Difference between revisions of "Atlantis Rising: Chapter 1"

Latest revision as of 14:41, 23 October 2012

The first chapter in my book, Atlantis Rising. To visit the homepage: Atlantis

Also see: Reaper's First Drop

14:32 Hours, October 9, 2020 (Military Calendar), New York City, New York, USA‎

The match sparked on the striker, flaring brilliantly into existence and providing a comforting glow in the cramped confines of the troop bay.

A soldier waved his hand in front of his face to clear the smoke as his Sergeant used the match to light his cigar, not bothering to complain about the smell. "Sarge, I still don't understand why you insist on carrying around a box of matches everywhere when our armor has a torch built in."

"We've been over this before. My matches are a thousand times classier than that damn thing. And it doesn't make this taste like soldering iron." The sergeant replied, grinning.

Next to them, another soldier fed bullets into a rifle magazine while chewing gum energetically, tapping the mag against his helmet periodically. A fourth soldier stared at the floor of the MV-22 Osprey aircraft, muttering to himself while the soldier next to him reclined in his seat, eyes closed, heavy metal blaring from his earphones.

The drop bay was packed with these men, sweaty, tired, most injured, preparing to get back in the fight. The Osprey shook continuously as the pilot evaded incoming rounds, the near-misses buffeting the craft with shrapnel and shockwaves. Most of the men were young, between 18 and 20, their faces gaunt, haggard, their gear worn and filthy. The thick stench of their recently-worked bodies permeated the cabin. The only thing about them that had been carefully cleaned and maintained in over a week were their weapons - gleaming chrome, instruments of power. They had been fighting for days on end without rest, repelling the hostile invasion of Russian forces onto American lands. Although they were young, they were not untried - this war had made them hard by necessity, or die. They were all tired, but combat was a powerful stimulant.

In the center of the craft, surrounded by the hard, powerful men, was their unrivaled superior. Encased in olive-drab, full-body bullet proof combat armor that added an additional 60 pounds and three inches to his 6'4", 240 pound frame, Captain Matt Kenderson stood poised easily on the deck, checking his equipment. In the hyper lethal, elitist world of combat arms, Matt and the other members of the 3rd Marine Shock Force dominated the Tier One units, like the SEALs and Delta Force.

The soldier loading the magazine finished, and tossed the full mag to a guy on the other side of the drop bay. "Hey, Captain!" He called over the noise of the engines. "You want one of these? I've got magic hands, guaranteed it won't jam."

Behind his reflective full-face visor, Matt smirked and checked the Combat Awareness and Information Network in his holographic Heads-Up Display for the soldier's name. "Sure, Max. You'll need one of my empties." One of the benefits Tier One operators enjoyed was access to basically any equipment they could name. The soldiers in the Osprey with Matt all used M4 carbines, M16 rifles, or M27 automatic rifles, which all had interchangeable magazines. Matt's was not; he stooped and grabbed the expended magazine for his XM8 which he had discarded earlier off the deck and tossed it to Max.

The soldier grinned as he pulled open a fresh box of ammo and began to fill the empty clip. The man next to him leaned in and whispered something in his ear, but Matt's enhanced hearing picked up every word: "Damn, dude, just think, you're loading one for an Immortal!"

The pilot's voice broke in over the PA. "Sierra 2-5 to ground team, we are approaching your location."

"Roger, Sierra! Be advised DZ is hot!"

Matt used the comm. system integrated in his helmet to contact the ground team. "This is Echo One. Maintain your perimeter and stay cool, I'll get you guys out."

The MV-22 descended below the level of the skyscrapers as they began their approach, swinging around a corner to reveal a frantic firefight. An American squad was entrenched on one side of a large intersection, scattered in the rubble that was once a vibrant city street. On the other side, a large Russian force was attempting to drive them back and surround them.

The Osprey soared over the mess below as the copilot lit up targets with the .50 cal chin gun, flaring in for a landing behind the American line. Max finished the magazine and tossed it to Matt, who slammed it into his rifle while the ground team commander responded, "Copy that, Echo. Sooner would be better than la-"

"Break break break!" Someone else on the ground shouted, interrupting the other channel. "They have a tank! Evade!"

The bay door popped open, exposing Matt and the other soldiers to the high winds. A Russian T-100 Main Battle Tank edged around the corner of an intersection at the far end of the street, hemming in the American position, its turret swiveling to track the MV-22.

"Sierra, pull out!" Matt shouted, running for the open bay doors. He had to get on the ground and help his guys - they would never survive an assault on two fronts like this, and he was still only about 20 feet in the air.

The pilot hit the thrusters and sent the big bird climbing and banking, trying to evade the tank's shot, but it was too late. The T-100's 120mm main gun spat out a shell in an eruption of fire, tracing a line to the Osprey -

- and thundering by mere feet from the aircraft before it exploded against a nearby building. The soldiers below ducked as massive chunks of concrete debris rained from the crater. Matt reached the edge of the bay and launched himself into the air even as the MV-22 pulled up and away, his stomach trying to jump out of his chest and the wind trying to tear his rifle out of his grip. For a strange, oddly peaceful moment, Matt reached the peak of his jump and gravity had yet to take hold - he was floating, weightless.

Then gravity reasserted itself and he began falling. Fast.

At first Matt thought he was going to land safely on the roof of a parking garage five feet below him and walk away relatively undamaged, but as he continued his descent he realized it was just wishful thinking. Matt's initial momentum after jumping from the Osprey carried him out past the roof and over the street below. Looking down, Matt now gauged he was about to land on top of a bright, mustard yellow old-fashioned punch buggy parked on the curb.

Flailing in the air, Matt managed to flip over and land back-first, crashing through the roof of the car and breaking the axels as the bug absorbed the force of his landing.

Ears ringing and dizzy, Matt experimented with his various limbs to see if anything was damaged. Other than a thick, clouding disorientation and a general feeling of pain, he appeared to be alright. Matt saw that his armor had overloaded - he lay in a pool of bubbling gel.

The armor Matt was encased in was a prototype, the culmination of years of work by the very operators that wore it into battle. The original design was Matt's own creation, imagined in detail and modeled in clay but never produced. The MSF gave Matt and the other operators access to the resources necessary to take Matt's amateur concept and make it into a professional technological marvel.

The armor system, known as CROC to soldiers, incorporated the military's conventional Future Force Warrior program into a more protective full-body armored suit that looked like a mix of Halo and medieval Knights. The suit encased him head-to-toe in layers of bulletproof shell, power and computer circuitry, and life-support.

The outer layer, his shell, was comprised of bulletproof ceramic plates with a titanium core, for strength. Sandwiched between the ceramic and the core was the real genius behind the system - special gel bladders that held a reactive kinetic-absorbing gel. When something hit the shell - bullets, shrapnel, impacts - the kinetic energy that would normally shatter the ceramic plate was instead transferred to the gel, which absorbed the kinetic energy and converted it into thermal energy - heat. The more hits he took or the harder the hits were, the hotter the gel became, until the gel began to boil, at which point the armor ejected a third of the gel supply in order to vent the heat and prevent the occupant from being cooked alive.

Under the bulletproof shell, the middle layer housed the sophisticated electronics and power subsystems that allowed his Heads-Up Display (HUD), Combat Awareness and Information Network (CAIN), and a myriad of other tools to function. The armor's nano-processors and electronics suite contained the power of a supercomputer - it had to in order to run the armor. The CAIN received data from every input it was linked to, from strategic-level command and logistical centers all the way down to other infantry units and their helmet-mounted cameras, military databases to city maps. It then overlayed this combat data onto his helmet's faceplate, resulting in his Heads-Up Display. Friendly units had a blue diamond imposed above their heads, and enemy units could be lazed and highlighted in red. If one person lazed a target, everyone in the vicinity received the highlight. Additionally, Matt could pull up maps of his area instantly. CAIN allowed American soldiers unrivaled battlefield awareness, allowing them to identify and neutralize threats more efficiently than anyone else in the fight.

Finally, the life support layer was in direct contact with his skin, and was composed of a form-fitting black polymer inner suit with narrow tubing running throughout its length. Powered by the armor's hydrogen cell, one hundred watts of either heating or cooling could be pumped through the tubes to keep the occupant alive in harsh conditions. And to offset the fact that the armor weighed almost 60 pounds, an integrated exoskeleton provided 500 pounds of hydraulic assistance wherever Matt moved.

Matt started to slowly work himself out of the wreck until he saw the reflection of the tank in the cracked rear view mirror, turret swiveling to target the wreck.

Matt frantically pulled his magnum sidearm off his leg and took aim at the car door next to him. Three quick shots blew off the door lock and the two hinges, and then Matt kicked out with his legs and sent the door flying. He scrambled for the opening, trying to get out before-

The tank opened fire, and this time the shell was right on target. The high explosive ordnance buried itself in the shattered wreck and exploded, throwing up an enormous fireball that consumed everything in its reach. The car itself was torn to shreds by the incredible force of the blast, the mustard yellow paint liquefied in an instant and vaporized, warped shards of metal and infinitesimal pieces of glass scattered for hundreds of feet.

