Atlantis: Harvest Reaper
Hi, all! Welcome to the sneak preview excerpt site for Atlantis: Harvest Reaper, the second book in the series! If you have no idea at all what I'm talking about, type "Atlantis" into the search box on the top of this page at the left hand side, under the picture and the navigation box.
This first excerpt was written by Will Anderson, and the second and third by me, Brandon Krupczak. All are awesome scenes from our second book. See, we're planning in advance!
Please note that the content of this page is an ongoing work in progress and the authors reserve the right to edit and/or reformat the page. Please also note that in this writing we mean no disrespect to any country, a book merely needs protagonists and antagonists.
Excerpt 1
Suddenly an explosion rung through Tom's ears, and the flaming fragments of two police cars were rolling side over side.
Tom instinctively ducked for cover. He was crouched behind a beaten up green Honda Accord, panting. Think, Tom said to himself. He heard heavy footsteps approaching and the slightly harsh Russian language, but couldn't tell whether it was coming from the left or the right. He made a guess. His car was straight ahead of him. If he could just make a quick dash... everything seemed to flash before his eyes. The blur of the various cars seemed to come at him faster than thought.
A grenade clanged with a metallic thud to the ground. Tom could hear confused shouts echoing behind him. A barbaric war cry rang out over the parking lot and Tom ignored it, sprinting on.
He focused all of his energy on getting to his car. The high-pitched clank of bullets ricocheting off of cars rang out around him. 5 more yards to go. 4. 3. 2. 1.
Tom leaped into the silver Aston Martin DBS with relief. Tom saw about 20 Russians trailing him, 6 with Stinger missiles. As the soldiers aimed the explosive warheads, Tom made his move. A control panel slid into view. Tom pressed the glowing blue button labeled MISSILE LAUNCH. A red statement flashed in Tom's HUD: TARGET LOCK. Tom fired.
A heartbeat later, 15 Russians flew backwards about 35 feet. The Russians' high-pitched screams of agony were muffled as Tom's engine roared to life.
He sped forward, turning and skidding at the last second, coming around 180 with the hood of the car facing the remaining cowering Russians. He selected the button labeled OIL SLICK. "Shake and bake," Tom said to himself.
He pressed EJECT, and the honey-colored liquid jetted out, soaking three of the five remaining foes. A moment later, a nasty-looking flamethrower slid smoothly out of the hood of Tom's car, sending flame roaring towards the soldiers in tumbling curls. A detonation rocked Tom's ears as the flame collided with the oil-soaked soldiers.
The two remaining Iraqis assumed a crouched position about 40 feet away from Tom's car, AK-74's blazing. Tom didn't care; the bullets were ricocheting off of his bulletproof windows.
Tom went in full reverse about 20 feet backwards, then sped towards the pair of Russians. They screamed and dived to the side, dodging Tom's car. He had anticipated this, and now the Iraqis were behind him.
Tom loaded the rear machine gun and sprayed the two soldiers with such force that they were sent sprawling toward the ground.
Swerving again, he sped onto a side road, feeling the sheer power of his 705hp V12 engine. Tom knew that it wouldn't be long before more enemies were after him. He was right. About 1200 yards away, 6 Humvees menacingly engaged pursuit.
In the excerpt, it doesn't explain what happens to cause the situation to occur, but hey, that's why it's an excerpt.
Excerpt 2
Excerpt: A random team of extremely skilled archaeologists who happen to be somewhat good at fighting as well (written by Brandon):
"Carson, come look at this!" Eva exclaimed as she held up a small chunk of a silvery-gold piece of mica or chunk of some rock. Or at least, that's what this looked like to the untrained eye, because it was roughly formed in the shape of a spearhead. No one would have guessed that it was actually a piece of Orichalcum that survived all these years.
"Do you know what this is?" Carson asked, looking over excitedly.
"Yeah, of course! Better get this back to the lab." Eva exclaimed, genuine delight dancing in her pale Grey-dove eyes. This was probably the find of her career. Proving the existence of a mythological and ancient metal believed to have been found only on Atlantis! Five years ago, if you had said that word, most respected scientists and archaeologists would look at you like you were a nutcase and move on with their lives, only now minimizing contact with you. Now though... they would look at you with awe, fear, and respect flashing in their eyes as they recalled every scrap of information they had ever heard of the legendary super continent.
