the pen at all times. They even sacrificed a whole CGT to guard it. Even if they did get out, they wouldn't get very far. Their were only twenty of them in their, and should they attempt escape they would be shot to pieces. Painfully.
But still, why? Were they planning something more devious, or had they simply given up? Whatever it was, it made Tom uneasy.
"Sir!" Mitchell's voice crackled over the comm. One of Tom's more strict rules, anyone wandering the camp had to wear fully battle gear, including helmet and camo fatigues. Also, all personell outside the buildings or barracks made by the V-22s had to travel in pairs or more, except him, of course.
"Reading. Continue." Tom answered.
"Sir, Captain Kenderson requests your presence, sir!" Mitchell barked over the comm.
"Matt?! What happened!" Tom shouted as he almost fell off the wall and into the pen.
"He's heading toward the barracks now, sir." Mitchell answered.
"I'm on my way." Tom switched the comm channel to Bravo Angel squad-wide range, which called all the soldiers in Matt's squad, also known as Bravo team. His holo-video panel in his helmet crackled to life, and the screen displayed Bravo's bios.
All of them were erratic but strong, except for five, whose bios were beating so faintly they flat lined at times. Captain Matthew Kenderson, as it displayed, had the strongest and fastest bios, but then the gang always had abnormally strong and fast bios. Tom hoped they were only a little faster than normal. Hoped.
At least the fact that Matt was 'on his way' meant that he was moving, which was good. But he probably wasn't exactly walking...
Matt was half dead when the CGT sighted him. He barely could stand, let alone walk. He stumbled the best he could up to the base and moaned. Incredibly embarrassing, if he had been anywhere near conscious, but it worked. Both men in the tower rushed to the railing and leaned over.
"Are you okay!?" One of them, the elder, asked.
Why do they always ask that? Do I look fine? Matt thought. What he said was, "Nnnghh!" which could be translated in the 'pathetic sounds' dictionary as a sad attempt at no.
"Captain Kenderson!" the other shouted.
No dugh. Matt thought. Alright now, skipping the pathetic 'Oh my god!' scenes, lets get some medical help! It was amazing that he was thinking coherently despite his injuries.
At least mentally he was sane, if not physically.
The younger one just stood there in shock when the elder started climbing down the metal struts to get to the bottom. Finally the elder got to the ground and shouted at the other.
"ROB! Get a comm link to base NOW!!" He rushed over after the soldier named Rob dropped the med pack from up top down to the older soldier.
Matt felt strong arms take him around his chest and haul him under the CGT. Meanwhile, he heard Rob frantically calling Alpha base to come immediately, there was a problem at CGT 5.
Matt felt his combat fatigues being ripped open at the chest as the soldier examined his wounds.
The soldier sucked in a breath. "Ouch." He said.
"Ungh." Matt agreed weakly.
The CGTs were arranged in a circle around the camp, roughly a hundred yards away from the center in order to provide ample warning of an attack. Matt had second and third class burns on most of his body, not to mention the numerous gashes, cuts, and broken bones. At least half of his ribs were broken and out of line. Three or four broken fingers. How had he gotten here by himself all the way from Bravo base? And how had he even gotten those injuries in the first place?
The hovercraft-turned-ambulance landed a minute later next to the CGT. Matt was hurriedly loaded onto a stretcher and transported back to Alpha Base.
Matt was barely conscious as he was carried back to base. He didn't feel any of the bumps and knocks as the hovercraft stitched a pattern through the trees. He didn't notice as the doors were thrown open and he was dragged out into bright sunlight for a moment before entering into a small medical bay made out of the reconfigured parts of a V-22 Osprey transport helicopter. He didn't notice anything until he saw Tom's usually stoic face full of concern.
Matt exhaled a breath. He would be okay now as long as Tom was with him.
Tom entered the mini medical bay. He took a moment to stop and think how amazing it was that he was now standing in what used to be some bay or compartment of a fully functional and flying V-22 Osprey.
Then he was back to the concern of his best friend, Matt, as he entered through the doors.
Matt was looking steadier than he had five minutes ago. Meaning that he was barely conscious and he was mumbling incoherently. He looked up at Tom and he seemed to calm. He exhaled deeply. Then he lost consciousness again, and he fell into a deep, merciful sleep.
The medics patched Matt up the best they could. Binding for the ribs, salves and searskin, a revolutionary new medical bandage designed especially for flame-injuries, for his burns, a cast for his leg, brace for his wrist and fingers. Basically a mess.