The T-100 paused with smoke still wafting about the barrel, a remnant of the seconds-old violence, uncertain if it had wiped out the intended target - the Immortal supersoldier that had been trapped in the wreck.

The question was answered a second later when two grenades arced out from behind a pile of rubble, the first popping open to eject a rapidly growing cloud of smoke that obscured vision and the second detonating with a magnesium-flare flash and bang that washed out the tank's thermal imaging sensors.

Vaulting out of cover, Matt ran straight at the tank clutching a chunk of concrete he had retrieved from the rubble that looked about the same size as the tank's muzzle. When he got near enough, Matt leaped into the air and jammed the concrete down the barrel of the tank, then rammed it down twice with the butt of his rifle to get it deeper. Without a pause, Matt jumped onto the body of the T-100 and pulled a small plastic block from his assault vest. After arming the chunk of C4, Matt stuck it onto the underside of the tank's turret, jumped away, and ran for the nearest piece of solid cover.

With the smoke cloud beginning to thin and clear as the chilled autumn wind scattered the dense haze, the T-100 operators caught a brief glimpse of Matt's figure as he sprinted away. The barrel swiveled around, tracked him for a moment, and then bucked as the tank sent a shell down the length of the tube. A heavy thunk shook the tank, but no explosion scooped Matt away in a fiery embrace - the shell had run up against the rubble and expended most of its kinetic energy clearing the blockage, then fallen a short distance in front of the tank without detonating. The 7.62mm machine gun opened up unexpectedly, but only two rounds managed to clip the back of Matt's shoulder pauldron before the smoke obscured him again.

The force of the rounds sent Matt sprawling to the asphalt, but he managed to roll and come up running. He slipped around the corner of a building, remembering to check at the last moment that the squad he was trying to save were still entrenched at the intersection a block down and safely out of the blast range, flipped back the protective cover on his gauntlet to expose the controls, and hit the big red button on the control panel.

The blast tore open the tank and gutted its interior, pasting fragments of what had once been humans against twisted armor. Matt felt a reflexive need to cough despite his helmet's air filters as a cloud of concrete dust washed over him, once again obscuring his view.

"Sierra Two-Five, armor destroyed." Matt panted into his mic.

"Roger, Echo One. We're still full up here, but Sierra Two-Six is still en route from their refuel run, six minutes out."

"CAIN says they've got several wounded, one critical. Think you can manage a Medevac?" Matt asked as he started running towards the intersection.

"Get things settled down a little and I'll swing in behind you to make the switch, yeah." The pilot responded.

Matt ensured his rifle was still in working order as he neared the firefight, searching out the friendly uniforms in the fray. "Roger. I'll get them prepped and ready." The squad was spread out all over the ravaged city street. At the corner of the intersection, highrise office buildings soared on either side, structures dotted with charred, acrid pockmarks, faces spotted with the dark panels of broken windows. A low-level section of a storefront had been blown out, choking the road with a sloping ramp of rubble that two American soldiers had buried themselves in up to their chests, using it as a makeshift cover. Behind the pile and tucked partway into the storefront, a medic was working with feverish intensity to staunch another soldier's bleeding leg wound. On the opposite side of the street, burned-out cars had been man-handled into protective positions to provide cover for several more soldiers.

Matt approached two soldiers crouched behind a wrecked Humvee in the middle of the street who were using the vehicle's kevlar-layered chassis for cover. The pair was working an old-school M240B light machine gun they had mounted to the hood of the car. As Matt watched, a Russian infantryman eased around the highrise to the left of the intersection and took aim with an under-barrel grenade launcher on his rifle.

Matt drew up alongside the two startled Americans, quickly sighted down his scope, and squeezed off two rounds that dropped the Russian before he could fire the explosive round into the vulnerable machine gunners.

"Jesus. Thanks for that, sir."

Matt patted the soldier on the back, then began directing the men on the ground. Using the CAIN, he selected each member of the squad's personal radios and broadcast to all of them, "Alright guys, listen up. We need to cross lanes of fire to take better control of this position - you two in the rubble on the right, switch and pick up targets on the left side of the intersection. Guys on the left, pick targets on the right. The MG at my position has good lanes to our front; the center can hold. An Osprey is inbound to remove your critical wounded and drop off some reinforcements. We're holding this line until a second Osprey arrives to load everyone up."

Matt punctuated his instructions by dropping another Russian soldier. As return fire picked up and bullets started pinging off the hood of the wreck, Matt grabbed both soldiers next to him and dragged them to the ground. Tapping the soldier on his left, Matt leaned over and shouted, "Is the fifty up?"

"I think so, yeah!" The soldier shouted back. "But it's too exposed - we'd get torn apart in there."

Matt slung his rifle and yanked open the door to the wrecked Humvee, crawled into the backseat, and stood up inside the turret of the Humvee's .50 cal minigun. Checking the ammo load remaining, Matt armed the gun and aimed for the biggest cluster of enemy fire. An errant bullet struck Matt's hip, easily deflected by his armor, and then Matt was holding the trigger against its stop, bullets streaming from the barrels at 4,000 rounds per minute. The rapid fire tore apart the torched, burned-out hulks of cars left abandoned on the street, repurposed for use as shelter from American bullets by the Russian soldiers. As these were rendered useless by the big machine gun, men scattered in every direction like roaches from a light, but most were cut down by either Matt or the two Americans on the M240 beside him.

Matt felt a slight sense of nausea rising, manifesting itself in the thin, hard line of his mouth visible to no one under his reflective visor, his armor, maintaining the image of mercilessness, ruthless efficiency, and cold power. Immortality. Worse than the nausea, though, Matt felt the familiar numbness setting in - the numbness of a man who realized he ought to be horrified by the carnage around him and yet felt nothing.

The numb spell was broken as Sierra Two-Five descended below the buildings, the rotor wash scattering small pieces of trash and debris. The Osprey hovered for a moment protectively over the intersection, fired a few rounds from its machine gun, and flared for a landing behind the American line with the bay doors facing the entrenched soldiers.

The bay doors slid open, and two men carrying a stretcher immediately hopped to the ground and headed straight for the injured soldier. A Navy SEAL medic and two more SEALs followed them, emergency medical kit at the ready. The rest of the soldiers inside the bay were all standing, awaiting Matt's orders. The crew chief of the MV-22 stepped to the lip of the bay and called down to Matt, "How many do you want, sir?"

Matt consulted his CAIN as he ducked into the Humvee, considering the men aboard the Osprey. "Give me Haverty's squad on the ground here, and Johnson's squad on the roof of that parking garage there on overwatch. And I want to see the SEAL team here after they've finished loading the wounded."

Four men immediately pushed to the front and dropped to the ground, locking and loading their weapons, and spread out among the debris with their comrades, while four more took places at the front of the pack, ready to drop down to the roof of the parking garage. It was amazing to Matt that these soldiers would be so eager to drop from the relative safety of the Osprey to join the fight, principally because of him. The SEALs loaded up the critically injured soldier and then turned to find Matt's position, glancing at the Osprey departing and then continuing about their work without a second glance.

Matt looked out of the Humvee's cracked bullet proof windows to check on the status of the Russian infantry, and after having determined his men could handle it for the moment, Matt climbed out of the Humvee and stood up to meet the SEAL team.

Two of them moved directly into cover and began selecting targets while the team leader approached Matt in a confident strut, tall and proud despite the chaos around them. When they were close enough, the team leader - Mark Murphy - extended his arm for a handshake.

"It's good to see you, sir." Murphy's grip was strong, his voice quiet but defiant and measured. Matt nodded in thanks, and although he couldn't see Murphy's eyes behind the reflective black visor he wore, Matt knew exactly what had to be going through the SEAL's head.

"Listen. I'm sorry about Danny." SEAL fireteams operated in groups of four ordinarily, and Murphy's was one short - Matt saw their fourth member was KIA. He also noticed the two SEALs behind him freeze and listen in on what he was saying. Murphy tensed and set his jaw.

"I know how it is. You're pissed off and missing a part of you that those fuckers over there took, and you want to tear the city apart because of it. And we need that. But right now I need you to take control of these guys and wait for evac, and to do that I need you to be in control, alright?"

"Roger, sir." Murphy didn't relax, instead slamming a fresh mag into his rifle. Matt realized he couldn't relate to this guy, man-to-man, through the filter of his inhuman helmet. His words spoken through the helmet's external speakers were specifically amplified and metallically distorted to heighten the image of an unstoppable warrior. With that in mind, Matt reached up and popped the pneumatic seals on his helmet and pulled it off.

Matt registered the looks of surprise on the faces around him as everyone met the man beneath the armor for the first time.

