Member
Crimson Flame
Lunamaria Hawke
Half Pint
Einherjar 906
Mae
Snowdrops
Slypheed
vietmyke
Sky BlueRichard bounced and jostled with the movement of the tracked vehicle across the uneven terrain. He listened and nodded back to Tyler with a brief grim, thin smile and followed his affirmation with a 'sir' of his own. Like the rest of the team around him, he loaded his weapon - a TAR-21C Tavor, in his case - and readied himself for action.
He wasn't disappointed or left waiting for long, as all too soon the hammering of the .50 Browning on the roof of the vehicle was accompanied by shouts and explosions of movement as the team disembarked with haste from the vehicle. Around them, the air was heavy and thick. The distant thump of helicopter blades drifted from the far end of town, the hammer of rocket explosions inconsistent and sudden enough still that they broke the silence with alarm each time. But it didn't stay that way for long; the arrival of the soldiers was enough to stir the hornet's nest, and armed, angry men spilled out into the streets around the dilapidated building, yelling and jabbering before sending a tumultuous storm of firepower their way.
Fear at facing professionals and anger at being discovered and challenged drove the actions of the men against them. Their shots were not precise, their movement not remotely military; they were people who'd been bullied, threatened, bribed and coerced into fighting. Or, simply people with nothing else left to do except pass on their discontent to others at the end of a gun. He had some sympathy for their situation, but not for the individuals themselves. He moved along in sharp formation with the rest of Red team, the angular bullpup glued in tight to his shoulder and snapping off short double-taps into centre mass or at the heads of the hostiles as they moved. The stink of combat built up quickly, along with the crackling din of rifle and machine-gun fire. Swirling dust and grit caught in his teeth and stung his eyes as he moved swiftly.
When the technical reared its' head, he too added fire, going down on one knee and aiming for the gunner and those in the bed at the rear with short bursts. Under fire from so many of the team and from the .50 on the vehicle, the pickup truck withered into scrap. He ejected the dead mag and swapped in a new one as he ran, leapfrogging along with the rest, their disciplined, interlocking firepower forcing the hostiles back even as their numbers thinned out. He lobbed a single frag grenade to clear out a position behind a ramshackle outbuilding, giving the cry of 'frag out!' as a warning as he over-arm tossed the grenade. The corrugated metal-and-wood building blew apart in a shower of smoke and clods of dirt as he moved on, putting down another gunman with a decisive burst of 5.56 into the chest.
They swept across the courtyard, and Richard heard Nikolaj's order over his headset to form up. He thumped his back against the wall as he joined him in cover, stacking up to breach the shoddy-looking building. He took a brief sip of water from his camelbak to wash out the taste of cordite and dust, spitting it into the dirt, before he slung his Tavor and drew his Jericho, the handgun offering more versatility in the room entry. Waiting for the word to move, his expression remained firm, if wild-eyed with the adrenaline of the last minutes-worth of activity.
As they were given the order, he followed close behind Tyler and Oakley, pistol tight in both hands, eyes and ears sharp as they moved down the buildings' hallway. A brief shout in arabic was silenced by a shot from the boss's F2000, and as they were directed to check the door on the left, he nodded, stacking up on the opposite side. He reached for the doorknob and nodded to the other two, preparing to slip open the door and to storm in and check the room, or lob in a grenade as appropriate. Meeting their eyes, he twisted the handle.
He wasn't disappointed or left waiting for long, as all too soon the hammering of the .50 Browning on the roof of the vehicle was accompanied by shouts and explosions of movement as the team disembarked with haste from the vehicle. Around them, the air was heavy and thick. The distant thump of helicopter blades drifted from the far end of town, the hammer of rocket explosions inconsistent and sudden enough still that they broke the silence with alarm each time. But it didn't stay that way for long; the arrival of the soldiers was enough to stir the hornet's nest, and armed, angry men spilled out into the streets around the dilapidated building, yelling and jabbering before sending a tumultuous storm of firepower their way.
Fear at facing professionals and anger at being discovered and challenged drove the actions of the men against them. Their shots were not precise, their movement not remotely military; they were people who'd been bullied, threatened, bribed and coerced into fighting. Or, simply people with nothing else left to do except pass on their discontent to others at the end of a gun. He had some sympathy for their situation, but not for the individuals themselves. He moved along in sharp formation with the rest of Red team, the angular bullpup glued in tight to his shoulder and snapping off short double-taps into centre mass or at the heads of the hostiles as they moved. The stink of combat built up quickly, along with the crackling din of rifle and machine-gun fire. Swirling dust and grit caught in his teeth and stung his eyes as he moved swiftly.
When the technical reared its' head, he too added fire, going down on one knee and aiming for the gunner and those in the bed at the rear with short bursts. Under fire from so many of the team and from the .50 on the vehicle, the pickup truck withered into scrap. He ejected the dead mag and swapped in a new one as he ran, leapfrogging along with the rest, their disciplined, interlocking firepower forcing the hostiles back even as their numbers thinned out. He lobbed a single frag grenade to clear out a position behind a ramshackle outbuilding, giving the cry of 'frag out!' as a warning as he over-arm tossed the grenade. The corrugated metal-and-wood building blew apart in a shower of smoke and clods of dirt as he moved on, putting down another gunman with a decisive burst of 5.56 into the chest.
They swept across the courtyard, and Richard heard Nikolaj's order over his headset to form up. He thumped his back against the wall as he joined him in cover, stacking up to breach the shoddy-looking building. He took a brief sip of water from his camelbak to wash out the taste of cordite and dust, spitting it into the dirt, before he slung his Tavor and drew his Jericho, the handgun offering more versatility in the room entry. Waiting for the word to move, his expression remained firm, if wild-eyed with the adrenaline of the last minutes-worth of activity.
As they were given the order, he followed close behind Tyler and Oakley, pistol tight in both hands, eyes and ears sharp as they moved down the buildings' hallway. A brief shout in arabic was silenced by a shot from the boss's F2000, and as they were directed to check the door on the left, he nodded, stacking up on the opposite side. He reached for the doorknob and nodded to the other two, preparing to slip open the door and to storm in and check the room, or lob in a grenade as appropriate. Meeting their eyes, he twisted the handle.