"Holy... is he okay?" Tom asked nervously.
The surgeon-medic glanced up. "Does he look okay!?" The man asked. "Of course he's not. If your question is, 'Will he live?' then the answer is yes, he'll survive. Maybe. That's if his heart doesn't give up on him. This is completely amazing, I can't believe he's still alive! If only I could run some tests on his cardovascul-"
"Now's not the time, doctor! Obviously, as you yourself said, he needs help. Please." Tom grudgingly relented at the end.
"Of course sir. Sorry. I just, yes. Working." The surgeon said, now remembering he was talking to an officer, not a random soldier.
"Good. Now, what can I do to help?"
"You can get out of the way." Another, bigger medic grumbled as he attempted to force his way past Tom, a hypodermic syringe in hand.
"Aa, sorry." Tom said, quickly and nimbly jumping out of the way.
"I'll let you know as soon as he comes around." The medic said, and then Matt jumped back to life in front of him.
"Tom!" He sat straight up, then winced and sank back into the hospital bed.
"Easy, easy." Tom said. "What happened?"
"You've got to help the others!" Matt gasped. "Back at - nnh - Bravo..." Matt broke out into a fit of coughing.
Tom activated the comm, "Mitchell! Take a strike team and check out Bravo base." Tom consulted his visor, looking at the Bios. Three were almost gone, the other two injured but somewhat steadier. The rest were skyrocketing.
"Roger that sir. Permission to take the Osprey?"
"Granted." Tom said quickly.
The other V-22 assigned to Tom's Alpha squad had continually ferried supplies, vehicles, CGTs, and all other forms of equipment over to Alpha Base. They now had everything they needed. They had ten ARMs, plus five more ARMPS already configured in the 3-wheeler setting. Eight or nine CGT's: Tom had lost count. Enough ammunition to last the war. They even got the equipment to set up a miniature air field, although it would take a while to deploy. Which was what half of Alpha was doing.
The camp now consisted of the CGTs guarding the perimeter, a motor pool area that housed their Stryker and all the ARMs and ARMPS, not to mention the two or three Humvees on the way. The communications/medical area that Tom was in now, made out of the reconfigured second Osprey. The semi-erected airfield, the barracks, flown in and para-dropped from a C-5. It was amazing. The military had deployable barracks and airfields. And of course the Raptor pen. Tom had already notified command, and they were preparing to dispatch a scientist team in order to study them.
And then the other, still flyable Osprey was perched next to the motor pool and barracks for the time being, until the Airfield could be assembled. Then they'd get a few aircraft in there, maybe a couple Apaches or a F-35 Joint Strike Fighter (JSF). They already had a hovercraft, docked next to the Osprey.
Matt was still conscious, barely. "Tom, you've got to-" He paused and sucked in a pained breath, "Warn Scar, and - dha - Holly. Tell them that they're coming..." Matt blinked and lay back.
"Who? Who's coming?" Tom asked. But Matt was gone, gone into the darkened world sleep.
"Get out of here!" The doctor yelled. "He needs his rest. Let him sleep!"
Tom obediently if reluctantly backed out the door, hands held high in the "take it easy" gesture. Some battles were won by retreating.
Mitchell was boarding the Osprey, just now taking off. He tossed a quick, casual salute to Tom, then turned around and buckled himself into a seat.
Now, Scarlett and Holly. Matt needed Tom to warn them about something, but what? Oh well. A quick call couldn't hurt, just a little, "Hey, watch your perimeter!"
Which reminded him.
"All idol units, proceed to assigned CGT. Repeat, all units currently free report to your assigned guard post." Tom sent out over his Alpha squad-wide channel. He got fifty acknowledgment blips on his visor.
Next, he entered the communications room and quickly hooked up an amplifier to his helmet's comm system. He beamed Scarlett's transponder and waited for her to answer.
About thirty seconds later, a soft female voice introduced herself. "This is Echo Base, the channel is secure. Scarlett Ottoman reporting."
"Scar! It's Tom. Bravo was... well, I don't know. At any rate, Matt just showed up on our doorstep and he's banged up pretty badly. Says that 'They're coming'. Nobody knows what it means and Matt is unconscious. I've sent a strike team over to check out Bravo base and to collect the wounded. We've got three almost gone over there and two more with critical bios, and the rest are pretty erratic. Just giving you the heads up to keep a tight eye on your perimeter."
"Roger that. Thanks, Tom. Have you attempted a comm. with anyone at Bravo?"
