0657 HOURS.
WEDNESDAY, 15 AUGUST 2106.
PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN.
FIRST SERGEANT ERIC BRINER CHECKED HIS WATCH. They were five minutes early. We got excited, he thought. Getting up early for an op like this. He was well in his late thirties. He shouldn’t have been jumping around.
He was stuck on the side of a helicopter as they flew over the burning city of Peshawar. Instead of being like any other man his age—typically being with their family or at some mundane job—he was here doing way more than he should’ve been capable of doing with his broken body. No many how many times he had been to the hospital, been shot, or broke down from the relentless training he was still here with men that were at least five years his junior. As the technical expert within his COF ODA, “The Archangels”, he couldn’t just up and retire or be moved to another unit due to operational needs. He was often placed with support units even though he was Delta, so as of recent he hadn’t been a shooter. Yet, they pulled him for this.
It was a running gag amongst the military: how they would all serve their nation and the government in return would break them down—at least they gave him an option to decide how he was going to end up in a casket. At least sometimes… This irony that he once more set off departing his wife and son would spell his ultimate end or something. He had evaded the Grimm Reaper more than once, and now that his COF had been going by the moniker of “Grimm” he was counting the remaining seconds until the helicopter touched down on the designated rooftop.
Looking down at his rifle he brass-checked the chamber. On the side of the weapon, he had inscribed the names of all his team members. It was something he did in case they ran into an incident where they could never recovery a body.
0739 HOURS.
WEDNESDAY, 15 AUGUST 2106.
PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN.
HIS CHEST TIGHTENED. HIS STOMACH SUNK.
First Sergeant Eric Briner had been split into two by a large slab of drywall and rebar. His upper body was stretched out underneath a pile of rubble; blood covered his face, and pink blood was scattered around the site soaked in his clothes and leaking from clumps of human matter. His lower body was hidden below the rubble. No doubt crushed to splinters by the shrapnel of the explosion. Lowering a knee, Mike stared at the corpse of an old friend—a savior—through the disorienting glow of a flashlight. He had gained a proper look at Eric’s face; any emotions he still had in that moment had been frozen over by death.
First Sergeant Eric Briner: Delta Force Commando, technical expert, former CID intelligence.
All his history had been wiped in a single explosion.
Reaching out his hand, Mike clutched the dog tags sitting in the man’s collar. With a single tug he disturbed a small group of flies that began to eat away at his rotting skin. The smell of death, and the fact he had disturbed his body made Mike sick as he stood silently to return to where the other Rangers had set up shop for recovery efforts. As he walked into the only room that hadn’t collapsed from the blast, the Rangers saw him enter as he walked over to Jacob.
“Here,” he said.
“Dog tags? Keep them. I’ve got nothing more than rubble and broken cabinets,” Jacob solemnly responded as he wiped his blood crusted hands on his pants.
“Mike?” Andrew looked at his long-time friend with a frown. “Did you find anything else out there?”
“No, I didn’t,” Mike didn’t know how to answer. This was his first time recovering personal effects. “I could only find the First Sergeant. I didn’t see anything or anyone else.”
He stowed the dog tag in an empty magazine pouch on his plate carrier.
Oliver closed his eyes and covered his face. God this stress is killing me, he told himself. The others averted their gazes. If there was going to be a recovery—it seemed they couldn’t save anyone—then the time they had left was dwindling and would only continue as they still had to evacuate the city and establish a line of communication to any friendly forces outside of the Dark Zone. He was the sole man that could take charge of the situation, and being this commanding officer, he would be scrutinized under a microscope for things he couldn’t control.
“We have contacts. One truck. One technical.”
The captain looked up at his lieutenant as he stood next to a boarded window glaring through his rifle.
“Get me an AT on the truck! Malkovich, Jackson, Baker, Conner, get to some high ground and get those guns ready. Mike, Green, Simon, run interference with your team lead on ground floor!” Oliver jumped into action as he adjusted the bipod on the end of his rifle, “Xavier, get on the drone and call them out as you see them, use our HUDs.”
