Location: Kalahari Desert, Botswana

Unit: Global Operations Unit

Date: 26th April 2025

Mclaw rose with a fluid grace, securing his pistol in its holster with a distinct click, "My death will happen in about 9 years." The words hung heavy in the air, a looming inevitability. He let a moment pass, the weight of his revelation sinking in, "2034, I think. First found out in the 90s with my old task force." How he spoke seemed inconsistent with the gravity of his words, as if they were discussing mundane weather patterns.

Easing himself onto a weathered rock beside the grotesque slab of flesh, he allowed a moment of silence to consume the cave, creating a stark contrast against the bizarre backdrop, "We were sent after what we thought was a Chinese super weapon." The narrative carried him back, and his emotional demeanour underwent an abrupt metamorphosis, a surge of panic intertwining with his words. Yet, he pressed on, as if tethered to the narrative, "I remember climbing down those ladders, our descent into that train cart marked by an eerie void. Our initial sweep yielded nothing. It was only when we flicked on our flashlights that we beheld them." A pause punctuated his speech, his gaze narrowing as if lost in that memory, his fist clenching involuntarily, "First we didn't know what it was. But when three of us died a few minutes before the time their clocks said, we thought they may be attack timers. Important troop movements." The tension seemed to ease from his fingers, a gradual release coinciding with his exhale, "But we knew that wasn't it, these dates were too sporadic spreading over decades. It wasn't until we made it back home that the names appeared. Our names."

Burt's footsteps traced a path around the grisly slab of flesh, his voice laden with curiosity, "How?"

Mclaw steadied his trembling hand, his gaze lifting to meet Burt's, "I learned not to question these things a while ago. Things like that tend to draw the attention of those more powerful than the entirety of humanity combined."

One of the Rangers approached a weathered wall, contemplation etched across his features, "There must be a way to prevent it."

Mclaw's laughter emerged, a mix of cynicism and resignation, "Kyton and I tried. But if it's not death on the battlefield, it'll be claimed by cancer. And should that be avoided, then..." He gestured towards the ominous slab, its presence looming large, "This."

Mclaw's towering figure materialised once more, a commander of enigmatic knowledge, the other operators held in rapt attention. He retrieved a small plastic bag containing a curious piece of technology, "I'm about to send some data your way. Run a scan and see if the cause of death aligns with the TFR incident." He spoke on the radio.

He swept up a fragment of the grotesque slab, the Rangers frozen in a tableau of horror, their voices barely more than whispers, "Y-you can't do that! It's a War crime!"

Mclaw's eyebrow narrowed in response, a silent challenge that spoke volumes, "What? You gonna tell the UN to give me a letter of disapproval? Or are you going to deal justice yourself?" His hand ominously hovered over his sidearm, a subtle reminder of who he really was.

As the Ranger tightened his grip on his rifle he felt a chill down his spine like a dark shadow was cast over him. As Mclaw and the Ranger stared at each other, suddenly a voice called out from the shadows, "John! It's a death clock! He has a..." Zeller ran out of the shadows next to Mabasa, "Shit."

Mclaw looked at her, "What did you find?"

Zeller paused in front of the slab, the second one she'd seen, she held up a journal, "T-this..." she paused, "It is... was his journal. We found it in the village."

Mclaw sauntered across the scene, exchanging gloves as he moved, his actions meticulous, Zeller meanwhile elegantly unfolded the pages of the book, her fingers tracing the text with a dancer's grace, "Hm, looks like you were too late."

Mabasa's gaze oscillated between the two figures, his bewilderment palpable, "What?"

A subtle exchange of glances transpired between Zeller and Mclaw, their unspoken understanding creating an atmosphere of intrigue, "You want to tell them?" Zeller inquired.

Mabasa's jaw hung agape, disbelief etched across his features, "You knew?"

Zeller's gaze drifted into the distance, her voice a mere whisper carried by the winds of memory, "My commanding officer, he was killed by one of these death clocks within the first days of the war."

The group shared a collective gasp, their astonishment uniting them. Mabasa directed an intense stare towards Zeller, his curiosity unrelenting, "And... how did..."

Mclaw turned his attention to the scene unfolding, his voice carrying a sense of familiarity and nostalgia, "He was an old friend of mine, while he wasn't an official member of our task force, we often worked together on international missions," The shock among them reverberated, the revelation rippling through their collective consciousness. Mclaw's eyebrow arched in mild amusement, "You really thought Switzerland had been completely neutral these past hundred years?"

