F-16D
12-31-2001, 07:59 AM
The clear night air hung heavy over the small city. The sun would have illuminated the clay homes, turning them colors of gold and yellow along the rolling hills, but the moon ruled the sky like an ever-watchful hawk. A soldier in urban camouflage was crouched down inside a hut, his glasses slipping a bit away from his eyes as he looked down at his cigarette case.
"Great," The soldier replied into his empty case. "Must've smoked the last one when I was coming in, just swell." He stood up, holding his assault rifle by the handle as it hung by his right leg. The soldier's smoke grey helmet shifted forward, prompting him to move it back and readjust the strap. His armor didn't shine at all, being the same smoke-grey color as the soldier's helmet. He placed his cigarette case back into his pocket and raised his left arm. The time was 0400 hours local time.
The soldier shifted along the wall, making sure he wasn't being tracked by an enemy soldier. "They could be anywhere," The soldier reminded himself. The enemy soldiers wore civilian clothing and blended in with the common folk. Only thing was, they carried assault rifles while civilians didn't. The soldier had seen an eleven-year-old kid pull a pistol from his pocket and shoot at his squad. The return hail of lead was deafening, and the results were all but pleasant. He thought he was used to it, but not a kid!
A gunshot rang out, the bullet digging it's face into the stone floor of the clay hut. The solider stepped back quickly, lifting his rifle and covering the door to make sure he could defend himself if it were a ground soldier. A cold sweat was pouring down his forehead now. He was far from his squad and almost all alone after taking the lead.
Another gunshot rang out. A scream punctuated the moment. Sending chills down the soldier's spine. The gunshot still rang in his head, but he knew where it's general direction was. He was just about to open fire when he heard it.
"I've been hit! I need a medic!" The soldier knew the sniper wasn't looking to kill the wounded man just yet. He was waiting to shoot the medic to keep the squad from being patched up. Although it was against the Geneva Convention, it is what happened on the front lines all too often. The wounded man began crying as the pain became worse. Footsteps began approaching fast from down the street, each step was almost as loud as a gunshot it seemed. A loud clanging of metal instruments signaled that a field medic was rushing up to aid his fallen comrade.
Another gunshot, this time there was no scream. Just an empty thud as a body hit the ground. Another gunshot and the crying in the street from the wounded man stopped. The soldier felt so alone now. He made his way along the wall quietly, making sure not to arouse the attention of the sniper outside. He entered the clay home's bedroom and began crawling quietly along the floor.
No civilians occupied this house, it had been long since the artillery bombardments scared them out. The only thing left were personal items left behind, a carton of domestic cigarettes (which tasted awful and left a bad taste in your mouth) and a pantry closest (which now contained ghost white spider webs). The house had been effectively raided by it's owners and neighbors, making a looting spree after a hurricane look like a picnic.
Distant artillery fire off in the distance meant that the flanks were advancing without the main body of the attack. If the soldiers did not take the city by 2200 hours local time, coordinated air strikes and artillery bombardments would level everything. If the enemy didn't surrender their valuable crossroads, the Allied forces would eliminate it from the map, rather than just sit and wait for it to be captured totally by either side.
The clay hut began to shake slightly, then heavily, bringing items still on shelves to the floor. At first, the soldier believed it to be an Earthquake. However, in reality, it was a main battle tank. The fat, short tank was hard to hit, but could deliver a good hit to any target. It rumbled along, treads digging into the ground. The rainbow-colored cobblestone street couldn't handle the massive weight of the tank and began to compress farther into the ground. The soldier peeked his head up quickly to see whose tank it was. It was a friendly!
"Hey! Over here! I need fire support!" The soldier yelled, waving his arms wildly. His young face shone in the headlights of the oncoming tank. A sniper round, it's sound cloaked by the monstrous tank, entered the clay just an inch from the soldier's face. The solider ducked down and remembered where the shot had come from. He had to remember the days when one of the average high schools in America taught him mathematics. The bullet had to have come from the roof, judging by the angle. Where on the roof was a crap shoot, but the tank might offer him some kind of window of opportunity when the enemy sniper might duck down and completely look away so he blends in.