"Sierra two-five, we're taking heavy fire! Pinned down in a courtyard! Where the hell are you!"

An explosion rocked the V-22 Osprey as it swept past the buildings, flying below the roof-tops, so close to the skyscrapers that Captain Matt Kenderson felt as if he could reach out and brush his hand against one.

"Roger, ground teams, this is Sierra," Came the response from the cockpit, given in the mandatory pilot's-dead-pan voice, devoid of stress or panic. "We are taking moderate AA fire but are en route to your location. Sit tight."

In the troop bay, Matt slapped a mag filled with 30 rounds of kill into his M8 carbine and clipped it to the elastic cable, letting it dangle from his shoulder. "Alright, Immortal. Get ready to take it to 'em." Someone said, slapping Matt on the back.

"Roger, Echo, you're up. Give 'em a piece of the 3rd." The pilot said, and brought the Vertical-Take-Off-and-Landing (VTOL) aircraft whipping around the corner of one building, revealing a frantic firefight. The American squads were entrenched in the center of a large courtyard, taking fire from all sides.

"Sierra, they have a tank! Evade!"

Matt gasped as the bay doors sprang open, exposing him to the high winds. From one corner of the courtyard spat a 120mm High-explosive tank shell.

The shell flew past the Osprey's windshield, and the slipstream buffeted the craft. "Pilot, wave off!" Matt ordered.

"Aye, Captain."

The American forces were heavily outnumbered, and the Russians were pressing. They wouldn't survive unless someone bailed them out. But the Osprey couldn't set down under the threat of a tank. That last shot had been too close.

So Matt took the only option available - he leaped from the craft, still fifty feet in the air. Grasping the rappel line with one hand, Matt free-fell most of the way to the ground before he tightened his grip. Beneath his thermal-insulated armored gauntlets, Matt's hand grew warm from friction as he slowed himself partway, then let go and landed on the concrete, cracking it.

Matt winced as pain shot up his legs but made himself roll over, get up, and run for cover.

Bullets whizzed and pinged off hard surfaces. Matt felt two rounds shatter against his ceramic-titanium full-body combat armor but didn't slow. Working up into a long, loping sprint, Matt flew past stray Russian infantry, taking potshots from the hip as he sped by at 20 miles an hour, powered by his own two feet and enhanced by an armor-integrated exoskeleton.

Matt Kenderson was not part of an ordinary squad. He, like all of the 3rd Marine Shock Forces, had been biologically enhanced upon induction and outfitted with the latest equipment and weaponry. The Marine Shock Forces were the elite of the American Military.

A Russian soldier stepped into Matt's path, rifle raised. To Matt's heightened and enhanced reflexes, it seemed as though the man moved too slowly - far too slowly for someone in a combat situation. It was easy for Matt to cross the remaining distance, and, in the span of four seconds, disarm, injure, and then kill the single soldier. The guy never had a chance - even as his finger tightened on the trigger, Matt appeared beside him, knocked the rifle to the side, threw a left-handed punch that broke every rib on the Russian's right side, break the man's knee with a well-placed kick, break the collarbone with an overhead chop from an armored fist, and then drive a fist under the Russian's chin hard enough to cave the trachea.

Gargling sickly, the man fell aside.

Another tank shell sent Matt sprinting again for the fountain. Dodging obstacles, he closed the remaining distance and dove into the fountain bed.

"Who's in charge here?" Matt asked, panting.

"I am!" A soldier yelled, voice tight with relief. Matt's HUD quickly identified the man as a Staff Sergeant named John York. "Man, are we glad to see you, sir."

His line was punctuated by a tank shell blowing a divot out of the concrete five yards away from their cover.

"That tank's aim is getting better." York spat. "Orders, sir?"

"I'm gonna walk you guys out. When I give the word, spread out and find cover. Once you guys are clear, fall back into the buildings and harass their infantry. I'll take care of the tank."

"Sounds like a plan."

"On my mark- Three, two one - go!" Matt yelled, then stood fully upright and began shooting.

York and his five remaining men piled out of the fountain and scattered. As he ran, York heard Matt's weapon pound seemingly without stopping - an uninterrupted chorus of booms that rang the death of any Russian forces caught in its way. Matt was firing until each clip was completely dry, a second mag held in his left hand before the first even ran out, the empty one disengaged the instant it stopped firing, the fresh loaded with a virtually indeterminable pause.

The Russian soldiers were momentarily stalled by the full-auto barrage, but after several seconds of sustained fire the Russian T-100 Main Battle Tank (MBT) locked Matt in its sights.

Matt ducked his head and dove in the opposite direction as the thick barrel of the main gun thundered and spat a 120mm High Explosive shell flying through the air, carving out a new crater and splintering the concrete around the impact.

Coughing, half-buried by concrete and steel debris, Matt shoved the large chunks off and stood, retrieving his rifle from where it had been blown to. Matt looked back at the spot where he had been buried - it was surrounded by a pool of bubbling gel. His armor had overloaded and dumped some of its gel as it grew too hot from overpowering shrapnel hits.

Matt's armor system was nothing short of genius. Matt had helped design it himself - came up with the original idea, in fact. It incorporated the military's standard Future Force Warrior program into a more protective armored suit reminiscent of both Halo and medieval Knights. The suit encased him head-to-toe in layers of bulletproof shell, power and computer circuitry, and life-support.

The outer layer, his shell, was comprised of bulletproof ceramic plates with thinner titanium plates inside, for strength. Sandwiched between the ceramic was the real genius behind the system - SmartGel bladders that held a special reactive kinetic-absorbing gel. Simply put, a bullet hit the ceramic shell, the kinetic energy that would usually shatter the plate was instead transferred to the gel, which absorbed the kinetic energy and converted it into thermal energy. The more hits you took, the hotter the gel became, until it rose to boiling, at which point the armor auto-dumped a third of the gel from the bladders in order to prevent the occupant from being cooked alive.

The middle layer housed the sophisticated electronics and power subsystems that allowed his Heads-Up Display (HUD), Global Unit Status Subsystem (GUSS), and a myriad of other tools to function. The GUSS was another of his inventions, borrowed from Tom Clancy - it was basically a modified version of Ghost Recon's CrossCom. The GUSS marked targets on his visor plate in red diamonds, friendly units in blue, and listed available support on the left side of his faceplate, in addition to linking up with his weapon to display a cross-hairs and ammo indicator on the right side of his display. Kind of like playing a video game.

And finally, the life support layer was basically a black polymer inner suit with narrow tubing running throughout. The tubing, powered by the armor, could provide one hundred watts of heating or cooling directly to the user's skin. And to offset the fact that the armor weighed about seventy pounds, the latest in exoskeletal technology was employed right beneath the ceramic plates. Wherever Matt moved, five hundred pounds of hydraulic-powered assistance moved with him. In the armor, Matt could lift cars.

Rising from the pulverized fountain, Matt reloaded, checked his rifle to make sure it still worked, and set forward again. Matt worked to close the distance between troop clusters before they had time to open fire on him - it was easier for Matt to use his enhanced strength, speed, and training to take the Russians out in close-quarters fights then chewing through ammo from afar. Once the clip in his rifle ran dry, Matt simply let it dangle and activated his armor's integrated close-quarters weaponry - a curved bayonet on each arm that slid out of their slots in his gauntlets and extended to feed a grip to his hands.

Letting his armor take care of the stray rounds the Russians pinged off his armor, Matt tore through squads and single infantry, buying York's men the time they needed to get to cover. Once they were clear, Matt popped a flash-bang grenade and disengaged, disappearing into the rubble-strewn battlefield.

Russians swarmed the courtyard, searching in teams of three or four.

Matt held his breath, stretched out in a shallow fissure in the ground, one hand flung wide as if he were dead, the other tightly gripping his rifle. An S&D team swung around a corner, looking for him. The three-man squad came closer and closer, not seeing his olive-drab camouflaged armor amidst the similarly-colored debris.

The first soldier finally noticed his body and halted, rifle aimed at the fallen figure. He approached and was about to kick the body he thought was dead when Matt surged upward, jammed the muzzle of his rifle into the Russian's stomach, and let off a burst of rounds.

The other two soldiers whirled, spraying rounds full-auto in panic. But Matt had taken cover, using the dead Russian's body as a shield. Bullets tore into his human shield but slowed enough for his armor to take the hits in stride. With his free arm, Matt leveled his carbine and dropped the two Russians.

Matt rolled behind a statue as a fireteam across the road opened up with their AK-74s. It was amazing - Modern Russian military, still using a slightly modified version of technology from just after World War II.

Matt, in response, raised his M8 carbine and opened fire in controlled bursts. The 6.8mm ammunition tore through the soldiers' light body armor and into the flesh beneath, quickly putting them down.