Tapping Mike on the shoulder, the lieutenant led the sergeant and his men to the most stable part of the first floor. There were kill holes scattered all around the debris. Though much of it was more concealment, they would make do with what they ere offered. Mike found a corner under a collection of rubble and a collapsed closet. He sat on the ground and found a wooden board to set his rifle on. Getting comfortable, the sergeant slowly changed the top dial on his holographic sight altering the reticle to account for the distance he would be engaging at. They had to buy enough time to disengage and retreat to a haven. This wasn’t maneuver warfare, it was exploiting the chance to trigger an ambush.
“Lieutenant, Oliver.”
“Go ahead, captain.”
“Good to hear that TEAMCOM still works. Use it to coordinate fire. Jackson is reading his AT-4.”
“Huh. I still wonder why that weapon is still made.”
“It still has its uses and is relatively cheap.”
“Go figure. Make sure Corporal Richard uses his nade’ launcher.”
Through his optic Mike watched as two unmarked vehicles slowly crawled through the desolate streets. The lead vehicle had dismounted additional guns, and as the patrol continued forward, he was able to see the weapon on the truck in the back. It was an M2 Browning HMG. The old anti-material weapon had served the United States since its invention, but Ma Deuce still found its way into the hands of the enemy over 200 years later.
“That’s a .50, think we’ll get out of here in once piece, Jacob?” Simon said as he adjusted his grip in the small hole he had found between two collapsed walls. Placing a magazine in front of him, he adjusted his posture ending up sitting crisscross on the ground.
“I don’t want to die,” Jacob admitted as he looked towards his fellow PFC. He was no longer a rookie amongst the Regiment. He had faced death on more than a single occasion and he had escaped with his skin. “If we’re going to fight that thing, the gun has to go first.”
“LT?” Simon looked away from his carbine.
Andrew didn’t, “Just stay focused, we’ll have more to do after this.”
“LT, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Simon asked not removing his face from the carbine.
No answer was provided. The two went silent as the roar of the truck grew louder as the patrol navigated the graveyard of abandoned or destroyed vehicles and bodies. The dirtied windshield reflected the sun through the dusty environment, and all the Rangers grew anxious as they waited for the order to either stand down or engage the unknowns.
With the truck entering a maze of flattened vehicles it was forced to a crawl. The truck was in a kill-zone. Mike bit his lip as both excitement and nervousness spread through his body. He now held his finger just above the trigger as he kept his cool and centered the crosshair on one of the riflemen slowly walking forwards towards the building.
“Stand by to fire” Oliver said.
Mike exhaled slowly as his finger decompressed and took the slack off his trigger.
“AT! AT! Hit the technical!”
“Back blast!” Jackson bellowed as he stood up in a clearing and aimed the weapon at the rear truck.
“Clear!” Sargeant Malkovich responded.
“Blast those motherfuckers!” Oliver cried.
The collection of voices was drowned out by the launching of the HEDP charge. A cloud of smoke and dust was kicked up from the building as the projectile raced towards the truck. The opposing forces barely had time to react to the fire as the truck instantly was consumed in a large cloud of black smoke. Dirt was shot into the air, and an impressive ‘crack’ erupted from the explosion sending a meager shockwave over the ruins.
Anthony let out a static shout as gunfire began to pain the surrounding area in lead. “Open up!” Andrew roared. His voice echoed in the building before being drowned out by the now consistent tempo of bullets being expended downrange. Mike followed up on each shot he took towards the insurgents diving for cover and going prone between the large collection of vehicles.
“Three right side! Twelve o’clock!” Simon shouted as he shifted his rifle slightly right trying to get a bead on the targets he called out.
“50 is still up! 50 is still up! Highlighting target!” Specialist Xavier’s panicked voice took priority of all the men. The resounding, deeper sounding report of the fifty-caliber machine gun broke out into short six round bursts. The bullets fired were aimed at Mike and his fellow Rangers down on the first floor.
