Difference between revisions of "Atlantis: chapter 9"

Revision as of 18:23, 8 May 2008

Chapter 9. Sweet. Hope you enjoy.

Please note this is a work in progress and the authors reserve the right to edit and/or reformat the book. Also note that in this writing we mean no disrespect to any country reading this. A book merely needs protagonists and antagonists.

Chapter IX: "Alright, onto plan... F?"

"Glad to see you guys are alive." Tom said truthfully.

"Yeah. We've been pinned down here at least half an hour." Mitchell responded.

"Well, 50, when pinned down like this and under fire, what's your first tactic if nobody comes to the rescue?" Tom asked him quizzically. When battling a technically superior enemy it was best not to use names.

"Mount an energetic and enthusiastic counter attack." Mitchell replied with a slight smile. His sandy hair somehow seemed darker when coupled with his serious, grimy face. "And we have. But we've been under so much fire we couldn't do very much. P- er, 49 and I have been switching off on branch duty. We got a couple of them. I estimate about six left, with the ones you killed."

"Uh, Sarge, I think there are a few more than six..." One of them called, and Tom looked up to see multiple of the Russians' APCs rolling to stops around their position.

"Quick! Get out while there's time!" Tom screamed. Too late.

The first APC opened and dropped down the first of its men. They opened fire, and along with the APC's built in .45 cal machine gun, it sent a sheet of bullets racing for the opening, effectively trapping Tom and his men.

"Guess we'll stay a while." Mitchell said from his position on the side of a ruined seat.

"We'll be fine as long as they don't bring out explosives." Tom said reassuringly. Just then an explosion rocked the destroyed craft, sending men spilling to the floor. Tom was knocked onto his side. "I thought that only happened in movies."

"Maybe not, but it looks like they only got one launcher." One of the soldiers said, climbing to his feet. "Otherwise we woulda' heard another one right now."

"Alright. One launcher. Simple, we take him out." Mitchell said.

"But how do we get out to shoot?" Another of the soldiers asked.

"We don't need to see them to get them." Mitchell answered, sitting down in a secure position. He mentally accessed his Other and began to search. One advantage of using the Other was that, in addition to being able to control supernatural forces, the Other saw in a different light. The Other's vision was based less on objects than on brainwaves and links. Mainly, it was used for telepathic images and messages, mostly by the newer psi-agents. An experienced psi-agent would know the links between brains are there, and he wouldn't have to see to link up and send a thought. But in the hands of a skilled psi-warrior like Mitchell, it could also be used to detect life and its whereabouts. It could also be used in conjunction with another psi power, like, say, telekenesis.

Mitchell latched onto a rock and threw it at one of the APCs. The gunner must have been warned of their powers, though, because he swiveled the turret around and blasted the rock to pieces using his machine gun.

Next Mitchell latched onto a log, hooking it between the APC's treadwheels. He found a goodly sized rock and placed it as the fulcrum for his lever. Then he called, "Need a little extra force over here. Can anybody lend a brain?", and immediately two minds who had been throwing random stuff at men jumped to and started to help. Just then another explosion rocked the Osprey, disrupting everyone's concentration. Mitchell jumped right back into the Other and said, "I see his vapor trail! Quick! 48, get on him!"

Then the three others went back to their lever. Mitchell stoned a Russian who was trying to dig the rock out, then pushed downwards. With the help of the other two, he managed to flip the APC on its side, and it rolled over onto its top and smashed its own gun. Then Mitchell grabbed a large boulder and dropped it from up high onto the exposed, weak underbelly. It penetrated through and hit a fuel tank, causing the APC to blow up into fragments.

Wild cheering broke out through the Osprey as they saw the APC go down, leaving Tom feeling even more helpless. He couldn't access his psi energy, and so couldn't help with the counterattack. Here he was, coming to save them, and they were saving him!