He strode past Mabasa, the gaze of the group lingering upon him, his authoritative presence undeniable, "Come on then, we should help prepare a defence, this location will be important for info."

Abruptly, a cry pierced the airwaves, the radio's urgency cutting through the tension, "Surface Team to Depths, we've got potential hostiles on the horizon, approximately twenty kilometres out. They appear to be specialists."

Mclaw's eyes shot upwards, his expression etched with concern, his fingers instinctively depressing the radio button, "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. His voice resonated with urgency as he relayed the message, "This is Depths, provide me with an estimate of their numbers, over."

Their movements were a blur as they ascended the stairs, propelled by the unfolding threat. The voice crackled back through the radio, conveying critical intelligence, "We're looking at two Infantry Fighting Vehicles, roughly sixty soldiers, and four armoured vehicles. Correction, it's two armoured vehicles and two mobile anti-air units."

Emerging from the tunnel's depths, their eyes met a scene of controlled chaos. Lake knelt amidst a cluster of operators, a focal point of command amid impending danger, "Sir."

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Mclaw acknowledged the situation with a nod, his mind already formulating a strategy, "Listen up. Air support isn't in the cards; instead, we'll repurpose the miniguns from the Hawks on the ridge. I want the troops to arrange themselves in an L-shaped ambush formation. Prioritise anti-Armor capabilities. Our main target is the Infantry Fighting Vehicles; If there are troops still inside, I want them baked."

His gaze, a sentinel fixed upon the distant horizon, "Remember, we're in the business of survival. We can't afford any slip-ups."

Lake's affirmation was a swift nod, "Understood." His hand deftly signalled the radio operator, relaying the orders through the communication network, their voices now travelling within the invisible currents of the PUURS.

Mclaw navigated the rugged terrain, traversing between the clustered rocks that whispered tales of aeons past. Along the way, he passed two solemn body bags and then reached a congregation of soldiers diligently dismantling a tent, their actions a dance of purpose amidst the impending tempest.

Amidst this scene, Mounts sat. A lone figure weighed down by the crushing burden of perceived failure, his posture a reflection of his internal struggles. His hands cradled his head, a physical barrier against the echoes of guilt, "I couldn't save a single one..."

Mclaw's perceptive gaze did not waver, the heart of a leader attuned to the myriad emotions of those under his command. He approached Mounts, the distance between them closing, his voice a lifeline extended with care, "Harry, Are you okay?"

Mounts' eyes went wide, noticing Mclaw, quickly he poured some water down his face. Wiping it he smiled at Mclaw, "I'm fine, Sir."

Mclaw's concurrence was a subtle nod. He noticed a slight dullness in Mounts's eyes, he was screaming out for help, "It's John." His gaze lingered ahead, drawn to the tableau of Rangers still diligently toiling, "It's not your fault." As Mounts made a tentative effort to rise, Mclaw's hand rested gently upon his shoulder, an anchor to prevent his further retreat, "Stop."

Mounts pivoted, his gaze meeting Mclaw's, as he grabbed his own face. The weight of self-doubt evident in his eyes, "John... I'm not fit for the GOU." His voice carried a heavy pause, his hands instinctively cradling his head, as though he sought to shield himself from the relentless barrage of guilt, "I couldn't save anyone."

Mclaw's inner turmoil manifested in the subtle tension of his biting lip, his response measured and deliberate, "Do you genuinely believe that?" A pause, a breath hanging between them, "Speak to Sophie or Tian, or any one of us, for that matter. Hell, speak to Lee." A chuckle bubbled forth, a touch of sardonic amusement, "Think about how many times you've patched Turner up."

Mounts wrestled with the memories, his thoughts retracing paths forged in adversity, "Five times in the States, twice in Asia, and once in Africa."

Mclaw's nod held a mixture of affirmation and empathy, "You remember every time you patched one of us up," his gaze held steady on Mounts, who found himself immersed in introspection, "You live to help people, but what you need to understand is you can't save everyone. Sometimes someone has to take a bullet. Sometimes a lot of people have to take several."

Mounts' gaze held a mixture of confusion and trepidation, his comprehension teetering on the precipice, uncertain of the message's intent. Was Mclaw suggesting the necessity of sacrifice?

Mclaw stood with a graceful fluidity, his eyes meeting Mounts', the distance between them emphasized, "However, those we can't save need to be avenged, so let's kill as many of those NZA fuckers as we can."

