I check Warhammer. It's slide's locked back on an empty smoking chamber and I pull the spent magazine and toss it away. I claw a fresh mag from its MOLLE pouch and snap it into place.
I shove the pistol out to full extension and stay in a fighting crouch and keep probing. There's new motion. The second Escalade's headlights flash across my line of sight.
I aim Warhammer again and trigger three rapid shots. The SUV's windshield spiders and ragged impact holes march across its windshield. It loses momentum but keeps rolling in my direction.
I run a hand along my ALICE belt and locate an M-67 by touch. I heft the frag grenade and yank its pin and keep the arming spoon locked down. That prevents premature ignition. I let the Escalade roll a few yards closer and calculate angle and timing.
Now!
I pitch the bomb and crouch at the base of my cover. The grenade hits the Escalade's hood and explodes in a stabbing flash. A clap of thunder rocks the SUV and it's hammered by shrapnel. Fractured auto glass and bits of mangled bodywork pelt the ground.
I've already primed another M-67 and I lob it through the SUV's blown-out windshield. The fragger blows and the Escalade rocks to a halt and three doors burst open.
One Bravda lunges out and staggers like a zombie and drops his rifle. Blood spews from ragged fragment holes in his face and throat. He chokes on vital fluids and sinks to his knees and topples. The driver flops from behind his wheel onto the ground. He's a headless horror.
The last man emerges and his face is a gory mass of mangled sinew and shattered teeth. He peers ahead through one eye and lifts a stainless wheelgun. He never finds his target. I hit him with a .50 Magnum and he twists into an ugly attitude of death.
There's drifting smoke and moaning wind. I stow Warhammer and kick off running upslope. As I move a cold tremor runs down my spine. A soldier's sixth sense tells me there's more danger at my heels. More enemies on the prowl.
I speed my pace and crest the bluff and find my SMAW. I reload the launcher with its final rocket and brace it over my shoulder. I drop into a crouch and backpedal into the treeline then halt and scan ahead.
There's no sign of motion downrange. There's nothing to alert me but I know something's out there. Something hostile. I can't see it. Not yet.
I'm about to rise when a loud rhythmic sound hits my ears. It's the chop of helo rotors. I narrow my eyes and glance up. Two dark shapes hurtle over the treetops and they resolve into Aero A5 Raptors. Damn!
It has to be a Bravda hunter-killer team. Death from above. Yeah. The Bravdas won't suffer damage like this without an epic fight. They'll crucify whoever attacked them. They'll use every weapon at their disposal.
The Raptors slow and hover. Their Xenon searchlights flare and blaze and hit the ground with icy white light. Each light sweeps the carnage and destruction. The beams intersect and keep moving.
I grit my teeth and aim the SMAW at the nearest Raptor. Its pilot hasn't seen me because I'm hiding in the treeline. Granted the SMAW isn't meant for anti-aircraft work but I can make the shot at short range.
I have to keep the launcher steady and keep the helo centered in my sight. My determination's rock solid and I mean to strike hard. There's no damn choice. I'm focused on the grim task of survival.
I draw a breath and lock it and hit the SMAW's trigger. There's a flash and a burst of smoke and the rocket stabs from its tube. It accelerates with a banshee scream and roars across the sky and strikes the Raptor's tail.
The warhead fails to detonate. Instead the rocket drills clean through the Raptor's light-alloy skin. My gut churns as I watch the useless pass-through. The rocket tumbles end-over-end and plummets into the trees and it's lost to sight.
The Raptor wobbles sideways and the pilot regains control. I curse and toss the empty SMAW and backpedal into the forest. I'm seeking deeper cover and a chance to escape but it's too late.
Both pilots have seen the SMAW's muzzle flash and they know my exact location. Now they want revenge. They want bloody payback. I can't blame them. Not one bit.
The Bravda helos turn and dive toward me like angry hornets. Their Xenon beams flare and drive needles into my eyes. The helos reach the tree line and hover and their searchlights glare. The powerful beams pierce the forest and cast eerie mottled shadows.
I duck behind a stout Elm and that provides temporary cover. The Raptors advance in unison. Hunting. I crouch immobile and grasp the Commando tight against my chest. The Raptors' rotor wash batters the treetops and blows a storm of loose foliage through the air.
Beyond all that another sound hits my ears. Something clatters through the branches overhead and fifty feet distant. I peer in that direction and glimpse a black blob. A grenade.
There's a red-yellow flash and blast waves pummel the forest. The explosion batters my eardrums and makes them ring. The Raptors veer closer and two more grenades tumble from their open doors.
I recoil and flatten myself against the Elm's trunk and grit my teeth. The grenades explode in rapid succession and airbursts spew flame and shrapnel. Jagged fragments thud into trees and flay bark.
The Raptors angle closer. Searching. I stay crouched and immobile. If I run the helo gunners will spot me and open fire. But staying put means I'm vulnerable to grenades. It's a stony choice. Before I can decide a grenade crashes overhead and plummets toward my face. Hell!
I catch the fragger and toss it hard and fast. As I duck back behind cover the grenade explodes a dozen feet away. I hear its zinging shrapnel but nothing hits me.