He decided to mount a counterattack of his own. Calling to one of the soldiers, he said, "Cover me on the way out!" and started climbing to the top. The soldier obediently turned and dredged up two pieces of bulletproof steel and metal from the broken APC to cover Tom as he came out. Tom popped through the door, opening up a few rounds from the opening between the two pieces of metal. He dropped the the jungle floor and dove through a cloud of lead and into the safety of the jungle. The safety of the dark, mysterious, incredibly scary, Dino infested, thick, tangled jungle.

Three Russians spun to shoot at him, and Tom melted back into the darkness. With the lull of fire on the Osprey, two Americans jumped up and sprayed lead around, giving Tom an added distraction. They were forced to duck back down in a moment, though, because the APCs had started up their devastating suppressing fire again. One Angeler poked his head and shoulders up, trying to get his ZEUS-MPGR to lock on. A bullet hit him in the shoulder and he dropped the launcher, his teammates pulling him back inside to safety. That gave Tom an idea.

If he could distract those APC turrets, then one of his men would have a clear line of fire to get the vehicles. To tell his plan to Mitchell, he'd have to use the comm. and the Russians could here him. But he had no choice.

"Mitchell! I'll distract, you take 'em out!" Tom said, as quickly as he could.

Tom just hoped that any Russian translation gear would take another few seconds to process as he ran out without cover into the middle of the clearing. He waved his hands and arms comically, yelling at the top of his lungs. This would have to be the first time he had ever employed this tactic, but it worked. Both of the remaining APCs swiveled to face him. It was rather sad, really, that these were the Russian elites. A first grader could have seen through the deception, especially because they knew that a man in the Osprey had an Anti Armor launcher, and their men didn't have the firepower or height of vantage point to get the same amount of suppressing fire on the bay opening.

Tom's awareness cranked up a few notches as the beating of a helicopter's blades echoed throughout the clearing. He could see every single in the twisted landscape, from the lush, tropical green palms to the damp, chocolate colored earth. The ground was covered in fallen vegetation and smaller shrubs, and there was a small chimney opening in the foliage overhead. Shafts of light entered, casting a dim glow throughout, and Tom saw a glimpse of an aqua blue sky above.

The second most intruding sense was smell. It was funny, but in all the books he'd ever read, in all the after-action reports he'd written, nothing had ever talked about smell. He could smell the fumes of the gasoline-Ethanol mix the Russian's APCs ran on, he could smell the coppery twang of blood and the leaden of bullet casings.

"We need to take out the APCs and get into the jungle!" Tom called out. The APCs were still tracking him, so he ran to the opposite side of the clearing and watched as the stupid, confident gunners took aim at him. Two or three Americans silently dropped down from the Osprey, scattering in all directions as Russians belatedly took aim and opened fire.

Tom dove for cover behind a large tree as the APCs also opened fire on him, spewing their heavy projectiles at a devastating rate of fire. The tree shattered into tiny splinters and threatened to fall. Tom ran out, again drawing their fire as a missile erupted from the Osprey, taking the lead APC and blasting it into fragments. The substantial fire now dropped by half.

The remaining APC driver realized his danger and hit the gas, rumbling onto a new point in the battlefield. The turret swiveled again to suppress the Osprey, pinning the men inside down again.

Tom watched all this from behind the cover of a tree, and just as he was about to jump out, he felt a foreign presence attempt to enter his mind. He didn't recognize the feel of the consciousness, so he rebelled, throwing up mental barriers. The presence easily overwhelmed him and entered.

We'll cover you and take out the men while you go for that last APC. Mitchell's voice jumped out. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, then drew in a shaky breath. He needed to be more careful. That presence could just have easily killed him as helped him.

But sure enough, several seconds later, two rifles opened up in wild fire in every direction, and the final rifle shot out brief puffs of three bullets each, taking one man with each.

The Russians soon forgot about the stationary Tom and turned to face this new threat. The APC continued to hold down the Osprey, so Tom ran over to it to find a weak point.

Tom gave a kick and watched as the metal of the boarding doors buckled. Not satisfied, he kicked the door again, hearing metal tear and fall inward. He inserted his fingers into the inch-wide gap and strained his muscles. The solid aluminum-steel mix creaked and gave way, centimeter by centimeter. Finally Tom had opened a gap large enough to squeeze through.