"No, I haven't now that you mention it. I'll get right on that. Relay my message to Holly. We may have a fight on our hands."
"I hear that. I'll get Holly to radio in to HQ. They should know what we're up against. And if it's a fight 'they' want, I'll be ready for them." She said, ending the comm. Tom could see why Matt liked her. He'd always had a soft spot for Scarlett too, but not as much as Matt's.
And she was dang smart, too. Tom hadn't thought of radioing in to HQ.
Tom beamed the Sargent from Bravo. The man's - no, woman's name was Kate Alabaster.
"Attention Bravo unit. This is Captain Thomas Lane of Alpha regiment. Respond." Tom said into the comm.
Static crackled over the comm unit for thirty seconds, then a voice sounded over the microphone. It definitely wasn't female.
"Hello, my friend. Captain Lane. Where have we heard that one before, eh? I see you were promoted," A thick Russian voice, followed by laughter in the background. "If you're as smart as everyone says, you might have noticed by now that I am not Kate Alabaster of Bravo unit. But that's okay. Oh, look! She feels up to talking now." The Russian continued, with more laughter and this time an anxious, muffled cry.
"Allow me to let you speak with Alabaster. Here, sweetie, here's your- OW!" The Russian cursed and Tom activated the video component in time to see the comm drop to the ground. It fell face up and displayed a vivid picture of a soldier with torn uniform and armor, sitting with her hands and feet bound behind her, and a gag hanging around her neck. She held herself with dignity and pride despite her dilemma. Her flowing blond hair was streaked with a pinkish-strawberry colored substance, and Tom knew it wasn't dye.
"Well, we have a fighter here." The Russian said through clenched teeth. He barked in Russian, which only Tom could understand out of the three Americans in the comm. tent, and two men advanced to grab her and started dragging her backwards. As she went she was frantically screaming, "Tom, Tom! Don't send any more men! It's a-" A dull thud punctuated her last line, and Kate blacked out before she could finish.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that childish display of resistance, Tom. Oh, I am sorry, I never introduced myself. That's okay, I'll just keep you in suspense until the time is right. I believe you know who I am, even so."
With that he ended the comm. and Tom was left even more worried than before. Bravo's bios were now through the roof. Tom needed to save them, and fast. But he couldn't just leave without appointing someone to be in charge. And besides, Mitchell was already on his way with eleven of their 49 other men. That left 38 for Tom, and if he left, then would their defenses be strong enough?
No, he had to wait, as much as he disliked it. But at least he could give Mitchell the heads up. They should probably be almost there by now.
"Sargent Mitchell, come in." Tom activated another comm.
"Mitchell here, what've you got for me?"
"You're up against Russians. I don't know how they got all the way down here, but it really doesn't matter. They are here, and so we need to take care of them."
"Roger that. Status on our evacuees?" Mitchell asked.
"I'm not sure. I managed to get a shot of their Sargent, a Kate Alabaster, but I didn't see anyone else. Look's like Bravo's got a pretty similar camp to ours. It should be a walk in the park for you guys. Delta and Echo teams are sending additional reinforcements. Radio in if you need more backup."
"Yes sir."
"Good. Out." Tom cut the comm.
Now there wasn't anything to do but sit in a CGT and wait. "Units A/1 through A/5, proceed directly to the HC. I will meet you there for further instruction. A/6, get those UCAVs in the air. All other non-essential personell, and I said everyone, get to your CGT. Heavy armament, pack everything we've got. We're gonna have a fight on our hands." Tom broadcast through the base speakers.
He jogged over to the hovercraft, or HC as most of them called it, and climbed on top of the cabin. He waited for the rest of his selected team to come running over. Behind them, A/6, Grant Williams, was entering the air field and proceeding to man the controls for the jet fighter-sized Predators. The UCAVs, as the name suggested, needed no assistance at all except to fire, so as to require only one man to operate multiple of them.
The first UCAV went up, and Tom watched it soar off over the forest. His men came up to the lip of the HC and vaulted over inside the craft.
"Alright. We're on patrol. Our job is simple; see and shoot the enemy before they see and shoot us. I'll be willing to bet you all have done this before, so it's nothing new. We're expecting the Russian elite, so we'll see who's better. Think of this as a... friendly competition, between Russia and the United States. You'll be fighting to the death, but I have a hunch which side will win." Tom said.
"Yes sir!" All five of them shouted. Tom had a way of firing you up.
"Good. Now, who wants to drive?" Tom asked with a slight grin, holding up the keychip.
