Whiskey Delta – Chapter 30

“No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the enemy until it is ripe for execution.”

-Niccolo Machiavelli

Whitman’s feet were beginning to get itchy. His feet searched in vain for a rock to kick, but found only gravel. Kicking that only seemed to bring up dust, so he tried his best to resist that particular urge. For days now he had been feeling the rumble of a vehicle around him, the steady vibrating pedals beneath his feet. Standing still at this point felt downright awful.

And then there was the sounds and smells. Everything was so damn quiet, nothing but the sounds of birds and the occasional gust of wind to break the monotony of relative silence. And dammit if it didn’t all smell real fresh and natural. He preferred that to the stench of the inner city and anywhere else that had been overrun by those stinking monsters, but the smell of diesel and engine grease was better still. That smelt was safe, a reminder of the several inches of reinforced steel that kept him protected.

But this fresh air nonsense… it smelt like exposure.

Little wonder then why his hands were feeling itchy too. He had checked and rechecked his weapon many times, even pointed it down range of them in the hopes that aiming at something might make him feel better. Alas, no. He guessed that squeezing off a few rounds might, but of course, they were under strict fire discipline. Any stray fire would only draw the enemy to them.

All this thinking was making his more antsy. Aiming his gun down range, he began to wave it back and forth and made shooting noises. First the sound of the SCAR’s regular pop, pop, pop, followed by what he imagined it would sound like suppressed.

“Pew, pew, pew! Pew, pew, pew!” he said in rapid succession. He could feel Kobayashi beginning to stare at him and turned around.

“What, man?”

“Nothing,” he said, quickly looking away. Whitman grunted and turned back to the gravel, risked a kick that sent all kinds of dust into the air.

 He looked back again and noted that Kobayashi was still standing there perfectly still, his launcher held low by his waist. Something about it seemed particularly annoying to him suddenly.

“How can you stand so fucking still?”

A smile formed at the edge of the big man’s mouth. “Because I’m not high on cheap crank.”

“Wh- What are you talking about.”

“That trucker shit you’ve been popping to keep awake. Don’t you know it’s bad for you?”

“What makes you think I’m popping crank? And incidentally, it’s trucker pills. That shit is safe!”

Kobayashi’s face formed into a full-on smirk this time. “My brother hauled freight for like eight years. That’s how I can tell you’re high as fuck. He’d come to dinners too soon after work, be fidgeting and yelling the whole way through the thing.”

Whitman frowned. “Really? You guys drive trucks too?”

Kobayashi frowned back and raised his finger. “Watch it, white man! Besides, my brother finally quit because his do told him that his heart couldn’t stand the stress of so many uppers and downers no more.”

“Hey, I don’t do the blue pills, man. I’m a red pill kind of guy, once in awhile I might pop the primo Mexican shit.”

“Fuck the amphetamines and the crank, man. Smoke some Kush! Calms you down, makes you cool and even. Way better than that greasy shit.”

Whitman began looking at Kobayashi sideways. This was a side of him he didn’t think existed, the kind of person who sounded more comfortable talking about weed and gaming than his ancestors and that Bushido shit. He found it hard to imagine that he had ever really partaken really.

“Oh?” he replied. “Is that how you maintain that Zen-like trance you guys are so proud of?”

Kobayashi snarled at him. He knew a thinly-veiled racial slur when he heard one. Luckily, he knew about Whitman at this point to hit him back where he lived.

“You get a bit more of that going where you’re from, and less crystal meth and crack, maybe you wouldn’t be burning crosses so much.”

“Ooh! Somebody’s been talking to the Sarge!What, he tell you how to pigeon hole me just because I got some questionable ancestry?” Kobayashi laughed. Whitman had to admit, he was feeling a little better too. All this talk appeared to be lessening the pressure he was feeling behind his eyeballs. He grumbled one last comment and got back into position again.

“Yeah, I call hate crimes on you guys.”

They stood by the door of the Stryker for several more moment, though they seemed to pass more comfortably now. Nevertheless, Whitman felt he could hear something new, something other than the sound of pressure building inside his skull. It was low, thumping and fast, but not his heart threatening to blow a gasket. He looked over at Kobayashi, saw that he heard it too.

“What the hell is that?”

Kobayashi narrowed his eyes, appeared to be listening closer. The sound was growing now, and Whitman realized what it had to be just as Kobayashi said it aloud.

“We got an incoming chopper.”

*                    *                    *

If only they had given us suppressors, he thought. Wouldn’t that have been beyond cool? But then again, few military units did unless they were involved wetwork. But dammit, wasn’t the Colonel lady supposed to be Special Forces? Didn’t they shoot up motherfuckers all the time with silenced rifles?

They were coming to another clearing at last, which was good. Not only did it means they were coming upon their target again, it also nice to be breaking clear of the foliage. Braun did not claim to possess any sixth-sense abilities, but the surroundings were beginning to feel just the slightest bit claustrophobic.

The opening up ahead was like a release valve. Blue and white coming in through a hole in the canopy. He could see clear to the other side of the Reservoir and to the sky beyond. And once again, the colors were changing before his eyes, distance and light lending everything a misty, drab-like quality.

Saunder’s laptop was once again beeping loudly too. Ever since they made it around that first clearing and tilted back east, they knew by virtue of its constant rhythm that they were on a straight track to their target. A few more meters and Braun ordered her to stow it and shut off the sensor. He reached into the pocket over his left breast and removed his PDA, held it up for the others to see.

“Our target isn’t likely to be alone. Be ready to ID any faces once we’re in range.”

The squad obliged and brought their PDA’s forward, sliding them into place on the stocks of their weapons. Point and ID, that was the name of the game now. Braun raised his arm and motioned forward, and the squad began to spread out and form into a horizontal line moving forward.