Plus, there was always the later bonus, after it was proven to exist, of some museum or collector buying it from them for a hefty some of cash, although that was only a secondary concern right now. Still though, Eva sometimes fantasized about how much she and the others on her archeology team could squeeze out of a wealthy bidder when times were tough and uncertain.
The archeology team she belonged to consisted of two women including herself, Eva Lane, the other being Caroline Jones, and five men; Tim Carson, Brian Kenderson, Anton Beckett, Al Shepard, and Fred Lane. Their team was headed by the animated Tim Carson. He was about fifty, with graying hair combed back neatly and streaks of black running in stripes. His tough, craggy face bespoke a rugged and powerful man, but his soft, baby-blue eyes ruined the image, portraying the gentle, caring father he was.
Brian Kenderson was the cousin of the famous Matthew Kenderson, one of the most well-known American names in the war. He was somewhat impulsive, and he liked to show off about how much he knew on just about every subject anyone cared to name, but he was pretty cool once you got to know him better. He was the team's technology expert, and he looked it at seventeen, with blond hair, just like his cousin, and a tough, lean face that was almost always bruised or cut, and dark, half moon circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.
Anton Beckett and Al Shepard were so similar they were always mixed up by everyone else around them. They could have passed for brothers despite their completely different families, even though Anton was twenty eight and Al was twenty five. They both had the same, slightly upturned noses and eyes that crinkled when they laughed.
Caroline Jones was the loudmouth of the group, with somewhat plump cheeks and orange-streaked hair. Her hazel eyes told the story of a bright and happy teen, at eighteen years old, and she was never without a smile on her face.
And then there was her perpetually annoying know-it-all younger brother, Fred. Fred and Brian hung out together the most of any of the team. Two peas in a pod, she always said. Both of them had an uncanny knack for intellectual subjects, except that Brian was built big and stocky and Fred was leaner and more wiry. His freckled face could look all too serious at times and too lighthearted and carefree at others. Both she and Fred had to stand up to something close along the lines of a celebrity treatment whenever they went anywhere, but that was only because they were cousins of the ultra-famous Thomas Lane, another of the best soldiers in the war. Fred could never live that down.
Anton walked over, examining the find. Here was proof. Not only did they now know for certain that Atlantis existed, they could actually see it on TV whenever they wanted. But this was proof that Plato hadn't been lying when he talked about a new metal. But the biggest thing of all was their location; Stonehenge, England. Literally on the ruins of the old monuments. Now just what they were for...
"Wow. I just can't believe it. Atlantians, or Atlantian traders, all the way out here?" Anton asked.
"Apparently so." Fred said. "And I'll bet a month's salary that there's more to be found around here."
"I'll also wager some cash that the higher-ups will claim this all for themselves under the grounds of funding and starting the expedition." Brian said. Of course Fred agreed whole-heartedly.
Their archeology team was a part of a bigger organization, the Foundation for the Study of Atlantian Artifacts, or FSAA. The organization was run by-
Eva's train of thought was interrupted by a harsh yell;
"Get them away from there! Quickly!" She looked up, and saw that about a hundred yards away, a fleet of five pickup trucks had parked, behind the perimeter fence bordering the monument.
"I'll go deal with them." Carson said quickly, exasperatedly. He reached into his back pocket as he walked off to the gate, pulling out the team's archeology pass permitting them to be here. Eva went back to her examination, the rest of the team combing over the site for any missed evidence.
Three of the men rushed up to the gates, and only now did Carson see that they were carrying AK-74 assault rifles and start to become apprehensive. He held the pass in front of him, glancing quickly back at the rest of the team. Fred was watching him intently, and Carson breathed a sigh of relief. If things got violent, Fred would be there to help him in a moment. Then again, he was only human, and these guys had guns.
Somebody was shouting at him in broken English. "You not supposed to be here!" He screamed, shouting directly in Carson's face.
"No, no, see, we have a pass." Carson said, putting on his best friendly smile. The other man stared back at him, a very unfriendly frown on his face.
"NO! You will not leave. At least, alive." The man said with a cold smile, chuckling to himself as if that was the funniest joke in the world.
Carson had only a second to panic before the soldier to his right raised the rifle cradled in his arms and fired. Less than a yard away, the man couldn't miss. But he somehow must have. Carson didn't feel anything. Just a vanishing fear...