West, or A/1, ended up behind the specially adapted control console. He always had a knack for techno crap.
They took off from the ground and circled overhead for about three minutes, then they got a call from Mitchell.
"Alpha leader, this is fifty. Hitting the LZ in three. No, not now... WHAT??!" Mitchell asked someone off screen. A muffled curse, then, "They've fired! Evade! EVADE!! Deploy chaff!" Another curse, another crash, and the world on Tom's screen tilted crazily. "We're hit! We're going down! Everybody out! Move, move, MOVE!!" Mitchell screamed. "Command, this is Mitchell, will radio when clear! Over!"
They needed help. Obviously, if the Russians had known they were coming, they were prepared to fight.
Tom needed to do something, but what could he do?
"Maintain your orders! I'm going over to help." Tom said, and without another word jumped over the side of a very high object for the second time in as many days. He really would have to cut back on this stunt if he survived. Maybe he should ask Dr. Stephens to implant a jetpack into his armor.
He plummeted into a swift free fall. This time the experience was only slightly less terrifying, as if the first time had been like the first time going down a very, very scary ride at Six Flags or something. This time it was only very scary.
The now sadly familiar feeling of weightlessness and his stomach crawling up his throat filled Tom's being. His legs attempted to pull off, and his desperate attempt to keep them on ended up making him spin out of control.
NOT GOOD! Tom thought urgently, then he hit terminal velocity, the fastest he would go on his descent.
Five seconds later he came out of his tumble, and the ground rushed up surprisingly fast. He now knew from experience to try and stop his plummet quickly. He should of done it before hitting terminal velocity, but he was spinning. Oh well. Now he'd just have to contend with a broken face, neck, and anything else he happened to land on. Not that it would matter. He'd probably be dead in half an hour if not in six seconds.
Tom frantically searched for his other in his mind. And couldn't locate it. Correction, THIS is not good. Tom thought, now strangely calm. He was going to die. Nothing could stop it. Again he tried to locate the other but only got a faint grasp... then it tumbled away. Only one thing left to do now:
"AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!" Tom screamed pathetically as he dropped, falling down and down and down...
He crashed into a branch. Luckily it wasn't all that thick, so it took some of his force and gave, slowing him down. But not very much.
And it still hurt like crap.
Plus, he hit his face. Just by luck of the draw, he had hit the most painful area you can hit on the way down. He was sent spinning around again, until he came into contact with another branch, this one hitting his shoulder. He spun away to his left, then smashed into the top of a somewhat shorter tree. The palm buckled under his weight and force, and then snapped back up, throwing Tom another couple feet in the air. He flipped up and came down, icy adrenaline pumping way too fast. Then the ground. The ground loved him. Tom sank into the damp soil, thankful that it absorbed his impact. His armor also helped a little, but the hydrostatic gel layer had ruptured upon hitting the ground.
If he hadn't been wearing his Mk. III, he probably would've been dead. That's what he told people after this whole thing. But the truth was far stranger. Not that he knew or cared right now.
Tom got up, his muscles still tense and excited as he felt the adrenaline dumping out of his system. He looked around to get an idea of where he was in relation to the base.
Oh, well. That's convenient. Tom thought as he looked up and saw the Alpha barracks. Williams hurried over, looking at Tom in a mixture of awe, concern, and bemusement. Tom scrambled to his feet, then ran into the motor pool.
"Where're you going?" Williams asked conversationally, as if his CO fell out of the sky daily. Tom was making it a record that he actually had now.
"Mitchell's down! I'm going to go help." Tom answered, then kicked in the door for the motor pool. No time for keys. Normally, he wouldn't have been able to just kick in a solid metal plate, but with his enhanced strength, he managed to buckle it. Another kick and he had enough room to pry it open, and he was in.
He found what he was looking for immediately: one of the ARMs. He took out frantically searched for his personal activation key card, and finally exhaled in relief as he found it in one of his pockets.
He hurriedly fit it into the slot and twisted the throttle, pleased immeasurably by the throaty roar that emanated from the vehicle. He slammed the kickstand to its stop and jetted out of the doors, turning a neat quarter circle in the dirt. Williams ran off to one side, and Tom yanked the accelerator, flying down a long abandoned game trail in the forest.
Trees whipped by in a fevered frenzy, dirt and dust kicking up in back of him as he raced to Bravo camp. It was about a mile or two away, but more on the ground because the game trail was the only path for a vehicle and it wound crazily back and forth, left and then right. Tom leaned far over the edge to complete a steep turn, pulling out at the last moment before he collided with a rock.