He looked back to the clearing now and saw through more clearly now. Water below them, a think layer of mist between them and its surface. Ripples on the water showed the wind coming through the area, while birds waded on its currents above them. They were so close now, on the verge of reaching their target. He could feel the anticipation building, and also that sense of warning that told him to be on the lookout for any last minute surprises.

They hit the opening at last. The light washed over them and caused their HUD’s to darken a few shades. It began to slowly lighten as their visors compensated. They seemed to react much as their eyes would have had they come without the special suits. Within seconds, they received a clear view of the panoramic scene, the vast sweep of the Reservoir beneath and the sloping greenery that led to it.

Braun raised his fist, and the squad descended to a crouched position. In the tall grass that had become their immediate surroundings, he  looked over to Saunders and nodded at her. Keeping the laptop on silent mode, she opened it up and looked just over to her left. Chin out, she nodded at a spot several dozen meters ahead. Braun waved two fingers in the same direction, ordering them to proceed forward two by two. Dezba and Mill were the first forward, he took Saunders by his side and moved adjacent to them. Cobb turned around and began slowly walking backwards, covering their rear.

Very slowly, they crept forward. He kept his eyes just above the grass and cattails, trying to spot the sign of a Whiskey head beneath them. Every so often, the grass swayed from a gust of wind, parting the field of green in various places. However, he couldn’t quite see the profile of a man just yet. Darker patches were visible, but they were still too far…

He could feel the ground crunching beneath his feet as they walked, the sound of the grass stroking against their gear. It was hard to tell, but the noise level created by their movements seemed acceptably low. The loudest noise was still the wind, and so the wind was their friend.

“Please… cover our approach, just a little bit longer.” He whispered these words quietly to her, knowing that he was the only one who could hear his words. But it didn’t hurt. He had to figure that whatever powers guided the universe wanted them to succeed. No divine force, no matter how cruel or sadistic, could ever envision these creatures carrying the day. Not for long at any rate…

The sudden intrusion from the comm made his stop and grunt. With the quiet and the heightened sense of awareness it had engendered, the sounds of Whitman’s voice in his ear was about the loudest thing he could imagine right now.

“Alpha team, this is Stryker. We got company. I repeat, we got company.”

Braun keyed his comm to reply. Ahead and behind, the rest of the team got the transmission too and came to a halt.

“Stryker, this Alpha leader. Say again, you’ve got Whiskeys on you?”

“Negative, sir,” said Whitman. “We got a bird, possibly two, inbound to our position, over.”

Braun felt the hair on the back his neck stand up. Another bird? Who the hell could it be this time? Had it been a too much to hope that HMS had sent only one team into the area, or that there were no more coming? Turning back, he looked to Cobb and quickly signed off with Whitman.

“Get back on the Stryker and make sure she’s under cover. Wait for further orders.” He didn’t wait for Whitman to respond before keying it again and messaging Cobb. “Corporal, get on the UAV. Sight that bird for me and give me an ID.”

Cobb produced the control pad from his pouch and powered it up. He quickly tapped the controls to get a visual from the Reaper’s camera feed and began to zoom, pan and search until he found the thermal image of the helicopter that was approaching them.

“I spot one, sir. Looks like a…” he fiddled with the display to get a closer look. The object was bright white, emitting a hard thermal signature, and its outline very familiar. That didn’t make it any less worrisome though. “Alpha Hotel Six-Four, sir. Apache attack chopper, and she’s inbound.”

Braun lowered his head and cursed silently. Out in the open, as they were, they’d be perfectly visible to the choppers thermal sights. And assuming they were after the same target as the rest of them, they might not take to the presence of his squad too nicely. If it came to a shooting match, the Apache would have them easily beat.

“Alright, squad. We make for the treeline and -”

“Sir!” Cobb interrupted. “I got worse news!”

Worse than an attack chopper that may be trying to kill us? he thought. What the hell could that be?

“What is it, Corporal?”

“Look for yourself.”

Cobb turned the pad around and began cycling through IR modes, positive and negative to give him a view of what he had just seen. All around them, their five heat signatures in the field, were the countless lesser signatures of Whiskeys. In one mode, they appeared as bright grey outlines next to their five bright ones. In the other, as mottled black ones next to their jet black ones. Either way, the picture was clear. They were surrounded!

“Son of a bitch,” he said to himself. They hadn’t seen any of them yet, but he was beginning to suspect that was because they weren’t meant to. They had been warned to expect some tricks from their prey on this op, but he had never imagined, not in his wildest dreams, that they would be able to pull something like this. He felt stupid and angry all at once, part of him still clinging to the hope that it had been purely accidental.

“What do we do, sir?” asked Cobb. He was joined by Dezba shortly thereafter. The team was still waiting on him and didn’t know yet.

“Sir, do we move on the target or the treeline sir? We need to do it now, sir!”

Braun could barely hear him. The sound of his heart and heavy breathing was picking up in his ears, and that feeling of claustrophobia again. They didn’t need to be under a canopy of trees for him to feel constricted now. Worse than before, he could feel dark hands moving in, clutching at his throat, and the final blow felt like it was yet to come. Where would it come from? Above, or all around them? It mattered little. Either way, they were just as dead!

“Sir? What do we do?”

And then it hit him, a searing burst of light that pushed the darkness back. The chopper was close enough that he could hear the distant thump or rotors through his helmet, and the display showed that the bulk of their targets were moving in from the south. What was it the Mage had told him that one time, echoing the advice his dad used to give him?

“Sir? What do we do?” repeated Dezba. Braun keyed his comm.

Never miss an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. “Everybody take cover. Cobb, bring the UAV’s weapons online!”