He looked down at his body and was surprised to see his chest torn and bloody, with a steady stream of red liquid clouding his white T-shirt. He looked back, and his team was all looking up in stunned silence. Brian and Fred were running towards him at top speed. He should tell them there was nothing wrong. Carson frowned. Why were they running? There was no need. He was fine.
Carson looked back at the man who was holding his gun still, and the man shouted. But Carson couldn't here them. His brow knit further. The man's lips seemed to move in slow motion. But that only happened in movies, right? No sound was coming out. Carson dimly heard Fred calling his name, again in slow mo. Hmm. He really would have to talk to his doctor about this. Sudden loss of hearing and spacing out, making everything look slow. It was kind of disconcerting.
Suddenly Carson's strength fled out from his body, and he collapsed onto his knees. A picture of his son flipped out of his shirt pocket and fell to the ground. That was funny. It shouldn't have happened. Then Carson was aware he was tilting forward. He tried to correct his position but couldn't. That must have looked funny to the others. He struggled to grab the photo. He had to. It suddenly seemed like his entire life was focused on picking up that one photo, but his fingers barely obeyed him. When they came into view, they were trembling uncontrollably. He had to pick up the picture. His hands started to close around it...
A heavy boot came smashing down on Carson's fingers, making him let go the picture. He was distantly aware of a pain as three of his fingers broke, but that seemed to be happening to another person. Suddenly, three fingers hooked underneath his chin and raised it up. He stared into the dull brown... or was it brown? The color seemed to fade away, beginning with the edges of his vision and narrowing down until only the man's dull brown eyes still had color. Then the man reached into his back pocket and took out a handgun. It was an ugly, stubby looking thing. The man whispered something, and this time Carson heard it: "Good bye. Oh, and next time, don't take so long to die." The man said, then pulled the trigger.
Brian and Fred could only watch in horror, skidding to a stop, as Carson's head jerked back, the bullet entering his brain cavity.
Carson felt the pain this time. It was sharp, sudden, and intense. He thought about saying ow, so the others would know it hurt. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Now all color, even gray, was fading to black, and he could only see a pinprick of light in the distance. He saw a pair of wings gliding towards him. Unseen arms hooked behind his and started to carry him off. Off and into the light...
Brian cursed at the top of his lungs, but it didn't help any. Instead, the man with the pistol just raised the barrel, now aiming at him and Fred, and fired six rounds. His aim must have been pretty bad, because exactly like in the action movies, the bullets kicked up dust at their feet and around them, as if there was an invisible ball that encased them which would repel bullets. Hm. That was a cool idea.
Then Brian and Fred were yelling and scrambling for cover as those bullets stopped for the man to reload, and the two others raised their rifles and opened fire, sending new bullets skidding around the landscape. Fred branched off from Brian and dove behind a clump of rocks and out of sight, more soldiers streaming in through the gates. Meanwhile, the others of the team rushed for cover behind the monument, with the exception of Al. Al was too stunned to move, and as a result three bullets stitched diagonally upward across his chest. He bucked with each shot, collapsing with the third. He died instantly as the bullet cut his throat, unlike Carson. Carson died too slowly, with too much pain. Brian would get them for that one, even if he died as well.
Brian knew he was going down fighting if he had to at all, and he knew that Fred and Eva would be right beside him. These men were in for an unexpected challenge. Because Brian intended to win.
Excerpt 3
Captain Thomas Lane looked out onto the massive landscape below, stretching for miles and miles. It was the perfect example of the irony of Atlantis. Exotic green-leafed trees bearing bright fruits dotted the whole beach, intermingled with palm trees and an occasional pine tree. The moonlit night cast a ghostly shadow over the crystal-clear waters lapping up gently onto the shores.
Yet it was in this paradise that chaos chose to dig its grimy claws.
The enormous Dual-Thrust V-22 Osprey Heli-plane lurched back and forth in the cool night sky. Sparks ignited as tiny bullets licked up at the protective, bulletproof walls of the leviathan, ricocheting off into oblivion. Captain Thomas Lane gripped the holds tightly, attempting to keep himself from flying out into the empty space surrounding the Osprey.
Though he could be ensured a safe landing (he had survived that height of a fall before, and the exhaust thrusters wired into suit could act as a parachute), there was still the problem of the AA fire pounding repeatedly, and not to mention the swarms of small arms fire buzzing around. Even if he managed to land safely, he would still be far away from the squad and have to fight his way into the drop zone. In short, falling would not be a good idea.
