Difference between revisions of "Atlantis Rising: Chapter 1"

Revision as of 14:06, 8 October 2010

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

Also see: Reaper's First Drop

14:32 Hours, October 9, 2018 (Military Calendar), New York City, New York, USA‎

"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! T-100's lining up a shot! 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. "Sierra, 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?"

"Hole up here, keep it frosty, give me suppressive fire. I'm going to flank around and take out that tank, then call back the gunships to clear it up and get you guys out."

"Sounds like a plan."

"On my mark- Three, two one - go!" Matt yelled, then vaulted over the wall and sprinted for another piece of cover as two Americans stood and opened fire with heavy M249 Squad Automatic Weapons (SAWs).

Matt ignored the stray rounds that deflected off his chest - his 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.

Matt rolled behind a statue as a fireteam across the road opened up full-auto with 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.

More rounds tore at Matt's cover, so he primed a flash-bang stun grenade and leaned out just far enough to toss it into the heart of the enemy fire. Confused shouts rang out, and 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 grenade 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, Matt fumbled with 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 oversized red button on his arm. 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."

"Get everyone on those birds now!" Matt shouted, sprinting for the V-22. 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 skidded to a halt and dived the opposite direction. He was just in time - the chilling shadow of the MiG buzzed across the courtyard, followed by a huge explosion that tore Sierra Two-Six to pieces, as well as the surrounding 100 feet. Kedge missiles were anti-material explosives, designed to take out buildings. The V-22 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. Raptors are en-route to your location. Stand by."

"Roger, command. Sierra out." The pilot dropped below the level of the buildings, trying to evade a radar lock.

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 shove.

Sierra Two-Five dropped next to him and flared four feet off the ground. "Where to, Frost?"

"Sit tight for now. The second we get above these buildings, we're toast. "Sergeant, you got a Mike-Two-Five?"

York turned into the bird and motioned to one of his guys. The soldier handed him a large, somewhat bulky rifle with an integrated scope. "What for?"

Matt grabbed the 25mm grenade launcher system and secured it to the magnetic clamps across his back. "I'm going to take out that MiG. You guys probably want to get out of the bird and spread out around the courtyard in case the Osprey takes a hit."

York sighed. "Alright guys, let's go." The six remaining soldiers from York's platoon hopped out, followed by twelve additional Marine Shock Forces operators from a mix of different squads. Everyone had gotten separated from eachother in the vicious urban combat in and around the city, and the MSF guys were on duty trying to evac the regular soldiers still in the city.

The proximity alarm flashed again from the cockpit. "You guys better hurry with whatever plan you have. Air supports still three minutes out." The pilot advised.

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 hit the rocket boosters 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 six feet.

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. That last pass didn't do much damage."

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

Matt tucked the XM25 into his shoulder and aimed it towards the MiG's probable entry vector, looking through the IR scope.

The XM25 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 XM25 in Matt's hands was loaded with frag grenades, perfect for anti-aircraft.

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 scope. The ghostly image of the MiG, a solid white against a dark gray background, gleamed in his display. Matt waited until the MiG was at the edge of his effective range and opened fire, pulling the trigger half-a-dozen times. The semi-automatic grenade launcher bucked in his arms, but he kept in in check and on target. Two of his grenades flashed past the MiG, too far to do much damage. A third grenade exploded too high, and a fourth, too far left. But the final two grenades hit dead-on, tore the hull of the MiG and shattering the cockpit windshield. ` 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 off some MSF guys. Same drill."

The pilot pulled in for a landing on the roof. Matt boarded the Osprey and strapped himself in.

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

"That's what we're here for, Staff Sergeant." Jamie replied. "That and taking down each and every one of Ivan's men."

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 Marines 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 Friend-or-Foe 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 40mm nose cannon.

Matt hung on to a handle in the troop bay and fired his MP7 Personal Defense Weapon (PDW) out the open ramp with one hand as the pilot banked sharply, flaring the craft five feet off the ground.

Matt tossed his MP7 into the belly of the bird and drew his M8, making sure he still had the M25 grenade launcher strapped across his back.

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 as Jamie rushed up next to him.

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 spine. Without stopping, he pulled a 9-inch '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 9 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 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 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.

Next Chapter: Atlantis Rising: Chapter 2

Homepage: Atlantis