Originally developed as the XM8 by Heckler and Koch, it had been rejected by the US Army in 2005 because of pressure from Colt, back when Colt was still the principal company used by the military. But in 2012, H&K had been bought by the American government. Colt's M16 had won out in 2005 because it was an American-based company. The XM8 was the better weapon, but German made. With that barrier removed, support for the M16A5 as the next-generation in infantry rifles wavered, and eventually crumbled. The M8 took up service in the hands of special forces and elite teams, such as the MSF. Matt had gotten his personal rifle re-chambered in 6.8mm instead of the standard 5.56mm for a bigger punch without sacrificing too much bullet velocity.

More rounds tore at Matt's cover, so he pulled the pin on a frag and leaned out just far enough to toss it into the heart of the enemy fire. Two soldiers were immediately blown to bits, and another three wounded. Matt leaned back out with his carbine and strafed the Russian soldiers that had been advancing on him. Men fell, bleeding, but two more squads swung around a corner and opened fire.

Matt ducked back, reloaded, switched to full-auto, and leaned around the opposite corner, switching from righty to lefty, peaked out, and opened fire.

Four more soldiers fell before a grenade tumbled to a stop by Matt's foot.

In an instant, Matt kicked the grenade away and dove back the other way, putting as much concrete and steel between him and the explosive as possible. The grenade sailed away for two yards and then exploded, riddling the courtyard with shrapnel and causing several Russians to cry out in fresh agony.

Keeping low, Matt used the Russians' confusion to skirt the edge of their lines and come up behind a squad. With a 40mm shell fired from his rifle-mounted XM320 grenade launcher and twelve rounds of 6.8mm ammunition, Matt put the five men into the dirt and ducked away before the next team could spot him.

Working his way around the Russian lines, Matt eventually got an open line-of-sight to the tank. Dropping prone so the operators wouldn't see him, Matt worked his gauntlet controls and targeted the tank with his integrated shoulder-launched missile system. The program beeped and informed him it was locked on, and Matt hit the triggers on his small hand-held controller. A miniature missile spat from one of the three holes and landed on the roof of the tank, delayed for half a second, and then exploded, gutting the tank and incinerating everything nearby. A dozen red lights winked off on Matt's display.

"Sierra Two-Five, this is Echo One-One. Hostile AA is destroyed, repeat, hostile AA is destroyed. We're clear for strafing runs and evac, over."

"Roger Echo One-One. Advise you seek cover - we're coming in hot and fast."

Matt ran back to the fountain and pressed his back against the concrete as Sierra Two-Five came barreling around a building and opened up with her nouse-mounted 12.7mm (.50 cal) chain gun, spewing hot led at 4,000 rounds per minute. The semi-explosive bullets tore out metal, cement, and flesh alike.

In the next second, her wingman, Sierra Two-Six, appeared and opened fire with her 40mm side-mounted repeating cannon. Same things that were mounted on the big AC-130 gunships. White puffs and flame marked the unlucky Russians futilely hiding from the two Ospreys. Concrete splinters flew everywhere, and the American troops choked on the dust despite the camouflage cloths covering their mouths and noses. A building at the periphery of the courtyard crumbled, and slowly collapsed as the heavy gunfire and explosions tore out a load-bearing wall. It sank majestically into the ground, sending plumes of smoke and flames shooting out its floors.

A ragged cheer came up from the American forces as one of the V-22's came in for a landing, the other circling high above and distributing its fire on anything that moved. "Get to the choppa!" Someone yelled, setting off a chorus of laughs.

The celebratory mood was cut short by an alarm from the cockpits of the V-22's.

"What now?" Matt groaned.

"Proximity alarm." The pilot grunted. "Looks like we've got incoming. Heat signature... uh, MiG-35."

"Team, scatter and find cover." Matt ordered. Men bailed from the Ospreys before they had fully touched down, sprinting away before the Mig arrived and took out what had to be the biggest IR signatures in the area - the two Ospreys.

"Sierra, recommend you abort evac run and crawl under a rock somewhere."

"Roger, Echo one-one." The Ospreys increased thrust and began moving apart, but everyone in the courtyard knew at least one of the transports was done for. MiG-35's were Russia's newest multi-role fighter/bomber. Basically, the Russian equivalent of an F-35 Joint Strike Fighter. Fast, mean, and deadly.

"Sierra Two-Six! AS-14 Kedge missile coming right at you!"

Matt dove into a hole just as the chilling shadow of the MiG buzzed across the courtyard, followed by a huge explosion that tore Sierra Two-Six and the surrounding 100 feet to pieces. Kedge missiles were anti-material explosives, designed to take out buildings - the pilot had obviously been hoping to nail both birds with one stone. Sierra Two-Six stood no chance.

Matt looked skyward in time to see the giant half-ton pieces of concrete that buried him a second later.

Up in the remaining V-22, the pilot cursed. "Command, we've got a MiG-35 breathing down our necks, we could use a little air support! It's cut off our ground teams from extraction and has taken out Sierra Two-S-"

"Roger, Sierra, units are en-route, but no guarantees." A radio operator cut them off.

"Roger, command. Be advised if its not here in the next three minutes, Sierra and about 25 infantry including one Immortal are toast." The pilot dropped below the level of the buildings, trying to evade a radar lock.

"Sierra, we understand but cannot just make things happen. Hold on, and try to evade." The radio operator came back, annoyed.

"Sierra out." The pilot growled, looking into the courtyard. The aircraft dropped to twenty feet above the pavement, buzzing over the spot where Matt was buried.

"Echo one-one, this is Sierra Two-Five, come in." No response. "Frost, respond!"

A section of the rubble shifted, exposing an armored hand. The hand groped around and shoved off a large concrete shard, revealing an arm and shoulder, which quickly proceeded to dig itself out of the rubble. York's soldiers crowded around, pulling loose chunks off while Matt did the heavy lifting with his enhanced strength.

"Alright guys, back up a little." Matt broadcast out of his helmet's PA speakers. His voice sounded metallic, powerful, blasting out of hidden panels in the helmet. By design - the speakers were built to heighten the image of an unstoppable, powerful warrior. As the men backed up, Matt shoved off the last bit of rubble with one powerful heave.

"Flipping Russian Chair Force." Matt muttered, surveying the destruction. "Tell me somebody has a Javelin?"

Matt looked around at the assembled soldiers. "Would've used it on the tank if we did." York finally answered.

Matt muttered a curse, jumping on the V-22 and rooting around in its cargo hold.

"What are we looking for, Captain?" The pilot asked.

"Mike Two-Five."

"There's one by the bulkhead."

Matt grabbed the M25 - 25mm grenade launcher system and secured it to the magnetic clamps across his back. "This'll only be the third time I've taken on a jet with a grenade launcher."

"How'd it go the first two times?" A soldier asked.

Matt grimaced. "Mixed results."

"That doesn't sound encouraging."

"We don't have a lot of options." Matt replied.

The proximity alarm flashed again from the cockpit. "You guys better hurry with whatever plan you have. Mig's coming back for another pass." The pilot advised. "Need a lift to a roof?"

"I'd ask, but that would paint you for the next strike. I'll get up myself."

"Um... okay, how? Short of climbing the stairs on a twelve-story building."

Instead of answering, Matt got a running start straight for the wall of one of the buildings that surrounded them. When he got to fifteen feet away, he triggered the jet thrusters integrated into his back armor. The jets were designed to mitigate gravity for a short time, allowing the user to jump twenty feet into the air. Matt now used it to help him climb up the side of the building, every jet-assisted pull carrying him up several feet.

The assembled Americans watched Matt shoot up the side of the building. "If we make it out of here, I'm buying myself one of those." Someone put out.

Matt got to the roof just as the MiG passed over, launching two more anti-material missiles into the courtyard in addition to a hundred rounds of machine gun ammunition.

Matt hit the deck as the jet fighter buzzed over.

"Sierra Two-Five, you still with me?" Matt asked over the comm.

"Roger Echo One-One. Still good, as are the guys. That last pass didn't do much damage - I think he was aiming for our old positions."

"Alright. His third pass is gonna be the last."

"Doesn't this guy have bigger fish to fry? He's got the entire city to shoot at, why us?" York broke in.

"Just the periphery. Inner sections are locked down tight with F-22 patrols and SAM sites on the roofs. My guess is we're the biggest, easiest targets around for a while. Rest of the outskirts is just infantry." The pilot explained.

Matt tucked the M25 into his shoulder and aimed it towards the MiG's probable entry vector, looking through the IR scope.

The M25 was a stand-alone air-burst 25mm grenade launcher derived from the failed XM29 OICW project, while the XM8 was the carbine designed from the project. The M25 in Matt's hands was loaded with frag grenades, perfect for the unconventional anti-aircraft role he was putting it in.

Matt went prone, pressing himself into the roof in an attempt to stay hidden. His olive-drab MultiCam-Urban patterned armor combined with the CROC's ability to mask his heat and IR signatures would keep him out of sight until it was too late for the MiG.