Hearing a hiss above his head, and a heavy thud against the wall next to him, Jacob fell on his back as he pushed himself away from the wall he was once against. “Jesus, fuck!” He cursed as he cried moving away from the section of wall that was being chipped away by the anti-material round being fired. Jacob had begun to kick himself where he laid.
He should’ve have realized that the gunner—if he wasn’t eliminated—would unload on the location where the puff of smoke emerged from when the AT4 was used. At this point he was praying for the helicopter they had encountered earlier to swing by and just light up the A.O. Even if it wasn’t the Russians, he would bet the pilot would focus on the targets that were in the open.
Well, the loss of communications could’ve made all the helicopters bug out since he hadn’t seen any in hours.
The last thing he wanted to sort out was the people shooting at them right now. Those sons of bithces had them pinned them in their current spots by accident, and he needed to get unstuck—
He tried to remember what Mike told him.
Eliminating support?
Gunfire still spotted and pinged the room around him. Though the playing field was level, the shooters had moved far enough that the projectiles were coming from different position making it hard to track where each hostile was. Do you all have unlimited ammunition? Jacob screamed in his head as he counted the magazines he had left.
At this point he wanted to toss a coin, see if his luck would hold—
“Oh shit! Jackson’s dead!” Anthony screamed over the fire as he grasped the drag-handle of his fallen Ranger and pulled him out of the way.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“He took a round to the face, fuck!” Xavier followed up as he poised himself to keep the enemy suppressed sending half a magazine down range.
Mike dragged himself along the dusty floors. He could barely register if anyone was able to assist him in killing the man on the machine gun. The corners around his goggles began to fog slightly as his body rapidly warmed. Where he sat it was both hard to breath and move. He was stuck in the corner and his plate carrier was pressing into his chest and throat. The smell of gunpowder and sweat distracted him, and the desperate voices found within the younger Rangers made him freeze. He had heard similar voices, similar cries during his time in Africa, and this was the last thing he wanted to hear. Releasing another spent magazine, he looked to his right as Jacob lowered himself flat on the floor as bullets tore over where he was firing from. Just managing to pull himself together, Mike placed a new magazine into his rifle. And in one swift motion he pulled the charging handle chambering a round.
The report of the machine gun pointed that the AT-4 did little to disable the gun, and the cries of his younger Rangers as they were being targeted by such a deadly weapon made him think of a plan. It was critical to pin the gunner down as he was the priority target that was marked on their HUDs. All they had to do was provide short bursts and provide covering fire for two of their own to move forward and gain a line of sight on the gunner.
“Fuck! I’m bleeding here! Medic!” Xavier’s voice was faint as he called out for Corporal Conner who turned to the sudden call of his title.
“On it! Stay down!” The young man called out as he slung his rifle and brought out his IFAK on his belt. As he stood from where he was firing from, the medic sprinted across the short room. He only made it halfway as a single bullet pierced the wall next to him and slammed into his body sending blood all over the ground and onto his uniform.
“Conner!” Lowering his carbine, Jacob let out a shrill squeal as he watched the medic’s forearm separate from his torso. Bullets impacted the wall next to him, but all he could do was watch as Conner crumple to the ground. He laid completely still, and the PFC only found his voice after Simon had rechambered his rifle clearing a malfunction. “Randall! Someone, Conner is hit!”
In a moment, the bullets seemingly stopped. All the Rangers looked towards where Jacob called to. And in the blink of an eye the gunfire reintroduced itself, though at a slower tempo. Taking of his pack and jolting forward, Mike was soon followed by Jacob as they climbed up the covered section of the building onto the second floor. Baker moved parallel to the two, he provided the necessary covering fire and drew attention away from them as Mike threw down his bag and detached his trauma kit. Conner shifted on the ground, spasming from the sudden damage done to his body.
“Jacob, get the hell over here!” Mike bellowed as he grasped the medic’s shoulders and tried to control the boy from hurting himself anymore. Shuffling in the tight, crowded environment Gazing upon the gruesome wound, Mike spoke quickly, “We need to apply a torniquet, I’ll do that, but I need you to be ready to cauterize his wound with this torch just in case!” He said pulling out a small blue torch from the side of his bag.