With that in mind, his grip tightened on the sturdy hold as the Osprey kicked back and forth, executing the simplest of evasive maneuvers. Still, it was effective, and most of the shots fired at their craft whizzed straight by on one side or the other.
Tom turned around to survey the rest of the deployment bay on the craft. There he was, 18 years, fair-haired, 6 foot, outfitted in his personalized, jet black Mk. III Tactical Battle Armor (TBA). The hard outer shell, form-fitting interior hydrostatic gel layer that could literally absorb bullets, and alloy coating on the exterior that was designed to repel the shock-waves from explosions made up the protective part of his suit. The environmental layer in the interior would heat or cool automatically and accordingly to the soldier's needs. The outer, bulletproof exoskeleton shell was, obviously, to block bullets and other shrapnel or fragments. The surrounding material that was not on his chest was water-proof, jet-black, and camouflaged, making Tom borderline invisible at night. The backpack fitted on the back of the suit was fitted with exhaust thrusters, like you read, to act as a parachute to break a fall, or to assist a jump. His comm pack was mounted on top of the backpack, directly behind his helmet. His helmet-integrated Heads-Up Display (HUD) was constantly feeding him information, displaying his next objective, team's tactical situation, his location on a mini-map, and statistics for the armor's overall condition as well as his and his team's vital signs. Another ability of his HUD was an image-enhancement where he could "zoom in" on a target. His helmet could switch between infrared, night-vision, thermal, and normal modes. He could also take videos or pictures to send back to base via satellite. In short, Tom and his suit were ready to kick some major enemy butt.
Also in the Osprey was a dedicated team of the USA's best, their overall regiment fittingly titled, “Angel Regiment.” They were the best the military had to offer, all sporting the latest armor, equipment, and technology, just as Tom. Their assortment of weaponry included mostly carbines and assault rifles, with a few specialized troops toting the heavier Squad Automatic Weapons, more colloquially known as SAWs. The heavy bullets from these Medium Machine Guns (MMGs) complimented the long-ranged snipers that some of the unit carried. Tom saw in them the same cold-hard determination he saw in Holly and Matt's eyes, as well as the steel calmness and concentration he saw in Scarlett's eyes as she was about to decapitate someone with her sniper.
“Comm check!” Tom barked in perfect imitation of the Drill Sargent (DS) from camp, and some of the soldiers chuckled before the first Angeler, designated A/1, called, “A/1, reporting!” and directly after him, “A/2, ready!” then, “A/3, locked and loaded!” until it got to “A/10, ready to go!” Then it changed to, “B/1, ready and waiting!” and so on down until it reached, “B/10, awaiting orders,” which is when it transferred to C/1 all the way to C/10. So thirty troops in all under Tom's command.
The comm. system in Tom's backpack seemed to be working. Everything else was good to go.
The dropship reached the target location; the Coral Reef Resort compound in St. Augustine, Florida. Tom, in the front of the line to get to one of the droplines, hooked his carabiner to the rope and braced himself in the doorway. The jump indicator light by the door blinked to life, casting a red glow on the gathered soldiers. Six men were lined up for each of the five drop points from the humongous V-22, their filthy, battle-marked faces shining and their sweat cutting rivulets through the grime. With the bay doors still closed, though, Tom was allowed only a limited view of the surrounding area, and an even more limited wind current. What he could see was worth this roasting flight, though; a stunning array of beach and water, with cozy little buildings nestled right in against the shoreline. Long wooden walkways stretched over sand dunes and to the waves from the courtyard of pools and tennis courts of the Coral Reef buildings.
The compound was a basic paradise, with three condo buildings arranged around the center courtyard area, with the shoreline open and the walkway extending from a tiled pool area. Back behind the pool, away from the sand, was a large, grassy area that people used to fly kites and other fun stuff. Tom decided, though, that somehow the collection of Russian tanks, APCs, and helicopters, plus their drivers and pilots, that were currently taking residence in the grassy part of the courtyard ruined the image, as did the heavily armed snipers atop the roofs of the three buildings. The machine gun nests dug in the sand facing the water didn't help, nor did the mobile anti-ship artillery platforms squatting like ugly beetles at the edge of the sand.
All that they're missing is an Anti Aircraft battery. How ironic, Tom thought.