That would give handbook instructors food for thought the next time they lectured about tactics and how to get through a closed door.

Tom shuffled through the opening, finding himself face-to-muzzel with an outstretched gun. The Russian soldier clutching it was staring wild eyed at Tom. Evidently, he had never witnessed Tom pulling open metal before.

Tom calmly looked into the Russian's eyes, then lowered his gaze and studied the gun held before him. It was an antique, a Skorpion Czech machine pistol. The metal was scratched and dented, obviously having seen many fights. The gun was held in an experienced if shaky grip, but with one crucial detail missing.

"Go ahead and put that gun down, friend." Tom said in flawless Russian.

Normally, APCs carried four crew, three if there wasn't a gun. And the three other from this particular APC were standing right behind the first one, but fortunately their view was blocked by their comrade's own body.

The Russian recoiled, as if pricked by a knife. "N- nn- never!" He screamed. "P- put your hands on your head and stand against the wall!"

"Make me." Tom said, grinning, and whipped his own SMG from its holster lightning fast.

Before the Russian knew what was happening, Tom had shouldered his SMG and fired a burst into the first Russian. Since they were vehicle crew, they wore much less armor than the regular soldiers, and the man crumpled.

Tom completely ignored the Russian in front of him as as the man's weapon clicked, flinging empty air at Tom in the place of a bullet. Instead, Tom shot the man on the other side of the soldier in front of him, and simultaneously threw the Russian he was clutching at the third hostile. They stumbled and collapsed together, but Tom wouldn't give a reprieve. He came up to the soldiers scrabbling frantically around and jabbed out quickly with the stock of his SMG. One of the soldiers fell prostrate, and the other keeled over to his chest as Tom brought up his knee and caught the man between the legs. That move wouldn't have worked on a regular, because of their armor. But on these unfortunate soldiers, it worked perfectly well.

Tom swung the stock of his SMG again, this time in a wide, sideways arc that hit the agonized soldier in the temple. Unconsciousness was immediate, and he grew slack in Tom's grip.

"Next time," Tom said to the fallen Russian, referring to the magazine and charging lever, "Insert this metal box thing here, then pull this little lever here, then squeeze the trigger."

Tom looked around. The APC was now gunnerless and driverless. No threat here. Still though, the turret was operative.

Tom climbed in and searched for the correct button. Except that there were somewhere close on a hundred buttons. It looked like an aircraft cockpit.

Why is this all so complex? Shouldn't you just need a joystick? Tom asked himself.

He finally found what he was looking for about six seconds later. A traction ball in the center of the panel. He rotated it and watched as the turret swiveled around in the direction he had rolled the ball, and the firing unit was obviously the pedal under his foot. Because all artillery cannon and turrets have foot-activated firing mechanisms. Tom thought.

Tom lined the digital cross hairs up on a Russian and slammed his foot down. The enraged fire he now controlled cut a swath of madness through the enemy ranks, giving Mitchell and his men time to grab the wounded and bolt away into the jungle, the enemy helicopters just now appearing overhead. Tom still had time to get out, but he rigged the foot pedal to continue firing and smashed the control ball after pointing it at the sky, effectively giving the Americans undirected suppressive fire at the air until someone took the tie off the pedal, or destroyed the turret.

Tom slid down the small ladder into the main cabin of the APC and ran over to the dented door. Instead of slowing and squeezing through the small opening, Tom used his momentum to fuel a running kick that buckled the weakened door outward and wrenched it off the damaged hinges. Tom sailed to the ground, riding on his thick, heavy, square metal surfboard. The cost of his sweet move was a bone-aching pain that lanced up his leg.

Tom took half a second to revitalize himself, then jumped up and evaded a stream of lead from a helicopter above him.

Tom dashed off into the jungle after Mitchell, tangos hot on his tail.

He caught up to the group a little ways in, then said, "Alright, plan D. Here it goes, hunker down here, set up a trap. Had about seven hostiles on my six, but I lost them temporarily. They're still heading in this direction and it won't be too hard to track our prints."