Mounts' lips curved into a smile, a reflection of newfound conviction, "Sir, yes, Sir."

He grasped his palm, picking him onto his feet.

***

A formidable procession unfolded within the unforgiving expanse of the desert – two platoons of NZA troops advanced resolutely, forming a vigilant perimeter around a cluster of armoured vehicles, a modern-day caravan traversing the arid wasteland.

Clad in desert-camouflage attire, the soldiers bore the hallmark of their trade, the standard ACR-3s resting with an air of readiness in their capable hands. Their faces remained concealed beneath sand-coloured full-face masks, a visual echo of the ominous Skull Masks worn by the death troopers, albeit reminiscent of the GOU gear employed in Antarctica.

Ahead, a vanguard scout party, their distance spanning hundreds of metres from the main contingent, briefly halted below a sand-swept mound. Abruptly, motion rekindled their advance. The party's leader, a central figure of command, reached the apex of the mound, a pause followed by a swift hand signal, communicating with the main formation trailing behind.

Abruptly, chaos erupted in a storm of violence. The leader's head was obliterated in an instant, his life extinguished with brutal efficiency. In response, the android soldiers, their mechanical precision palpable, swivelled in calculated arcs, their advanced sensors attuned to detect any trace of the assailant. Amidst the rocky terrain, a revelation emerged – movement, barely perceptible, concealed amongst the stones. With uncanny accuracy, one of the androids fixed its gaze just above the sniper's previous position, a row of M134 miniguns emerging from their hidden enclaves. Spinning barrels, already attuned to the impending dance of destruction, unleashed a symphony of carnage. The soft staccato of brrrt permeated the air, a melody that shredded the remaining scouts in its unrelenting firepower.

The main contingent was jolted into action, and the IFVs responded by opening their back doors. Just what the defenders were hoping for. Suddenly, several harbingers of explosive fury found their mark, igniting the sides of the armoured vehicles in the brilliant conflagration. The ensuing chain reaction, unapologetic and indiscriminate, triggered the ignition of ammunition within. The once-potent IFVs were reduced to smouldering wrecks, their occupants trapped within an infernal embrace that devoured both machine and flesh.

Emerging from the wreckage, a figure appeared, engulfed in a cloak of flames that licked at his clothing. The fabric, scorched and mercilessly consumed, gradually unveiled a tapestry of scars etched across his chest, a testament to his raw power.

The ominous hum of machinery filled the air as the anti-air guns underwent a manual shift in targeting, their colossal barrels now pointed with calculated precision toward the hillside. Concealed amidst the debris, Zeller knelt, a harbinger of determination. Her grip on the rifle was unwavering, each muscle taut beneath the strain of its weight. A momentary recalibration of her hold preceded the decisive act – her finger caressed the trigger, unleashing a forceful recoil that she seamlessly absorbed.

The projectile, an embodiment of lethal intent, penetrated the first gun's side, its impact jolting the battery into catastrophic failure. An implosion ensued, a silent eruption of destruction.

Her practised motions continued, the radio pressure pad pressed and released, the signal birthing a swift response. Soldiers, summoned by the call, arose from their sandy refuge, their weaponry poised for confrontation. A hailstorm of bullets rained upon the remaining foes, the symphony of gunfire intermingling with the escalating chaos. The anti-air gun, now pivoting towards this newfound threat, bestowed Zeller with precious seconds. A fraction of time she seized with precision, cycling another round and aligning her sights. The echo of her will materialised in another pull of the trigger, the bullet racing forth to meet its fate. The detonation of the second anti-air gun reverberated across the battlefield, a crescendo of destruction that rippled through the air.

The final explosion, a thunderous crescendo, unleashed a maelstrom of force, cascading shockwaves and debris in every direction. The battlefield quaked beneath the onslaught, a canvas transformed by chaos.

Mclaw, vigilant from his concealed vantage point, bore witness to the tableau of fallen adversaries, a tapestry woven with destruction. His gaze then shifted to the remnants of sand-blanketed hiding places, now disrupted by the throes of battle. He proceeded to wipe the dust from his rifle, a gesture punctuating his readiness. A subtle nod aimed in Mabasa's direction communicated an unspoken accord.

With deliberate grace, Mclaw repositioned his rifle, liberating his sword from its scabbard, a blade born of intent and purpose, its gleam a reflection of unyielding resolve.

"GENERAL!" Mclaw's anger pierced the air.

From the shrouds of the destroyed anti-air gun, General Black emerged, an enigma stepping into the light, "Captain..."