The Osprey approached the drop location on the top of a roof. The flat-topped building made a perfect combat area, due to all the metal pipes and equipment up there, so they'd have plenty of cover. After the Osprey dropped them down, it would circle the building and unload, emptying all of its ammunition until it ran out of shots or targets. Tom could already imagine the fiendish lust lighting up the gunner's face as he tore into the enemy troops, a pale man of twenty-two with a red beard.
The doors slid open, but the light remained red, saying he should wait. Tom was afforded a better view now, and he could see the multitude of other Ospreys flying at top speed towards the resort. He knew that three separate Ospreys held his three closest friends, along with the rest of Angel.
Captain Scarlett Miller, blond haired, her bright personality extracting many laughs from anyone in her presence. She constantly had a smile on her face, replaced by a snarl only in battle. Tom smiled at the memory. He wasn't a bit surprised that Matt had fallen for Scarlett. Also effective at her job; shooting to kill. A great team player, she loved the thrill of combat and her leadership position in it. She could work with her team to achieve anything. But she had patience as well. She was gentle and caring, which Tom had thought at first not great qualities in a soldier. But he turned out to be wrong for once. Scarlett was great at balancing hatred and love.
Captain Holly Dayne. On the outside, dark and mysterious, her expression a combination of thought and memory. Cheerful among her friends, she held no sympathy for enemies. She was trained extensively in the many arts of combat. She was good at hitting from the flanks and enjoyed being the stealthiest member out of the four of them. Her black hair and darker disposition had earned her the joking name of “goth” by a girl during her year in 6th Grade, but the truth was that she was just tired, and although she was happy with her friends, she could look all too serious at times.
Captain Matthew Kenderson, also sporting dirty-blond hair, literally as well as just the name for the color, big and built more heavily than Tom. A good leader and better friend, if you got to know him right. A skilled warrior, but he was no good at compromising. He loved to have his way, and he usually got it. Tom recalled a mental image of his friend, examining the dark, half-moon circles under Matt's eyes in his mind. All of the team had that though, from lack of sleep and all the battle-induced adrenaline. He almost always had a thoughtful expression.
Not all of the Ospreys were carrying troops. With only 200 men and women in Angel, only seven of the twelve V-22s were carrying soldiers. The last five Ospreys had their cargo compartments taken out and grappling hooks in their place, with two Stryker Main Battle Tank (MBT)/Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) all terrain vehicles latched onto each Osprey's hooks. The military was spending serious bucks to repel the Russians out of this place.
From his vantage point, Tom could see the famous St. Augustine Fort in the distance, guarding the bay mouth. It was currently occupied by US troops, and it was their starting point for the flight. The short hop from the fort to the resort was strewn with enemy sniper and MG nests, which harassed the pilots on the ride.
Tom felt and heard, more than saw, the heavy, mounted chaingun open fire next to him, the gunner suppressing the landing zone. “Hot LZ! Repeat! LZ is hot!” he screamed over the noise, and Tom gulped. He didn't like landing in a wall of brass. As if to comfort him and to ease his concern, the co-pilot chose that moment to open fire with the nose mounted dual repeating 35mm cannon, and thus scattering the gathered welcoming party below. Tom preferred to enter unannounced, but this was a close second, made better as a Cobra gunship tore the roof to shreds and drowned it in depleted shells, causing bodies to flail and fall.
“Green light! Go go GO!” the voice of a soldier cried out, and Tom realized that the light had indeed turned green. Without another seconds thought, he kicked the coiled rope out the open door, then launched himself over the edge, jumping headfirst, before the rope caught him and yanked his feet out in front of him. He free-fell most of the way down, then tightened his grip once he got closer to the bottom. He stopped himself just in time to land lightly in a crouch with his M9 carbine extended and leveled, but he found no targets, so he continued on to a better cover position.
The plan was to take out the anti-ship artillery and distract the MG pits dug on the beach so that a larger invasion force could come in from the water and make a beachhead. Simple and short. But the primary mission goal was to live.
Originally, Tom had just planned to wipe out the artillery with a guided rocket, but the artillery was heavily armored, and more importantly, the jammer mounted on their hoods prevented radar locks, making it impossible to launch a guided missile.
So Tom had reconsidered, and now they had to get in close to plant explosives and strap them to the vehicles. God forbid he should have it easy.
No, and the Russians weren't about to help. The snipers on the roof building opposite the building Tom was on turned to fire at him, and the snipers on his building turned to fire into Matt's incoming soldiers as they landed.