"Heads up. You've got incoming - 10 o clock High."

Matt adjusted his aim and sighted through the enhanced-zoom scope. The ghostly image of the MiG, a solid white against a dark gray background, gleamed in his display, quickly growing bigger. Matt waited until the MiG was at the edge of his effective range and opened fire, pulling the trigger as fast as the mechanism would allow. The semi-automatic grenade launcher bucked in his arms, but he kept as straight as he could.

The majority of his rounds barely touched the Mig, keeping in mind he was trying to take out heavy air support with a standard-issue anti-infantry weapon. The '35 was about to launch another missile when Matt's last two grenades detonated close enough to shred the cockpit canopy and injure the pilot.

The jet exploded into pieces and began its fall into the city below, trailing flames. There was no chute.

The American forces on the ground cheered and raised their rifles.

"Sierra, looks like we're clear for now." Matt broadcast over a command frequency. Then switching to a private channel, he added, "Sorry about Two-Six."

"Killed-In-Action, sir. Best any of us could wish for. He died well, trying to get our guys back."

"I understand. Let's round our guys up and meet up with the primary evac force. The 3rd's not done yet."

"Yes sir. I'm getting orders to do a flyby of a crash site and drop you off. Same drill."

The pilot pulled in for a landing on the roof after the rest of the soldiers had crammed in. Matt found space on the over-crowded dropship and grabbed a hand-hold.

"Thanks for getting us out, sir." York shouted across the troop bay.

"Let's get you guys home before you thank me. We're not out yet."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, with only the beat of the rotors. Matt, leaning out the back ramp, surveyed the city as the soldiers slumped in their seats, exhausted from days of fighting for every hour of sleep, every bitter second spent driving the Russians out of New York City, breaking through the lines in some areas, falling back in others.

It wasn't a pretty sight. The entire city seemed to be on fire. On the outskirts of the city, the area they were now flying over, small firefights and larger platoon-strength engagements broke out all over streets. The V-22 gunners helped out where they could, making triple sure to only fire at targets being painted out by IR lasers and avoid friendly fire. Small arms, like Matt's carbine, would lock their triggers when the onboard computer detected it was pointing at a friendly via the Indication-Friend-or-Foe (IFF) tags. But the procedure didn't work for larger, vehicle-mounted guns, at this range, so the gunners had to operate with old-fashioned target designation.

It was tempting to stop and help out at all the battles, but they had to go where they were needed the most. Within another minute, they were hovering 200 feet above another V-22 laying on its side, buried partway into rubble.

Matt saw small-arms fire strobe from the cockpit, followed by the louder and deeper roar of the door gun. Apparently someone was still alive to operate the big gun and return fire.

RPG's streaked up toward Matt's bird, and the hull was riddled with bullets. Most pinged off the heavy armor without doing serious damage, but enough bullets broke through to sever hydraulic lines, damage electronics, and generally piss the pilot off. He sent the large aircraft towards the ground and buzzed over the largest squad of hostiles, tilting to one side to give the door gunners maximum effectiveness. Meanwhile, his copilot lit up light armor and troop clusters with the heavy nose-mounted minigun.

Matt hung on to a handle in the troop bay and fired the M25 out the open ramp with one hand as the pilot banked sharply, flaring the craft five feet off the ground.

Matt tossed the M25 into the belly of the bird and drew his M8, dropping to the surface. "Sierra, take the guys back to base. We'll find a new ride out."

"Have a good one, Captain."

Matt hurdled a piece of flaming debris and came face-to-face with three soldiers. He dropped them all left-to-right with tight, accurate bursts into vital areas from his M8, heedless of the stray few rounds they managed to ping off his armor before they fell without a sound.

Reloading as he ran, Matt sprinted for the cover of the downed V-22 and pressed his back against the hull, picking targets.

Matt pounded an armored fist against the bird and shouted a challenge, "Raptor!"

"Eagle, Eagle!" came the response. Then one of the bay doors slid open manually to reveal a battle-scarred American. The soldier visibly sagged with relief as he saw Matt. "Thank God." He looked over his shoulder and shouted, "Command sent an Immortal!"

Just then a Russian Kord .50 cal crew-served Machine Gun opened up on the downed V-22, kicking up splashes of mud and chunks of asphalt.

"Get in here!" The soldier shouted, and disappeared inside the bird. Matt let off the last rounds in his clip as he backed through the door, a stray .50 cal round hitting his shoulder plate with a dull thunk. Once he was through, Jamie slammed the door shut. The pounding blast of the Kord dropped to a dull roar through the metal.

Matt turned to find himself staring back at a bruised and battered collection of Americans. "How about a sit-rep?" He said after a moment.

"That MG has us pinned inside, sir. Johnson and Haverty got cut down before we made it more than twenty feet. After that, we've kept our heads down."

Matt nodded. "We've got another bird waiting for you guys. I'll take out the gun, then run you guys up and onto the roof of the tall building, North-East corner of the crash site. From there we get you guys evaced back to base. Oorah?"

'Oorah!" Came the resounding response. These guys were fighting on home turf, and none of Ivan's pigs were ever going to take it away from them.

Matt slid open the bay door again and vaulted from the Osprey. As he darted away, the MG kicked up again, painting the area he had just been standing in with bright red tracer bullets.

Matt paused for breath inside a crater, trying to orient himself. The Kord was on top of a four-story parking garage directly in front of him. The crash site was behind him, and their evac building further back and to his left. He would storm up to the roof of the garage, kill the MG operators, destroy the Kord, and then run back down to help the regs get evaced. Sounded good.

Waiting for a lull in the fire, Matt leaped over the rim of the crater and sprinted all-out for the parking garage entrance. Two soldiers stopped to bar his way. They might as well have stepped in front of a freight train.

Matt twisted around the outstretched barrel of the first soldier's rifle, grabbed the gun in both hands, and overpowered the Russian through sheer strength, slamming the rifle into his face and cracking the Russian's face and spine. Without stopping, he pulled a 'Sabertooth' knife from its holster and sunk it back-handed up to the hilt in the second Russian's neck. Even though he had bayonets attached to his forearms, sometimes there was nothing like the feel of a 7 inches of razor-sharp steel in his hand.

Matt wiped his blade clean against the dead Russian's combat fatigues and sheathed the blade, grabbing his carbine from where it dangled at his side, attached by the elastic cord. He put a new clip into the rifle and stormed up the stairs, firing quick, controlled bursts at anything that stepped into his way.

Matt burst out onto the roof and fired the last round in his clip at the MG operator. The single round tore through the soldier's skull, silencing the gun. The Kord's loader, who had been laying prone next to the gun with a pair of field binoculars pressed into his eyes, glanced up to see why the heavy MG had stopped firing - he hadn't heard the M8's shots. Matt figured he would be stone deaf having the .50 cal pound constantly in his ears, laying with his head next to the muzzle. Not very bright.

The loader had just figured out something was wrong when a burst of rounds made him dance and flop back to the ground - Matt had by now reloaded. He ran to the lip of the building and manned the gun, turning the Russian hardware on its soldiers. A squad of guys that had been pressing the downed Osprey were left exposed in the middle of the courtyard, and were quickly torn apart. The Russians seemed to simply disintegrate under the heavy rounds.

When the last round in the ammo belt fed through, Matt lifted the 55 pound machine gun and put his foot in the middle of the stock, then hauled. He dropped the bent and unusable gun to the ground, where it clattered onto the concrete.

"Gun's down. Sit tight, guys." Matt told the Marines in the bird.

Matt took the quick route to the ground - which of course meant jumping off the roof. As he landed, Matt rolled to one side to disperse the energy from the fall and came right back up, climbed out of the shallow crater he had made, and sprinted for the bird.

He rapped the door twice, then crouched by the destroyed cockpit and spat bursts of covering fire at whatever targets he saw as the Marines clambered out of the wreck, lifting down their two critically injured on stretchers. Another Marine took a stray round in the knee and collapsed, but he didn't scream or even pause. Instead he dragged himself forward on his good foot towards the evac building.

Matt put a fresh clip in his rifle and let it drop to his side, then ran over and hoisted the injured Marine to his shoulder. "Let's go!" He screamed, rallying the stalled Americans and taking the lead. Matt set the Marine down outside the door to the building - some kind of office complex, by the look of it - and waited for the rest of the Marines to catch up.

The squad made it to the door without any fresh wounds and stacked up on either side, waiting for the order to breach. Matt secured his carbine across his back and drew two Jackhammer .50 cal Magnums. The handguns were extremely effective Close-Quarters-Battle (CQB) weapons, built with a 'one-shot, one-kill' policy in mind. The 12.7mm semi-explosive slugs fired at nearly the velocity of a rifle round, perfect for tearing through body armor and flesh.