"We're at plan D?" Mitchell asked incredulously.

"Yeah, plan A was to get the base running and have a mobile attack force. Plan B was sending you guys to come save Bravo. Plan C was me coming to bail you out. Now, this is plan D. Mitchell, I want you to set up men here and here..." Tom pointed with each name, indicating their ambush position. He went on, carefully detailing each man's position.

"I'll give the signal to attack." Mitchell volunteered, saving Tom from explaining how he couldn't use Psi anymore. Mitchell was one smart soldier to have picked up on that.

"And make sure you've all got fresh clips. It would not be good for them to run dry mid ambush." Tom advised, knowing full well that everyone had already loaded in a new one.

"Alright, we don't have more than six minutes, so get to it." Mitchell said.

Five and a half minutes later, Tom was lying in the crook of a tree branch. In those five or so minutes, Mitchell and the team had scattered, a few digging out foxholes and another one dragging over foliage for screening. The injured men would remain on the ground in the foxholes, shooting through gaps in their cover. Meanwhile, the rest of his men climbed trees, and two even burrowed into a small hill. All of them were perfectly camouflaged, and they were so silent and unmoving that if Tom hadn't just witnessed them preparing five minutes earlier, he wouldn't have known they were here at all.

Right on time, a group of six soldiers walked warily through their area. Tom wasn't exactly sure where the others in the squad were, so it was a surprise to him when Mitchell gave the signal and a rifle only two yards away from him opened fire.

Tom added his own shots to the mix, going for accuracy rather than suppression. With each burst, another man fell.

Along with Tom, the other soldiers continued to fire. Their first volley of bursts caught four of the six men, and Tom took out his second all on his own. The last one started to turn and run, but the two down in the side of the hill trained their weapons and fired, sending hot bullets pelting the man in the back. He toppled and rolled with the force, his armor catching the bullets.

Tom cursed. Only two of the six Russians were dead, the rest simply stunned. Even now, most were getting to their feet, bruised and battered, but not dead.

Tom opened fire again, raking the ground with his shots. The runner was staggering back up, and Tom took a potshot. The bullet hit the soldier in the side of his exposed face on his way up. The soldier spun violently as bright red and pinkish gore shot out of his head, splattering the ground. The soldier fell for the second and last time.

Now just three left. And they were all racing the opposite direction of their de-brained comrade, right at Tom.

Instead of firing, Tom dropped from the tree. Simultaneously, Mitchell dropped as well, and a bullet fired from the hill took the lead soldier in the knee. He collapsed, skidding forward headfirst, and his two buddies stopped dead at seeing two heavily armed and armored American elites drop literally from the sky, twenty or thirty feet down. For Tom, the drop felt like nothing, having fallen from over twenty stories twice. For Mitchell, the drop was more of a slammer, even though he had left his eighty pound sack at the base of the tree. Camouflaged, of course.

Tom got to his feet two seconds after landing. In fairness to Mitchell, it only took three seconds longer for him, and he didn't have the benefit of Tom's superman treatment.

Instead of fumbling with his gun, Tom yanked his six inch combat knife out and flipped the blade. Using the Russian's confusion to his advantage, he advanced on one soldier, Mitchell staying behind to back Tom up. Tom dragged the blade across the Russian's outstretched arms, cutting them to the bone. As the Russian cried out in agony, his partner lowered his defenses to look over. That was when Tom lashed out, jabbing the point of the blade backhanded into the Russian's Adam's apple. Tom kicked the man away, not wanting to watch as blood spurted from the severed vein and a hollow wheezing sound filled the air.

Mitchell came in with his knife at the same time, taking the other Russian in the diaphragm. He too started wheezing, and Tom pulled his sidearm out of its holster and pushed the barrel point blank against the soldier's head. He pulled the trigger, and more red started pooling in a shallow puddle next to the soldier's head.

The other Americans finished off the final Russian, leaving the score Americans: six, Russians: nill for that particular encounter.