Tom barked orders rapidly, “A units! Search and Destroy! Take out any and all snipers on our building. B and C, cover the entrances. Don't get yourself shot and watch those snipers on the other buildings!” To emphasize his point, a trio of shots urged the men to take cover, and one fell after taking a bullet in his knee. The armor stopped it, but internal bleeding was inevitable. The man collapsed, but he was dragged to cover by another soldier.
Tom ducked a bullet and shifted off to the side in time for more shots to kick up the roof material and one to implant itself in a metal vent. Crouching behind a low stone pillar, he was able to lean slightly out from behind cover and drop a Russian on the ground by the pool. He twisted over backwards as he fell, and he came to rest at the bottom of the water after a fair splash. Tom ducked back as more bullets came within inches of his head. He wished he could just blind-fire with his gun above his cover and unload, but Matt and his squad were on the other side, so instead he darted to his left, spinning behind another piece of cover, then fired and worked his way to the front of the building.
Tom lay prone behind the three-foot high stone border railing on the roof, anchored on one elbow as he returned the substantial fire from the ground and railings of the resort buildings. It really was a shame to kill people here. He'd be thinking about that for the rest of his life, however long or short that would be.
A sudden explosion barely three feet from him left a divot in the concrete, casting a burnt, charred smell in the air. He blinked, shocked that a missile had landed so near without him knowing. Until the blast anyways.
He needed a better position. When he sensed a lull of fire, he pushed himself up into a half-crouch, then vaulted over the edge of the building. It was five stories high, but he wasn't going down all five. Instead he landed on the balcony of a top story room, and the two Russians on either side of him recoiled in surprise. He glanced condescendingly at one, scowling, then elbowed each in the face, grabbed their heads, and smashed them together, just like the movies.
Unfortunately, the movies rarely had enemies with helmets, and the two clanged together, dazed, then shook their heads. Tom cursed and cut one's legs out from under him with his boot, and the man fell to the ground. Tom let go of that one and pulled his six inch combat knife from its sheath, continuing the momentum, and shoving it into the second soldier. The man crumpled in, one knee raised to his chin, then fell back. Tom turned and tossed the knife from his right hand to his left hand, inverting it in the process, and sank it into the first soldier on the ground. Then he raised the knife and returned it to its sheath. Unslinging his carbine, he stood victorious for a moment, then ducked involuntarily as a bullet drilled a hole into the pillar just behind him. He jumped back, but a bullet still caught him in the arm. It whipped around, but Tom knew the shot hadn't penetrated. He would've felt it if it had.
Instead, the bullet hastened his speed into the condo room. Tom clutched his carbine tightly to his chest as he rammed his booted foot into the glass pane of the sliding patio door. The glass cracked and shattered, and Tom stepped through to find himself in a pleasant living room, roughly square, with a long hallway leading down to the door, a kitchen and pantry looking out at the dining table behind a couch, with bedrooms and bathrooms stacked to either side of the hallway. The master bedroom had a door opening out onto the same patio he had just been in.
The scent of salt was heavy, but comforting, as Tom opened fire on two Russians who had jumped out of the doorways into the hallway. Aiming at eye-level, the first bullet took the first Russian slightly to the left of his nose, shattering his jaw, and the second bullet took him in the temple. The other soldier opened fire on the only American currently in the room, and Tom's third shot out of the burst shattered a vase of flowers sitting on a pedestal next to the door.
Both soldiers ducked behind cover, but the Russian to no avail; the door behind him burst in, followed closely by an Angel insertion team. They quickly eliminated the last remaining Russian, then nodded to Tom before continuing on with their search. It must have been exhausting work, because there were so many rooms. But at least each room was about the same in terms of layout.
Tom shook himself, then returned to the balcony. The fight had become slightly more subdued, with the Ospreys circling and mowing over any targets. Tom barely had time to worry as a Russian lifted one of their single shot fire and forget rocket launchers and aimed it at an Osprey before an American materialized beside him and elbowed his cranium, then followed through by sliding his fore-arm up the Russians head until he grabbed the man's neck, pushing him back onto an upraised knee, and tearing him through with a combat blade. The launcher fell, then the soldier picked it up and aimed it at an artillery truck. The radar signature from the lock-on ability was Russian, so it bypassed the jammer and drilled a nice round hole in the side of the truck before exploding and blasting fragments everywhere. Tom knew from the soldier's confidence and lack of sympathy, as well as his Friend or Foe (FOF) tag, that it was Matt.