Breaching with a pistol was not uncommon, either. Delta Force operators - the top-secret, anti-terror unit - actually preferred breaching with one or two .45 Colt M1911's because of the pistol's high caliber. The operators were trained to put two rounds into a vital area before the target was considered dead. Massive overkill, but it ensured none of the bad guys would get up and start walking around anytime soon. Humans could be extremely hard to kill sometimes.

Matt approached the metal doorway, crossed his arms over his chest as he'd been taught, planted one foot in the ground, raising his left leg to chest height and driving forward, putting the combined force of his weight, leg strength, and exoskeletal power into the slab of steel. The metal twisted, bent, and gave instantly, the door itself buckling and flying inward as if shot out of a cannon. Matt switched to auto-pilot, his arms uncrossing, muzzles pointed into the building, eyes scanning for threats. Two Russians stepped into his sight-line - they had stacked up on the other side of the door, waiting for him.

The two soldiers leveled their AK-74's at Matt - or would have, if they had had any time. Matt's heightened reflexes sent him shooting forward, jamming each barrel into a soldier's face, hands pumping the triggers. Both men dropped missing chunks of skull and brain matter.

Matt swept into the dark interior, his helmet visor compensating and activating a low-light vision filter and turned towards the 'heavy,' or bigger side of the room, automatically moving toward the far corner. The Marines followed as if glued to his back, taking the other angles of fire. One burst of gunfire, followed by a Russian hitting the ground, and then it was quiet. No more targets.

"Yeah! Kick-ass!" A Marine laughed. The wounded Marines were brought in on the stretchers.

"Don't get too comfy," Matt warned. "We've got to get all the way to the top floor."

Matt lead the way to a lobby with six elevators and a staircase.

"Elevator or stairs, Captain?" A Marine Staff Sergeant asked.

"Please say elevator." Someone murmured at the back of the group. "I like elevators."

Matt cast a regretful glance at the stretcher-bound Marines but said, "I like not falling ten stories to my death inside an elevator shaft because some bright spark Russian gets the idea to cut the elevator cables."

"Point taken. We can do stairs. Jack needs the exercise, anyway."

"Hey!" Someone else, presumably Jack, protested.

Matt kicked open the door and swept the stairwell for targets.

"Alright guys. I'll take point, stretchers in the middle. I need four guys on a rear guard in case the Russians come out behind us. Keep a 2 meter spread between you and the next guy. We're gonna try to keep it low-profile until we're spotted for sure - then go loud. Really loud. We're gonna need to get up fast because I don't want to carry anybody who loses a leg to a grenade. Oorah?"

"Oorah!" The Marines whispered back.

Matt glanced at the wounded Marines. "Let's do this and get the hell out of here. Sooner we make it to the top, sooner we get evaced."

He took the lead, taking the steps two at a time to the next floor and sweeping the stairwell above with his carbine. The Marines followed a short distance behind as Matt ascended, the men hauling the stretchers already winded but keeping pace.

Matt thought they were home-free to the top until two Russian soldiers, for whatever reason, casually walked through the door to the 18th floor. Two steps below, Matt leaped for the first one, knife in hand, and tackled the soldier to the ground. A quick jab to the throat was sufficient to silently neutralize his first target. The second soldier reacted slowly, backpedaling through the door. Matt whipped around and took out the soldier's leg with a swipe from his fist and followed through by jamming the blade through the Russian's body armor and sternum. Coughing blood, the man slowly relaxed onto his back and lay still. Matt exhaled, fairly confident no one had heard the scuffle.

That was before his ears registered the soft plink of metal on metal, and his eyes confirmed what his ears already knew from experience - a grenade, minus the pin, rolling to a stop.

Matt jumped back the other way and tackled two of his Marines that had come running to help, driving all three of them through the doorway and out of the blast radius - hopefully.

The grenade that had been the Russian soldier's last act in life hesitated for a beat, then exploded, turning the industrial hallway into a firestorm of burning debris and glowing shrapnel.

Matt pulled himself off of the Marines, his armor smoking and glowing pockmarks scattered over the back.

Matt surveyed the hole in the floor, his ears ringing despite his helmet's sonic protection.

"I think we can safely say hail and farewell to any chance of stealth." A Marine muttered.

"Double-time!" Matt shouted, his voice sounding weirdly distant. The Marines scrambled up the stairs, Matt slapping each on the back as they passed him, saying, "Move, go, go!"

Three more Russians burst out of a door on the 19th floor. All three were immediately cut down, the Marines firing nearly point-blank on full-auto, shooting from the hip as they ran.

As the Marines stormed up the stairs, Matt followed behind, dealing with the oncoming flood of Russian infantry.

Fire, fire, fire, click, drop magazine, fresh ready, slot in, rack round in chamber, clack, pull trigger. Matt settled into a comfortable pattern, all the while backing up the stairs, focusing his fire on immediate threats, dishing out plenty of bullets but receiving twice as many, the internal gel temperature cranking up with every impact. After a moment of sustained fire from all sides, Matt's overtaxed armor ejected a third of the boiling gel out of the armor's ports, allowing the heat sinks time to catch up. But the Russians offered him no time, and there was no cover in the stairwell. Another three seconds, this time Matt feeling the bullets burrow into the ceramic of his armor, then another third of gel out the sides. Matt dropped another magazine, loaded, and resumed firing. Men fell, some dancing to the bullets' sick tune, others dropping straight down. The clip ran dry, Matt dropped it and reached for another-

-only to find his webbing gear dry, too. Without another second's pause he pulled both Magnums and squeezed the triggers as fast as the mechanism would allow, each slug burying into a man's head or chest with a wet sucking sound or dull thump. The narrow stairwell was quickly filled with the acrid stink of gunpowder and the coppery, metallic scent of blood. Matt glanced at his HUD. His armor status system registered zero gel in any of his front plates. The ceramic and titanium itself was now beginning to crack and dent, and in some places shatter altogether.

Both Magnums clicked to empty - but the Marines were at the top. Matt dropped the pistols - no time to holster them - grasped the rail of the staircase, and jumped upward with one powerful strain of his muscles. A half-second suspended in the air, then his chest slammed into the base of the top stair, his arms shooting forward to find a handhold. Armored hands reached down and hauled all three-hundred fifty pounds of man, armor, and weaponry up over the ledge and propelled him through the door and out onto the roof.

Matt sprinted drunkenly to the waiting V-22, dove in, and helped pull the final few Marines into the bird. As the last man climbed aboard and the Osprey started to climb, the Russians poured out onto the roof. They peppered the side of the V-22 as it took off, bullets deflecting off the armor but destroying the V-22 bay door controls and cracking right through the open drop bay, cutting into any exposed flesh until a Marine slammed the door shut manually.

Matt and the others spent a few seconds in silence, chests heaving for breath, before the moaning of injured soldiers began in earnest.

Matt didn't want to see what damage had been done, but he knew it was bad from the fact that he was now laying in a rapidly spreading communal pool of blood.

"Medic!" Matt called forward to the cockpit, and only stayed conscious long enough to see two men rush out into the drop bay before darkness claimed him.

Matt was in a dark jungle. Giant trees shot out of the ground, soaring to over a hundred feet and blotting out the sun. Undergrowth clung to him as he ran, beating against the armor on his chest, tearing at his ankles, trying to slow him down. His chest burned, his arms were sore and tired from carrying his rifle, and his worn feet pulsed with every beat of his heart. But he couldn't stop.

Because something was chasing him.

He tore through a huge shrub that blocked his bath, hacking at it with the bayonet on his gun. He vaulted a boulder that was in his way, one hand out to the side holding his rifle, maintaining balance.

Matt broke through another clump of undergrowth straight into a shallow creek, the water cool and perfectly clear. He stumbled to his knees as the wet mud sucked at his feet, clouds of mud kicking up where he landed. He paused, panting for breath, and took off his helmet. He scooped handfuls of water to his face, rubbed the chilled water over his head.

A terrible growl filled the jungle behind him. Matt's head snapped up, eyes tracking the vague rustling in the trees illuminated by the moonlight. A vague shape was revealed for only a second before it faded back into the jungle.

He was being hunted.

It was terrifying, stuck, lost, in an alien jungle, with these creatures right behind him every step of the way, chasing him for days on end. He was tired, so tired, completely burned out - he almost wouldn't care if they came for him now just as long as the end was quick.

No. A small part of him still retained a stubborn, unflagging need to survive. And if there was one thing Matt knew right now, he was stubborn. He would not fade so quickly.

Matt's combat instincts kicked in. He dropped his helmet to the ground and raised his rifle - only to discover it wasn't there. Matt reflexively patted his right hip and under his left shoulder, searching for his sidearms. His hands hit soft flesh - his armor was gone. And now the thing was in with him.

It lunged at him with unbelievable agility and speed, one second hidden by the jungle, the next almost on top of him.

Matt reacted blindly, leaping out of the way, already running for the nearest tree before he had stopped tumbling, instinctively moving for higher ground.