This required split second reflexes and timing, coupled with skill at riding. Tom had been riding some form of two-wheeled bike or motorbike since he was five. Matt had been it longer, probably since he was three or four, but Tom was still pretty dang good. Now, in addition to his treatment, he had amazing reflexes and a judgement of what could be fatal and what wouldn't.
Still though, he was scared as crud as he sped through the jungle, and only his iron hard determination kept him in place.
Eventually the trees started to thicken and build up, getting taller and taller as Tom went farther and farther from the coast. This was where the old, messy trail would be the most dangerous. Tom let go the throttle and coasted on momentum for a minute, then when he was moving at about twenty miles an hour, as apposed to his earlier 60+, he squeezed the brakes. The back wheel skidded before catching, then slowed the motorbike down to a halt.
Even if he was going to be rash, there was no reason he couldn't be smart about it. First he called Scarlett. The signal was even worse now that he was in the jungle, and he could barely make out her words.
"Echo base, this is Alpha command. Urgent message for your rescue team." Tom growled.
"Go ahead, Alpha. I'm heading the rescue team." Scarlett answered.
"Good. Now, are you flying?" Tom asked.
"Roger that. We're brining in the V-22. There a problem?"
"Ground it, now!" Tom barked. Only experience made Scarlett order the pilot to ground the Osprey immediately. When Tom was that desperate, usually it was good to listen.
"Confirmed, descending now." She said, only a slight touch of bemusement in her voice. "Care to explain?"
"My strike team was hit on the way in. I'm assuming you're close to the base?" Tom asked, starting his bike off at a steady 10 miles an hour.
"Yeah. What, they have an AA battery up already?"
"I don't know what they have, but when Mitchell launched his flares, whatever destroyed their Osprey wasn't phased. I suggest landing and camouflaging, then proceeding on foot. I also suggest that you come on ahead with the ARM in the Osprey."
"That's what you're doing?"
"Yeah."
A third caller suddenly voiced an extremely disturbing sentence in a Russian accent on a two-caller max channel. "Greetings, friends. I thank you for your information. It will be greatly appreciated to the men in my 'Collapsible Guard Towers" you think so highly of."
Ironically, his statement gave Tom a few pieces of information: Firstly, the Russian electronic listening devices could penetrate the secure American comm. links. Second, the Russians had taken control of and manned most if not all of the CGTs. Third, this particular commander had such a big ego that he had to gloat to Tom and Scarlett, therefore tipping them off. Fourth, and most crucially, they were expected on the ground.
However, Tom could only hope that Scarlett realized the same things he did without him telling her, as that would result in this Russian knowing as well.
Instead, Tom replied with a curse to make it sound like he had been defeated and outsmarted, then, "Well well well, what a surprise. Our Russian 'friend' is listening in. Echo command, can you fill him in?" Tom asked curtly, pretending to play at pretending to have the upper hand.
"Why, of course. We have a ritual whenever we learn we have bugs in our comm. links. It starts like this; if you're ready to listen in to our classified conversations, you can bet we'll be telling you to kiss our sorry..." Scarlett launched into an elaborate and careful, well controlled rant, calling the Russian every insulting name she and Tom knew, and even a few he didn't. Meanwhile, Tom opened up a tracer program on his laptop from his backpack, connecting it to his comm. unit and using it to find the building that the Russian commander was in. When he was finished he gave Scarlett the double-secret non-verbal sign that he was finished. Which was a scratching of his head.
When Scarlett realized he was done and had taken a breath, she exited the comm. The Russian took his opportunity to gloat to Tom alone, calling Tom several great names, including one in Russian. Tom used his laptop translation program to see what he was saying, then shut the computer down. He didn't need to tell anyone about that particular word.
Tom exited the comm. as well and packed up his laptop. Then he raced for the edge of the jungle.
The unspoken plan was that Tom would race over and bail out Mitchell and his crew while Scarlett followed a river up to the base. No one would expect her by water. She'd get in, take out the AA defenses, and her men would rush to the fight, followed by Holly and her squad. Meanwhile, Tom would be leading his band into the camp from the side, going up against one or two of the captured CGTs. That would suck. The best the military could come up with turned against him. Tom expected there to be blood.
It was a good thing that Scarlett was so smart. Otherwise none of this would work.
Tom dodged scores of trees and fallen branches on his way to Mitchell's last coordinates. About five minutes later, he started to smell burning metal and composite materials, so he slowed down. Eventually he came to the edge of an artificial clearing, made by a helicopter crash.