There's another grenade blast overhead. The surrounding trees absorb the worst of it but several fragments twang off my helmet. White-hot pain stabs at my left bicep and I grimace.
I check the wound and my gloved fingertips come back bloody. It's not bad. The blood loss isn't serious and my arm functions on command.
The bombardment stops. I peer up and spot Bravda troops rappelling from each helo. They drop into the forest. I count six men total.
I tighten my grip on the Commando. I can tell by weight and balance that its drum magazine's running low. There's enough capacity left for one more burst before I need to reload.
The Raptors hover and the troops descend. I crave payback and now's my chance. I raise the Commando and aim up at the nearest bird and center it in my ACOG scope. I hit the Commando's trigger and unleash a blazing autofire assault.
Power Strikes punch through the Raptor's Plexiglas windshield in a zigzag shape. The pilot's chest blows in red streamers and he lurches in his seat and slumps sideways.
I ditch the Commando's empty drum and snap a 30-round STANAG backup magazine into its hot receiver. The unguided Raptor wobbles and tilts sideways. I frame it in my ACOG reticle and trigger another burst of autofire.
Power Strikes wallop the Raptor and its engine pod gushes flame. It spins counterclockwise and rolls across the treetops and trails gray vapor. It plunges onto the clearing and collides with the Sukhoi's wreckage.
There's a roaring fireball and churning black smoke. Shrapnel and mangled body parts hurtle overhead.
The second Raptor soars to a safer distance and its searchlight glares in my direction. Meantime the Bravda troops have landed and I glimpse them shifting through the trees. Several men fire quick autorifle bursts. It's blind reflexive fire and they're hoping for a lucky hit.
Heavy bullets zip past my position and one slug thumps into the tree I use for cover. I keep low and hug the tree and stay immobile. I've no intention of obliging my opposition by stepping into their line of fire.
It's not a permanent solution. I'm outnumbered and outgunned. The worst part's knowing my enemies have ample time to plot their moves. They have ample time to press ahead and search. Once they find me they'll circle my position and cut me off.
I mouth a curse and keep scanning. Sure enough the Bravda team breaks apart to form a pincer movement. If they surround me I'm doomed. I can't defend both flanks at once. Again I curse. I need to retreat. I need deeper cover and I sink bac
k into the forest.
The bark of sporadic gunfire helps cover my footsteps plus any other noise I make. That in turn allows me to speed my pace but I have to be careful. Any error in the next few moments will prove fatal.
As I move there's more gunfire and several bullets graze my helmet. I grit my teeth and brace for a shot between the shoulder blades. There's none. My luck's holding. So far.
I know that luck won't carry me through and keep me alive. The answer's aggressive action. It's the law of jungle combat.
After fifty yards I reach a clearing with several derelict shacks. It looks like an abandoned hunting camp. I check to ensure the structures are empty and there's no sign of human habitation.
The middle shack's larger than the others. It's in better shape than the rest. When my enemies reach the camp they might think I'm hiding inside. If so they'll doubtless investigate.
I see my chance. I pull an M-55 Hornet anti-personnel mine. It's the size and shape of a soda can. It's a brand-new design from the U.S. Army's Picatinny Arsenal.
I plant the mine beside the shack and cover it with dead leaves. It's well hidden in the dark. The mine's armed for remote detonation and it'll explode on command. It'll shred my opponents in their tracks.
I shift deeper into the forest. After another fifty paces I reach a muddy rise and climb it and go prone to conceal my profile. I scan ahead and spot motion.
The Bravda troops close on the camp. They advance with caution and probe with rifle-mounted lights. Their night vision beams cast a blood-red glow.
The troops move from one camp structure to the next and reach the shack I've mined. The pointman gestures and steps closer to the shack's door. Three men follow and the others cover their flanks.
I let the troops step inside the mine's kill zone then hit my remote detonator. The Hornet springs five feet into the air and breaks apart to unleash a swarm of buzzing shrapnel.
The three men standing closest to the mine dissolve in viscid crimson spray. Their corpses spin and collide and rebound like a gory slapstick sketch. Blood spatters the three survivors and they recoil and lurch behind cover.
One man waits for a second too long. I hit him with a Power Strike burst that slams him through an awkward pirouette. It's a miserable move that won't win him any awards at all. He spills blood and screams and sprawls onto the dirt.
Autofire erupts from the two surviving Bravdas. They've spotted my muzzle flash in the gloom. The hostile fire intensifies and a swarm of bullets drills the space over my head and shoulders. I curse and wriggle back on my stomach until I'm beyond the enemy's line of fire.
The shooting stops and I push up and shove off. I'm running on instinct and fighting for my life. I sling the Commando across my back and free both hands. That gives me full mobility.
I angle toward a massive Birch and grasp a stout limb and scramble into foliage. Now I'm concealed and I'm gambling that my opponents won't be looking up. Instead they'll be searching the ground below. I pull Warhammer and watch and wait.
There's motion and a Bravda gunman emerges over the top of the rise. He's moving fast. Damn fast. In that same instant he peers up and spots me. By luck or instinct he's found my position. So much for concealment.