The thing raced to cut him off. Matt caught a flash of dark green, reptilian skin out of the corner of his eye before it had him pinned to the ground. Matt gasped as its claws scissored into his flesh, tearing his muscles. It screamed at him, an alien howl, and raised its claws to tear at him again.

But Matt was strong. He wouldn't fall so easily - he bucked his hips and smacked the creature in its snout with his arm. He flailed with his feet, and after a second he got a boot planted and thrust, straining his body and sending the creature flying.

Matt scrambled to his feet and leaped onto the lowest branch of a tree, pulling himself hand-over-hand up ten, twenty feet in the air.

Matt paused for breath, panting in the thick, moist jungle air. He had gotten away.

And then the hair on the back of his neck rose, that inexplicable sixth sense, honed over the course of countless battles, skirmishes. An unending campaign. Something was right behind him.

Matt spun, seeing exactly what he expected to see.

The creature was hunkered on the branch with him. It cocked its head and gave a small, bird-like growl.

Almost like speech, Matt thought. Smart bird.

Before him sat a fully-grown and vicious male Velociraptor.

It chirped at him again, head cocked to one side. Curious.

Matt lunged forward, seeking to knock it off the branch. His fists landed - and barely rocked the animal. Matt looked down and saw under-developed hands, weak arms. He had morphed back to when he was just ten years old. He was helpless, utterly powerless to do anything.

The Raptor reached forward delicately, its middle, larger claw extending for Matt's exposed neck. It rested there for a second while Matt shivered in fear, paralyzed, the point digging into Matt's skin. Suddenly making up its mind, the Raptor snarled and drove the claw through. Matt's vision faded white as he died...

Matt awoke gasping, body covered in sweat. He was back, back in the real, concrete world of here and now.

Jesus, Matt thought. He hated that dream. Ever since The Mainland, as he thought of it.

Matt looked around the room, taking everything in quickly. He was alone, laying in a luxurious king-sized bed. On a bedside table, someone had left a pitcher of water and a sandwich still in the plastic wrap. The sticker carried the logo of a Maison's hotel. Matt remembered - it was the MSF's unofficial headquarters for the NYC campaign.

Matt picked up the handwritten note scrawled across a piece of hotel stationary in block caps - "GET WELL SOON! FIGUED YOU'D BE HUNGRY ;) WE'LL BE IN THE GYM OR REC ROOM PROBABLY WHEN U WAKE UP. COME FIND US IF YOU FEEL UP TO IT - FROM SCAR."

Matt smiled, set the note aside, and quickly tore into the sandwich, trying to forget how the Raptor had done the same to him moments before. He finished the food and sucked down the water.

Matt clambered stiffly out of the bed and stood shivering, wearing only his boxers. Matt felt where his ribs had cracked - what day was it? He checked a nearby clock: October 10th. Only a day, and he had miraculously healed. The result of accelerated-regenerative drugs. Meda-kits, as they were known to soldiers. Basically, stick the kit's injection needle close to the injury - bullet wounds, lacerations, whatever - and the drugs acted as a powerful combination anti-inflammatory, antibacterial, painkiller, and accelerated regenerative agent. An all-in-one cure that Matt had helped design himself.

Matt pulled a regulation Echo-Team t-shirt over his head and slipped into a pair of olive-drab fatigue pants, thick socks, and combat boots that had all been stashed neatly in a closet. Even in the middle of a warzone, Scarlett made sure Echo Team's communal room stayed relatively clean.

Matt pulled open the door and took the elevator to the hotel's second floor, slapping high-fives or fist-bumps or just saying hey to anyone he saw. The 3rd was a tight-knit unit with only around 300 full-time members. After three years of war, they had only lost seven men and women.

Unlike the rest of the military, the 3rd wasn't gender-specific about its operators. 47 of the 300 were women. While the majority of the operators were Caucasian, many were African-American, some were Asian, and several were Hispanic. The point was that in this outfit, no one cared what you looked like because you were one of the best 300 soldiers in the United States of America. There was neither space nor time for racism or politics when they needed the best.

Around 20 of them had been redeployed to New York City to repel the Russian invasion. 5 teams of four operators each. Another 20 or so had been sent to Washington DC, and another five teams of four scattered in major cities across the Eastern Seaboard.

With only twenty of them in one building, there was plenty of space for everyone to have their own room. Even so, all of them had taken rooms on the top floor, knocking out a section of any non load-bearing wall in order to make the space large enough so they could sleep as a collective force and not as separate teams.

In the fighting two days ago, Matt had gotten separated from Echo squad during an ambush by Spetsnaz soldiers. Not the run-of-the-mill Russian infantry, they had put up a serious firefight and managed to bring down the V-22 Matt had been flying in. After that, it became a furious ground battle across several blocks while the second V-22 had tried to pick up the survivors of the first wreck (Matt had been flying with a mixed group of Rangers and MSF's). Matt had ended up hijacking an enemy BMP (Russian for ICV - Infantry Combat Vehicle) and providing covering fire with the BMP's 100mm cannon while the V-22 took off with everyone else, and the bird had escaped from under heavy fire. He soon met up with a band of beleaguered SEALs and walked them through to an extraction, where they had all been picked up by Sierra Two-Five.

Matt learned from talking with various MSF guys that since he had passed out a day ago, there had only been light skirmishing between American forces patrolling the city perimeter and Russian reconnaissance teams trying to find a way in through the city's outer defenses. Under the 3rd's guidance, the American troops had constructed hardened bunkers at key positions into the city, destroyed several of the bridges to Manhattan, deployed countless spotlights and AA guns against aireal raids or troop insertions, and had established patrols with F-22's and F-35 Joint Strike Fighters over the city. New York City could not fall.

Matt pushed through the door to the hotel's gym. Due to the fact that all of the MSF operators, or 'Immortals' as they were known to most other soldiers, had been biologically augmented upon induction to the outfit, the standard weight machines the gym was equipped with were virtually worthless. All the operators had started out as being incredibly strong - not bodybuilders, but they tended to win most arm wrestles. Strong, and athletically and mentally gifted in almost every other respect. They were truly the top guns in America, and the government's ultra-top-secret stem-cell augmentation process only made it better. Hence in one corner of the gym, an Operator was bench-pressing a small car. Like Halo's Spartan super-soldiers.

Most of the machines had been ripped out of the ground and stacked haphazardly in a corner, clearing a space for improvised free-weights - steel construction beams, stop-sign posts with cement blocks bolted to each end. And those were the light weights. Several more Operators were sparring in one corner, limbs whipping by lightning fast in a potentially deadly pattern of attack, block, counterattack.

Matt saw Jamie Campbell towards the center of the room, doing curls with what was supposed to be a two-handed bar in each hand and as many weights as would fit on each end. Jamie was another Echo Operator, another of Matt's brothers-in-arms and Echo Team's weapons specialists. Jamie usually hauled the team's big guns.

Next to him was Scarlett Miller, going through a series of 200 pushups while wearing four 50-pound weight vests. Scar was the one who had written the note - the only girl in Echo Team, she was also the most outwardly sociable. While none of the Operators was unfriendly or sociably timid, Scar loved interacting with anyone from civilians to the top military brass.

And the final member of their four-man team, Malcolm Pierce, was a ways off doing squats with a 1500 pound weight. All the Operators were extremely mentally gifted, but it was Malcolm that helped Matt out with most of his engineering projects. Like designing the armor that was now standard-issue throughout the American military.

Malcolm also liked to help Matt modify the team's weapons - adding things like better recoil absorbers or tweaking the guns' frames and firing mechanisms to produce a higher muzzle velocity. Matt also had magazines filled with non-standard bullets - several mags with full-metal-jacket and armor-piercing bullets, another group with hollow-point anti-personnel rounds. In order to tell the difference, Matt had worked out a system where he tied a strip of black duct tape around the middle of regular clips, red duct tape with the anti-personnel, and blue duct-tape with the armor-piercing.

About twelve people were in the room right now. Matt had seen another four in other parts of the hotel, which meant that one team was off somewhere in the city, probably on a recon mission from Carter.

The 3rd Marine Shock Forces didn't operate under a branch of the United States Marine Corps, confusingly enough, but instead was classified as a part of Naval Special Forces even though they operated similarly to Marines. Hence, the 3rd was normally under the command of Admiral James Ford. However, Ford was on the Mainland, directing the bulk of the 3rd's forces there. His primary aide, Captain Reed Mitchell, was in DC with the other five teams. That meant the ranking MSF officer in NYC was Commander William Carter. Carter was in charge of the New York City campaign, which meant that he not only had to deal with force deployment and an overall defensive strategy, but he also had to contend with the thousands of civilians that hadn't left with the general evacuation order a month previously.