Seconds later, another soldier, this one Holly, mimicked Matt's move and cast more orange flames dancing through the destroyed hulk of the final artillery platform. Tom heard Scarlett's voice resound over the command frequency, “That's it! Shore defense artillery neutralized!”
Tom ran again and vaulted over the wrought iron rail, landing in the soft grass with a roll to break his fall. In front of him was a maze of moving metal monsters trying to move and get a clear shot at the Americans. What Tom wanted was to take one of their tanks and blow the rest of them away. So he came up to one likely looking MBT and jumped onto the top. He saw Holly already putting his plan into action, prying at the closed hatch to a different MBT. She gave the hatch a frustrated kick and a dent appeared in the metal. She hooked her fingers under the opening and hauled upwards, and the metal shrieked and screamed as it tore out. Finally she snapped the hatch completely off the hinges, and dropped down.
Tom followed her. No sense in trying to man a three-crew tank by himself. He ran over to the tank Holly was clearing, and as he jumped on top another figure literally fell from the sky and landed next to him. He quickly spun and leveled his carbine, but he recognized the figure as Scarlett. She popped up and gave a cheery smile, then they ran together to the top of the tank.
Holly had already cleared the interior, and they all jumped in and manned different control stations. Tom, of course, was driving. Holly was at the cannon firing controls, and Scarlett was up and manning the .50 cal machine gun mounted just in front of the now nonexistent hatch. Tom turned the tank around so it was facing the beach, but the turret remained facing the grassy courtyard, and Holly pulled the triggers, effectively blowing an MBT to heck.
But now the other Russians were onto them. Tom stopped the MBT just in time for another explosive to hit in front of him, casting dust all around. It was funny, because besides the dust and warfare it was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and it warm, even now during early Autumn. But the fighting ruined it for some reason.
Scarlett was repeatedly blasting away on the .50, and she had plenty of targets. The belt of ammunition flowed through the gun like water and came out the other side, minus the ammunition. The bright muzzle flash spread extra light around, jumping out in pale relief against the camo of the tank. As if it were needed. Scarlett's visor was tinted almost to its lowest setting.
Tom pushed the big engine to its max, rocketing forward, smashing over the cute picket fence and pushing into the sand. Tom had no idea if this would work, or even if the tank would work in sand, but the MBT only stalled for a moment, then leaped forward again, climbing the crest of one sand dune, falling down another, and crushing shrubbery. They passed the wooden jetty and moved onto the harder packed sand on the beach. MG nests were dug right into the sand, with the removed soil packed tightly into sandbags and laid around the pits. It was like sand- castle building on a professional scale, but instead of sandcastles, it was a pit for machine guns.
Spaces were left here and there between the sandbags for guns, and all of those spaces were occupied with guns mounted on tripods slightly dug into the sand below. In the middle of the larger pits were mortars, and Tom saw several caches of rockets and launchers in some nests. They were seriously armed. Apparently they really wanted this piece of real-estate. But they were at the disadvantage of playing as the visitor in this particular ball game. Tom was going to make sure he took advantage of every advantage he could get. Tom let the flagging engine cool off for a moment as Holly and Scarlett opened fire, the MBT's big shells burrowing partway into the sand before exploding and casting mini dust storms everywhere. Scarlett lobbed a grenade, and it actually landed inside one of the MG nests. The soldiers screamed in terror and scrambled out, but they only met their end from a different means; either Holly's shots or Scarlett's took them out in ones, twos, and threes.
The MG nests turned to fire on their evidently renegade comrades even as US ships started to appear out of the mist and sea-spray in the distance. Sent ahead of them were F-35 Joint Strike Fighters (JSF), and they launched missiles into the sand. Apparently bunker-busters, because Tom heard three muffled 'thump's and then saw a large explosion cast bits and pieces of objects into the air. The soldiers in that nest were gone, literally, with the wind.
Tom saw a Destroyer-class vessel out in the ocean start to turn abreast, and seconds later a large ship-to-shore shell ate away another nest.
Bullets tore into the MBT, damaging it severely.
“It would seem they have armor piercing rounds. How intriguing.” Tom noted calmly.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Holly said lightly, jokingly, as she ducked lower in her seat after a trio of bullets smashed her headrest and threw sparks around.