“Rog.”
“Where the fuck are they!?” Spitting out both blood and saliva, Conner cried out in a fury, “Someone give me a fucking gun! I need a weapon to get those bastards!” He thrashed around using his maimed arm to pat the ground around him looking for his carbine. He fought against Mike’s grip as the sergeant tried to calm him.
“Keep your head down brother!” Jacob barked trying to fight the well of emotions building behind him as he watched the corporal struggle for his life. Setting down the torch and pulling a small towel from his plate carrier, Jacob pushed the white cloth against Conner’s arm both in an attempt to clout the wound and to hide the shattered bone, blood, and burnt body matter.
“Confirmed! Three KIA!” Oliver boomed lifting the spirits of the other Rangers as they continued to trade lead with the hostile forces.
Securing the tourniquet in place, Mike stared at the blood crusted gloves he had on. His vision trailed to the stream of blood that painted his pants in a dark red. Conner kept thrashing in place until he forced his head up to look at his body. The young boy’s breaths grew heavy, and he began to hyperventilate as an ear-peircing scream escaped his lips, “I’m fucking hit! Somebody! Help!” He continued to squeal in pain as his mind and body registered the fatal wound.
All the voices that were speaking; Captain Oliver desperately trying to get someone to respond on his radio, Lieutenant Andrew calling movement orders to resist the attack being pressed on the building, Sergeant Malkovich’s booming voice calling for control over the situation, and Conner’s blood-curling screaming. They all faded away into one singular mess as Mike tried to regain control of his mind which was slowly slipping away as he sat here with a dying brother in his arms.
“Please.” Conner forced out. Tears fell down his face as he looked directly into Mike’s eyes. “Give me a weapon, Xavier still needs help!”
“Xavier’s is gone!” Jacob shouted. He had moved away from the two and joined Baker near the only window still standing. His rifle was firmly held in his hands, and he kept a line of sight on the dwindling number of enemies out on the street.
At that second the fight to live, the color in Conner’s face suddenly disappeared. He closed his bloodied mouth as tears fell upon his dirt-caked face. “I see.” He whimpered out. Trying to provide some comfort, Mike removed the helmet sitting atop his head. His golden hair was frizzled, and Randall had long removed his gloves as he stroked the young boy’s head.
“Stay with us. Not yet.” The sergeant said in a low voice.
“I tried.” Conner chocked on his words.
“I know,” Was all Mike could say to him. “Jacob. Check for morphine!”
No response. Looking over his shoulder, Mike instantly noticed the lack of gunfire. Just outside, Malkovich took his fireteam and scoured the area looking for more hostile, the rest were moving throughout the building to get to the second floor. The situation was too quiet for comfort, but it was all the Mike had to work with as he overlooked the wounds Conner had sustained, and now, was steadily dying from.
Jacob almost tripped over himself as he scrambled across the floor and crawled up to the young corporal’s medical pack. He ripped it open and practically threw out the contents as he frantically searched for the small syringe. By the time he had found it, his bare hands cradled the needle as he stood up and turned around. A frown slowly formed on his face as he watched Mike clutch Conner’s remaining hand. The two were quiet. And there was nothing any of them could truly do.
“Area’s clear, captain.” Simon’s distorted voice played over the radio.
“Get back inside!” Oliver barked standing just on the rubble behind the two Rangers, “I am not sending you all back in caskets!”
Steadying the still covered needle the needle and kneeling beside Mike, Jacob took out a small alcohol pad as he aimed to clean any remaining vein still intact. Before the PFC had a chance to clean an area of skin, the corporal reached out his arm and smacked away Jacob’s hands. “Don’t.” was all he managed to say as his arm shakily lowered back onto his chest. Mike firmly held the young man’s hand as he used his free one to pat his head.
With the echoes of war seemingly disappearing far away, Simon, Malkovich, and the others reached the second floor. One-by-one, each man knelt on a single knee and formed a protective circle around Conner. The remaining tears he could muster flooded out of his eyes as he tried to speak. No words escaped as he merely chocked on the blood and saliva in his mouth, and before he could say his final words, he slumped over in Mike’s arms letting the blood pool onto his pants.