Mitchell had crashed with 12 men, including himself.
When he got up dazedly and yelled, "REPORT!", only to then fall into a coughing fit at all the dust and debris in the air, he only got 9 answers. One of them was a moan of pain, and the eight others weren't enthusiastic.
"49, reporting." One called.
"47, I'm alive." Another coughed.
"45, good to go." A45 croaked. None of them sounded ready and raring. Various other responses until Mitchell counted up all eleven of his men. Including the two dead ones, and the one with a broken leg and ribs. He was useless. He could barely hold his sidearm in his one good hand. Even his psi abilities were restricted, because it's impossible to focus through the amounts of pain he was dealing with. Of course, the Russians weren't done with them.
No, almost immediately after all the units had reported in, machine gun fire raked the V-22's broken, scattered hulk. Mitchell called for all able-bodied soldiers to defend, but they were being overwhelmed. 20 Russian elites were scattered around the Osprey in a rough circle, hiding behind the trees and taking peeking snapshots at the gargantuan transport.
Mitchell gave his cover a quick survey. The Osprey was turned on it's side, with one of the cargo doors resting in the dirt and the other facing the sky. The green emergency lights had come on, giving the space a sickly cast. Seats were strewn everywhere, and the only way to get out was through the cockpit, or to climb out the open skyward cargo door. Both were under heavy fire, pinning the men in their place.
"Retaliatory fire!" Mitchell screamed, and one of the soldiers popped up and sprayed the area directly in front of him with his Squad Automatic. The enemy bullets lessened and then ceased altogether as Mitchell and two more soldiers climbed on top of the seats and sprayed rounds from their assault rifles at targets as they presented themselves. As the targets increasingly melted into the shadows and backed behind their cover, Mitchell ordered suppressive fire on the main enemy concentrations. One of the soldiers ducked down, to be replaced by another soldier who was carrying the team's second SAW. His machine gun could shoot more higher powered rounds faster than the assault rifles, which Mitchell was going to need for his next stunt.
Time to show these suckers just exactly why we're called America's best Psi soldiers. Mitchell thought, as he located the Other in his mind and used it to send a fallen branch speeding at an enemy position. The Russian backed out of his cover with his hands raised and eyes wide, and Mitchell took a shot at him. It took the man in the leg, causing him to fall to his knees and letting the branch, which was going to catch him in his chest, catch him in the face. Needless to say, the Russian was dead.
Mitchell dropped the branch, his breathing now slightly more labored. He would go for smaller stuff.
While his men continued to provide cover, Mitchell selected a smaller stick about the size and length of an old Medieval broadsword and brought it up. The Russian standing next to it did a double take and hopped nimbly out of the way as Mitchell's cudgel pivoted in midair and swung around at the Russian.
Mitchell went on relentlessly, bringing the stick around in a painful upper cut. The Russian blocked the unorthodox attack with the stock of his rifle, and, like an arcane dueler, parried Mitchell's next blow, and blocked the next, but he was finally beaten when Mitchell held him at bay with one stick and used another of similar size to get the man in the small of his back. The next shot got him in the head, and he dropped like a sack of vegetables. About four Russians down, 16 to go. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. There went another one. 15 left.
Tom heard the steady thump of an American's Squad Automatic and breathed a sigh of relief. Survivors. Then he realized that meant they were under fire. He twisted the throttle again, sending the ARM careening through the artificial clearing. By luck alone, he squinted his eyes as he hit a dirt hummock and went airborne, rising ten feet in the air. Aw, dang, that'd be a cool slo-mo shot. Tom thought as he soared through the air. The sun glinted off his bike and refracted into a thousand particles.
The motorbike started twisting around, and Tom flipped off the bike and landed in the middle of the clearing with his M9 extended. The ARM hit the ground directly after him and went skidding into an enemy troop concentration, taking out at least four men and sending up a cloud of dirt and dust. Tom pulled the trigger to the stop, feeling as bullets spat out of the front of the weapon. Three more men dropped from his lead, and two more fell to the ground when someone behind Tom opened fire with a SAW.
Tom nimbly clambered up the side of the Osprey as a pathetic round of return fire started off. He slid into the protective embrace of the destroyed hull. Tom estimated about six or seven rifles returning fire.
Mitchell looked up from his position on the floor, a radio amplifier in hand. "You must be psychic or something," He said, a grin spreading on his face, "Because I was just about to call you."