The man raises an AKSU assault rifle. He reaches for its under-barrel GP-25 grenade launcher. There's no time to aim my pistol and I leap from the tree and hit the ground.
The GP-25 breathes flame and an HE grenade leaves its muzzle at 250 feet per-second. It strikes an Elm behind me and detonates in flame and shrapnel. A jagged fragment clips my boot heel and another drills my collar. Otherwise I'm spared. I'm intact.
Meantime red-hot fragments mangle tree limbs and debris pelts my helmet and shoulders. I push upright onto one knee. In that same moment the Bravda reloads his GP-25 and swings it toward my position. But he's a heartbeat too slow.
I brace Warhammer and track into target acquisition and draw the pistol's trigger. A .50 Magnum drills the man's jaw and his face explodes and scarlet fragments shower the ground. The headless body topples and spastic reflex triggers the GP-25.
I grimace as the launcher's muzzle belches fire in my direction. The grenade hurtles overhead and detonates at my back amid the trees. Concussion batters me and drives the air out of my lungs. I gasp and gag and blink hard to clear my vision.
There's no time to waste and I scramble toward the headless Bravda. I grab his AKSU with its launcher and lift a bandoleer that holds six grenades.
I sling the bandoleer across my chest and grip the AKSU and press ahead. I have to stay in motion. In motion there's hope of survival.
I reach another Birch and crouch by its trunk. There's one Bravda left on the battlefield. He lumbers from deep shadow and aims his AK but he's too slow. I squeeze off Warhammer at a range of fifteen yards.
The 300-grain hardpoint blows a ragged hole in the Bravda's chest. His mouth gapes and his eyes bulge and he topples through a scarlet haze. He gags on his own blood and tries to reach his fallen assault rifle. His fingers go slack and he gasps and goes flaccid.
I scan the trees for any sign of continued opposition and find none. Battle smoke wafts and fades and there's eerie calm. A notion strikes me. The forest doesn't take sides in human conflict. The forest's neutral. The forest doesn't care.
I scan again. Nothing moves and no gunmen appear. Ice shards flood my veins and my chest heaves. It's the adrenaline rush of surviving lethal combat. The pulse-pounding high of cheating death.
I breathe deep and exhale and my heart rate slows to its normal forty-five beats per-minute. My vision blurs and clears.
I check my GPS and turn toward my waiting Jeep. Then it hits me. The second helo. Where's the second helo?
I catch the chopping sound of rotors. The sound grows louder and that tells me the Raptor's drawing closer.
It's no coincidence of course. It's a good bet the Bravda pilot was biding his time. He was waiting for the right moment to strike back. Now the ground battle's over and he's ready to launch another assault.
I kick off running and as I move the din of rotors grows louder. The Raptor skims above the treetops and draws closer by the heartbeat. Its searchlight flares and drenches the forest in icy white light.
I reach a fallen Elm and duck and take cover beneath it. I'm confronted with another choice. I can hide or come out shooting and try to nail the Raptor. I make my decision. I'll come out shooting. Like always.
The overhanging tree trunk gives me solid cover from bullets and grenades. That means I can bide my time until the Raptor's overhead. Then I'll make a killing shot. I'll slap the bastard down. Assuming my aim and timing are dead-on. Easy. No sweat. Like falling into an open grave.
I stow Warhammer and grasp my captured AKSU with its GP-25 launcher. I pluck an HE grenade from its bandoleer and thumb it into the launcher's breech and lock it down. I check the launcher's sights and adjust them for fifty yards.
Meantime the Raptor veers closer and its Xenon lamp sweeps left and right. I tighten my finger on the GP-25's trigger. As soon as the helo flies overhead I'll take my shot. Any second now. Any second. I grin with wicked anticipation. I've outsmarted the enemy pilot.
The Raptor hovers behind my hideout. It's avoiding my line of fire. My grin dies and my gut pulls tight. The Bravda pilot must've sensed his danger and figured out my plan. Either way I know I'm facing brand-new danger.
There's a dull thud as an object crashes through the trees. Doubtless the helo's door gunner lobbed a bomb and this time it's heavier than a grenade.
My jaw snaps tight and I push deep under my cover. There's a rocking explosion and flames gush. The fallen Elm absorbs most of the blast and it fractures and crumples around me. Debris whirls in a vortex and pelts my face and I'm walloped by rippling shock waves.
I lurch and dive and roll across the ground. The helo crew must've dropped an HE device. Some type of satchel charge. I'll never know for sure and it doesn't matter. What matters is grim survival. I have to react
and fast.
The AKSU's in my hands and its grenade launcher's primed. Meantime the Raptor's overhead. I shove up on one knee and sight on the Raptor's nose. I hit the launcher's trigger before the pilot can veer away.
My gut churns when I realize my shot's off target. The 37-millimeter grenade flies low and clips the Raptor's landing skid. It's enough to detonate the grenade's impact fuse and its HE filler blows in spraying shrapnel.
The blast rocks the helo and punches ragged holes in its belly. The pilot yanks his control stick and swings the bird around. That gives his door gunner a clear shot and he opens fire with a scoped assault rifle.
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