The echoes of war slowly faded in and out. Jacob shuffled in place. He was angry. He was beaten. Conner’s skin was a deathly pale. His body held still as he remained in Mike’s arms; the latter was just staring ahead at the boy. Gaining some part of his consciousness, the sergeant reached towards the neck of Conner’s body and firmly grasped an object. With a firm yank, a silver dog tag was held in his blood-crusted hands and he held it just a few inches away from his eyes before packing it away in an empty pocket on his plate carrier.
“Randall.” Captain Oliver whispered, yet he said no more.
“Captain, we need to move,” Andrew said placing a hand on the captain’s left shoulder. “Enemy reinforcements are ought to arrive sooner than later.”
Gently placing the corporal’s body on the ground, Mike stood slowly as Malkovich approached him with his carbine. “You’ll need this.” He softly said handing the weapon over.
“Thanks.” Was all that Mike could say in a breaking voice. Stepping to the side and picking up his assault pack, the sergeant readied himself alongside Jacob. Within fifteen seconds the two were ready to go back out into the conflict zone, ready to fight once more.
Oliver watched as his men gathered around him.
0830 HOURS.
WEDNESDAY, 15 AUGUST 2106.
SAFEHOUSE, PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN.
LIEUTENANT ANDREW DEVLIN PLAYED WITH HIS KNIFE.
The advance into Pakistan had not gone as planned. Peshawar was not the epicenter for American action, as it was Islamabad were most of the focus was. When the original Bravo Platoon was pulled from 1st Company, they were reallocated and separated only leaving seven of the original 12.
Andrew did not appreciate what CENTCOM did on a whim.
With no communications meant no word from the 1st Infantry Division, and no news about where to rendezvous without getting shot. There had been spotted rumors amongst the squadron where to locate their allies, even if it was the Russians they had to fall back on. No argued against the idea, but with outdated information—and, with the plan that changed with the outage, it marked an alternate path for them.
Andrew didn’t know how to take losing the entire strike force and losing part of his squadron. He had trained and worked with the men for over a year. Though he was commissioned no different from the normal officer, he felt more at home with the enlisted as his methodology for leadership came from a Mustang he met when he was at his first duty station.
He leaned forward removing his helmet. The sudden loss of the weigh on his head made the headache he had fade instantly.
“Did we make a mistake? Going to the ruble?” The junior officer lamented, trying to understand and logically compartmentalize what had happened and why they did.
“What kind of question is that?” Jacob retorted turning away from the window he was posted at.
Since they had escaped to the safehouse, Mike had merely stared at the bowl of food that was made by his counterpart. Much to Malkovich’s teasing and chagrin, the sergeant had taken a smaller portion of the stew and now found himself staring at the mix of meat, vegetables, garlic, salt, and pepper filling a fourth of the bowl. Taking a small silver spoon that he was provided, Mike gently scooped up some of the stew and hastily placed it in his mouth. The complex tastes filled his mouth but wasn’t quite enough to distract him from the dust and dried blood covering his hands. Earlier, he had handed his hydration pack to Jacob. The young PFC had filled it up for him, thus he never even grew near the water while he pulled guard duty.
Snapping himself out of the haze he had wandered into, Mike began to scan the area out the window that he sat next to. Within seconds he spotted a brown-haired dog strolling onto the property. The mut had reached the center and lifted its nose towards the sky, then quickly returned it to the ground. Mike placed his bowl down as he kept watch of the street nearby. The dog had no doubt been attracted by the smell of the stew, and it was very well a possibility that the dog was being watched or even commanded by hostile forces.
Their position was compromised?
Blinking several times, Mike noticed a white haze growing n the distance. A light pain grew at the front of his head, and he backed away from the window caressing his forehead trying to nurse the pain. Hallucinations would be a major indicator of dehydration, so he took his hydration back and drank from it slowly as he gently closed the blinds of the window, he was next to.