Echo had pulled riot duty once, when it was really bad two weeks ago, and the combat not as intense - swarms of looters running through the city, smashing and grabbing whatever they wanted, convinced the world was about to end. Matt, Jamie, Scar, and Malcolm had stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of a wall of clear ballistic plastic riot shields. Leading the 'Regs' as they tried to subdue the rioters. Matt remembered long hours, shoulders aching from the pressure of 237 crazed New Yorkers beating against the wall of shields. Five people had died in the melee, at the front, crushed against the unyielding line by those behind them. Many had likened it to the Boston Massacre, a clever publicity twist with no clear plan in mind for why they wanted to or how this would destabilize the public image of the US Armed Forces. Not like the populace enjoyed having Russians on their property - in fact, a team of Army Special Forces units had been tasked with outfitting and training a local militia.

Matt approached Jamie as he finished a set.

"Boo." Matt slapped Jamie on the back. Jamie started and dropped the weights.

"Funny." Jamie pulled earphones out and paused his music, then went through Echo Team's handshake with Matt.

"Glad to see you're not full of holes anymore." Jamie said.

"Yep. I am remarkably hole-free." Matt responded, smiling.

"For now."

"For now." He agreed. Scar and Malcolm came over, having seen him appear.

Scar jumped up and wrapped her arms around Matt, laughing. "We haven't seen you in forever! I didn't expect you to come back so bloody, but they dropped you off here-"

"-And you looked beat to hell." Malcolm interrupted, referencing an inside joke from their childhood. Matt laughed. "Can't you do anything without us?"

"I live for the day." Matt replied sarcastically.

"I fixed you up. Pretty good job too." Scarlett mused. "The flyboy said he picked you up hot with a bunch of Marines? -Nevermind. You must be starving!" Scar suddenly realized. "Let's hit the showers, then go get some lunch."

"Yeah, then you can tell us the riveting details of how you got your ass handed to you by some vodka-soaked pigs."

"Hey, that's unfair stereotyping." Matt pointed out, laughing again.

"You're right. Only about 90% of them are inebriated when they run into battle - helps them aim better." Jamie remarked.

"I really wish I could be as funny as you." Scar remarked.

"Don't quit your day job." Malcolm slung a towel over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"And when did clichés become so hilarious?"

"Oh come on. We've all heard that one a million times." Malcolm said.

Matt smiled, glad to have come right back in to the good-natured jibes of the tight-knit team.

As if to punish him for his momentary lapse, a circuit of Klaxon alarms the MSF had installed into the hotel's walls went off.

Jamie sighed. "So much for my lunch."

"We can eat later - come on." Malcolm took off for the armory with the general rush. Matt, Scar, and Jamie quickly followed.

The 'armory' was really just a collection of re-purposed, metal-encased freezers that housed the weapons and several large conference rooms that held lockers with their armor. Carter was standing on top of a small raised stage-like presentation area, furiously fastening clasps and joints on his suit while he issued instructions. "Russians are pushing in again. Regulars are already on site - three different invasion points. Echo, you'll handle support in the bay. Knight, North Bridge. Raptor, Zeus, you're pulling intra-city general defense. We've got a couple V-22's waiting for you guys to board. Void, you're on standby. Grab your gear and find a ride, fastest route."

"Wouldn't you think the Russians would learn they're better off just retreating?" Jamie wondered.

"They're not quick studies." Malcolm replied.

"Well then today's the day we get it through their skulls." Matt chambered his Jackhammer magnum. "Let's go."

Matt surged up the stairs, taking point in the reception area and slamming into cover at the edge of the hallway door. Down the hallway, several squads of Russians were holed up in a warren of office cubicles.

"We've got to take out the MG position before we can advance." Matt calmly but forcefully informed the lieutenant next to him, making sure he was heard over the blistering torrent of fire coming from the other end of the hall.

The LT, visibly shell-shocked, nodded after a moment and shouted back, "Okay!"

Matt patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and leaned back out to put several suppressive rounds on the Russian crew-served machine gun. He had squeezed off two shots when a small, spherical object bounced and rolled to a stop several feet away from him, on the opposite wall and next to the outer floor-to-ceiling windows.

Adrenaline surged through Matt as his reflexes kicked in. Without thinking, Matt had drawn his M8 carbine back and launched it at the grenade. Clenching his teeth and hoping his aim was perfect, Matt watched his rifle jet through the air. The butt of the gun smashed into the grenade and carried both of them into the window-

-smashing through, and rendering the squad of American soldiers stacked behind Matt and the LT against the wall safe from the resulting explosion.

Jubilant cries and laughter exploded as the soldiers complimented Matt's throw. Matt shouted over the din, escalating his armor's external speaker volume; "Weapon, I need a weapon!"

An M-16 was quickly pulled from a private at the back and fed up the line into Matt's waiting arms. Matt checked the magazine and chamber, took a second to mentally brace himself, and then charged down the corridor firing full-auto.

The head-on charge momentarily had the Russian squads taken aback, and he made it halfway down the corridor before the MG opened up again. But even Matt's heightened speed wasn't enough to cross the distance unscathed - heavy caliber rounds made a dull thunk as they crashed into his armor, damaging the plates and cranking the gel temps up near the redline.

He stumbled, a hand out to right himself, and started trying to evade the swaths of fire, nimbly dashing back and forth across the hallway. In the back of his mind, Matt kept up with how many rounds he had left in his mag - about three, he thought.

More rounds rode down the walls - Matt saw a Russian soldier ease out from behind the corner on the left side, far end of the hall. Charging to the right and pressing his shoulder against the glass wall of an office, Matt raised the M-16 and feathered the trigger, sending a single round straight into the Russian's chest. He was almost at the end of the hall - Matt lowered the rifle and worked up into a full-on sprint, evading the MG's latest burst, and crashed into the soldier he had just shot at full speed. The man toppled, Matt spun 360 degrees to keep from falling off his feet, and came up with his rifle bearing down on the first of three Russians funneled into that particular corridor formed out of the cubicles.

Matt tapped the trigger once, twice - the first round hit in the first Russian's kidney, the second in his shoulder - before Matt's momentum kept him spinning again.

Matt knew without having to check the rifle was now empty. When he came around from his second spin instead of having the rifle tucked neatly into the pocket of his shoulder, he had sidearmed the 8.5 lb weapon at the second man. The improvised attack struck the guy dead-on and knocked him off his feet, cracking several ribs, but Matt knew he wasn't out yet. The third Russian was just now raising his rifle as Matt stopped his spinning, charged down the alley, and leaped into the air. Only two rounds made it out of the AK-74's muzzle before both of Matt's feet impacted the soldier's head, snapping his neck back with a grizzly cracking noise. That man dropped, lifeless, and Matt hit the ground back-first, scrabbling for his combat knife.

Disengaging the 7-inch shaft of deadly titanium and carbon fiber from its sheath, Matt rolled over, reared up, and drove the blade through the head of the Russian he had thrown the rifle at earlier. All three of his original targets now dead, Matt pulled his knife and was beginning to return it to its sheath when he registered movement behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and pushed himself up, hopped off the ground, and kicked out with his legs, knocking over a fourth Russian soldier. As the man hit the ground, Matt swiveled around and jabbed him through the neck with the knife before sheathing it, and then pried loose the dead soldier's rifle.

He rolled onto his feet and primed a frag grenade, jumping lightly from the floor and balancing on the tops of the cubicle walls, and launched the explosive at the MG pit in the middle of the room and adding a dozen AK rounds for good measure.

The frag detonated, punching a hole in the floor of the office building's second level and disabling the machine gun. With the majority of the fire now absent, the American squad leaped out of cover and sprinted down the hallway, coming to Matt's aid.

Matt was hit in the side by several rounds from an AK, which was enough to disrupt his balance and throw him off of his precarious perch. He crashed into a desk and it splintered beneath his weight, momentarily trapping him in the debris. Russians surged to the cubicle Matt had fallen into, determined to kill the Immortal before the American reinforcements made it to the room and overwhelmed them.

Matt didn't wait for them, launching himself back and through the cubicle wall behind him, rolled to his feet, and rose to his full 6'4 height and leveled his commandeered assault rifle. Russians dropped as Matt raked the clustered group with bullets until the magazine was again spent. Matt dropped the AK and pulled his MP7 sidearm, advancing towards the disrupted cluster through the line of cubicles and picking off the stragglers.

The LT and his men poured through into the dimly-lit warren and mopped up the squirters. Holstering his MP7, Matt advanced menacingly on the last Russian soldier. The man backed away in fear, but Matt lunged out and seized him by his armor straps, hoisted him into the air, and slammed him into the far wall. Bones crunched and the wall splintered from the impact, leaving a sizable hole in the dry-wall that exposed the cinder-blocks beneath. Matt slammed the soldier again, then took him down and ran him through an exterior window, watching in satisfaction as his broken body hit the street below.

Next Chapter: Atlantis Rising: Chapter 2

Homepage: Atlantis