Scarlett snarled above them, still firing full-automatic at anything that presented itself. Scarlett was usually happy and calm, but “you don't like me when I'm angry” applied here.
The heavy machine gun thumped and thudded as Scarlett walked the bullets over a pair of Russians attempting to load a rocket. The barrel now was hot as crap. The bullets impacted roughly, kicking up sand, and the men fell. A grenade cut through the air, and Scar caught it at the top of its arc. Not physically, but with her mind. Ah, the joys of Telekinesis.
Technically, she wasn't supposed to advertise that America's best were here and that they wanted this place so badly, but what was she going to do? Let a grenade fall on top of her? Instead she marginally changed the direction and let it fall behind them, creating an effective sand-screen between the pursuing men and the MBT. But the various shots, coupled with the bombardment from the ships, completely incased them in sand, and soon they weren't able to see. So it was a surprise to Tom when suddenly a huge, looming figure darkened into perspective, directly in front of him.
Tom slammed the brakes and hit full reverse at the same time, allowing the tracks to spin, squeal and stop. The large, long figure drove alongside them and stopped. Holly was already swiveling to fire, but Scar was holding, and Tom figured out why three seconds later when Holly's FOF screen bleeped, warning her she was aiming at a fellow American unit.
The sand dissipated after a moment and Matt came into view, standing with one leg forward, knee bent and looking proudly superior. He peered down at them atop a Stryker MBT/APC and winked, calling, "Someone call in a the cavalry?"
Tom responded over the comm, a large grin on his face, "Nah, we've got it pretty much under control just another few hundred guys to go."
"Wouldn't miss it." Matt said, and crossed one leg over to the smaller Russian MBT, kept one leg planted on the Stryker, and helped everyone out of the Russian junk and onto the American ground superiority fighter. When Tom, the last one over, was situated, Matt helped himself down the ladder and took up position behind one of the control stations for the craft. Of course the turret gunner. He bumped a Corporal out of the way, waiting as Holly pulled up next to him and let another lieutenant get up, then sat down and buckled in behind the 7.62mm MG control station. Scar moved up and took the controls for the driver. Tom set his carbine aside and unlatched a MMG from the locker next to him, then crawled back out onto the top of the beast in order to shoot.
Tom was instantly met with scattered fire, but the Goliath of a tank rumbled forward and crushed one cover position after the next, Matt cutting the enemy down to size with a few blasts of the 120mm cannon and Holly helping out with the MG. Tom suppressed a pit with his own weapon, but he wasn't having as much fun up here, so he called, "I'm getting off and finding some real action. Anyone wanna come with?"
Matt acknowledged and unbuckled, moving to go and help Tom. Holly swiftly changed positions to mount the larger cannon, and Scarlett opened the bay door to let Matt down to the sand. Tom jumped off the top a moment later, doing a flip just to rile whatever army brass was watching him.
Matt followed, leaving the girls to themselves, as Tom led the way back away from the resort and towards the shore. They both slid into one of the MG pits amidst a sheet of bullets and casings, but they made it, and then four Russians were on them, up close. Matt brutally thrashed one of them with the stock of his gun, and Tom dodged an attack from another, swinging his heavier MMG around in an arc and catching the man's knee, making him collapse. Matt kicked out with his boot again and caught another man in the chest, sending him back and down, wheezing. Tom elbowed another in the side of the head, hearing his skull crack and watching dark blood start to flow through. These blows all did much more damage than a typical soldier would've, due to their abilities. Tom especially, from his treatment.
Tom gave no mercy, twisting one's neck almost completely around with a roundhouse kick, sending another one who had just gotten to his feet back down with a forceful thrust from his knife, and kicked another in the kidney as Matt finished them off. Then Matt grabbed a gun on one side, Tom dropped his heavy MMG and pilfered a Russian automatic, then grabbed an MG on the opposite side of Matt. They opened fire, watching men, real men, who had been running towards them to re-inforce their comrades, die and drop like sticks as bullets tore into them.
Further down shore, the Stryker started taking fire. The Russians hadn't stopped at this one resort. They had occupied the beach up and down the coastline. The concentration of troops happened to be in the Coral Reef Resort.
The first of the transport boats neared the shore, carrying fifteen Marines to the beach. Aircraft flew overhead, pinning down resistance fire. However, amidst the scores of nests, some survived to shoot.