“So, what now?” Anthony asked finishing the bowl of stew he had. “How long till we reach one of the infantry platoons guarding the city exits?”
“If I remember correctly, there were fifteen platoons at each major exit and entrance to the city. Had some support units as well, so if we’re going to find our way out, we’d be risking friendly fire due to them being stationed there to stop any fleeing insurgents.” Malkovich said as he poured a bowl for the captain.
“Big Red One was handling that, right?” Simon asked as he took of his glasses.
“That’s what the report and briefing said.” Randall quietly interjected.
Conversing to each other trying to find a solution to this sudden problem, the Rangers gathered around in a small circle to discuss their options and try to conclude what their next move should be. The pot of stew was slowly emptied into the stomachs of each man, and to the side, Oliver at his fill alone as he stared aimlessly at the group. Within the 75th Ranger Regiment, Oliver was one of the few captains who allowed this type of engagement from his troops. Sure, he was hard-boiled, but the other captains within the regiment leaned towards the “balls hard” approach when dealing with their immediate subordinates.
He had always hated those types since he was a dainty and naive Second Lieutenant.
All he wanted was a beer, not this mess.
“Do you think this is happening in every city? The whole nation?” Malkovich wondered aloud as he gently set the cover on the pot.
“Nah—can’t be,” Jacob followed up, “Satellite communications should still be up. A third party would’ve had to step in to set up jamming rigs on every city.”
“The Russians?”
“No.” Mike said forcing his way into the conversation. “President Volodin has been working closely with the U.S. and I doubt that they would pull as stunt like this after joining us in training exercises with one of the infantry battalions a few months back.”
As Mike tried to get comfortable in his seat, a bright light suddenly flashed him in the window making him flinch and fall to the ground. The men were alarmed by their sergeant collapsing to the ground in a panic, and only after two seconds they spring into action as they spread out in the main foyer trying to grab a piece of cover.
“Keep your head down!” Baker barked as he and the others waited for the moment of a hail of bullets to penetrate the walls and windows.
“What’s the SITREP?” Andrew asked moving beside Mike as he scrambled to the wooden table that was now overturned.
“I don’t know.” Mike answered with a grim expression.
“I don’t see anything!” Jacob said as he kept his rifle aligned on the window that was once behind Mike. “Could it be a gunship?”
“Then where the fuck is the helicopter? I don’t hear jack!”
“Settle down!” Captain Oliver bellowed taking control of the erratic men that were completely blindsided by the light. “Randall, get out the door!” He ordered withdrawing a smoke grenade from his vest.
“Yessir, cover me.” Mike said as he removed himself from behind the table and moved towards the door with his rifle raised. He gently placed his left hand on the doorknob and twisted it. The others anxiously waited in positions to provide fire support. Opening the door, sure that he was going to die, Mike steadied his heart and mind as he stepped outside.
Placing his boots on the ground, the sergeant slowly scanned the area.
Slowly lowering his rifle, Mike stared at nothing but a void of white.
Gone were the streets of Peshawar, and all that remained was an infinite white haze that stretched as far as his eyes could see. “It’s clear! You’re going to want to see this!”
Publicly Available Information: Intercepted Messages 1:
Mr. President, I can confirm that the mission to capture the high-value-target “Brutus” in Peshawar Pakistan has failed. All troops on ground were taken off guard by the communications blackout and were either wiped out or significantly weakened within the city. Russian QRF remains on standby, but I cannot say they will be of use considering the possible threat of a nuclear device. NEST teams are on standby, but they need full support to enter the city and confirm the threat.
I am already aware of the Spetsnaz units that have been deployed alongside Jacob Beret ODAs in the region, but I cannot say that they will be enough to locate the Pakistani President’s daughter. Worse enough, mercenaries under the Afghani payroll have entered Pakistan and have begun to engage all coalition forces within the region. They are supplying munitions and training to the insurgents which places the U.S. and Russia in a hot zone where over 3000 nukes could be at stake.
There are many objectives that the mission in the middle east aims to complete. This is just one of five sub-set objectives that status is, unknown.