The soldier lifted his rifle to meet his shoulder. He got up to a ducking position and waited for the right time. The tank's main gun fired, breaking the tension. Then, the soldier lifted up and looked for the sniper in his sights. He saw a small object move a bit, netting all around it with leaves and twigs stuffed into the netting. The soldier fired, sending a bullet into the cerebellum of his opponent. A short scream escaped the sniper's lips, permeating the noise generated by the tank's own kill of an old Soviet tank that was worth less than the metal from which it was built. The soldier crawled onto the window sill and then rolled into the street. He got to his feet and ran to the other side, looking both ways as they taught him as a child. He dived into a broken ship window as an artillery shell landed in the street, causing the tank driver to rethink his tactics and fall back a bit.
"Hey Fred, over here!" A rough, male voice whispered loudly to the soldier from the corner. A figure was crouching with his back to the wall and a rifle at his right hip. The soldier could barely make out his comrade's camouflage in the darkness, the rifle had given him away.
"George, where have you been? I've been shot at all this time and you're sitting down here? Where's the rest of the squad?" Fred asked cautiously.
"They're all dead..."
"Great," The soldier replied into his empty case. "Must've smoked the last one when I was coming in, just swell." He stood up, holding his assault rifle by the handle as it hung by his right leg. The soldier's smoke grey helmet shifted forward, prompting him to move it back and readjust the strap. His armor didn't shine at all, being the same smoke-grey color as the soldier's helmet. He placed his cigarette case back into his pocket and raised his left arm. The time was 0400 hours local time.
The soldier shifted along the wall, making sure he wasn't being tracked by an enemy soldier. "They could be anywhere," The soldier reminded himself. The enemy soldiers wore civilian clothing and blended in with the common folk. Only thing was, they carried assault rifles while civilians didn't. The soldier had seen an eleven-year-old kid pull a pistol from his pocket and shoot at his squad. The return hail of lead was deafening, and the results were all but pleasant. He thought he was used to it, but not a kid!
A gunshot rang out, the bullet digging it's face into the stone floor of the clay hut. The solider stepped back quickly, lifting his rifle and covering the door to make sure he could defend himself if it were a ground soldier. A cold sweat was pouring down his forehead now. He was far from his squad and almost all alone after taking the lead.
Another gunshot rang out. A scream punctuated the moment. Sending chills down the soldier's spine. The gunshot still rang in his head, but he knew where it's general direction was. He was just about to open fire when he heard it.
"I've been hit! I need a medic!" The soldier knew the sniper wasn't looking to kill the wounded man just yet. He was waiting to shoot the medic to keep the squad from being patched up. Although it was against the Geneva Convention, it is what happened on the front lines all too often. The wounded man began crying as the pain became worse. Footsteps began approaching fast from down the street, each step was almost as loud as a gunshot it seemed. A loud clanging of metal instruments signaled that a field medic was rushing up to aid his fallen comrade.
Another gunshot, this time there was no scream. Just an empty thud as a body hit the ground. Another gunshot and the crying in the street from the wounded man stopped. The soldier felt so alone now. He made his way along the wall quietly, making sure not to arouse the attention of the sniper outside. He entered the clay home's bedroom and began crawling quietly along the floor.
No civilians occupied this house, it had been long since the artillery bombardments scared them out. The only thing left were personal items left behind, a carton of domestic cigarettes (which tasted awful and left a bad taste in your mouth) and a pantry closest (which now contained ghost white spider webs). The house had been effectively raided by it's owners and neighbors, making a looting spree after a hurricane look like a picnic.
Distant artillery fire off in the distance meant that the flanks were advancing without the main body of the attack. If the soldiers did not take the city by 2200 hours local time, coordinated air strikes and artillery bombardments would level everything. If the enemy didn't surrender their valuable crossroads, the Allied forces would eliminate it from the map, rather than just sit and wait for it to be captured totally by either side.
The clay hut began to shake slightly, then heavily, bringing items still on shelves to the floor. At first, the soldier believed it to be an Earthquake. However, in reality, it was a main battle tank. The fat, short tank was hard to hit, but could deliver a good hit to any target. It rumbled along, treads digging into the ground. The rainbow-colored cobblestone street couldn't handle the massive weight of the tank and began to compress farther into the ground. The soldier peeked his head up quickly to see whose tank it was. It was a friendly!
"Hey! Over here! I need fire support!" The soldier yelled, waving his arms wildly. His young face shone in the headlights of the oncoming tank. A sniper round, it's sound cloaked by the monstrous tank, entered the clay just an inch from the soldier's face. The solider ducked down and remembered where the shot had come from. He had to remember the days when one of the average high schools in America taught him mathematics. The bullet had to have come from the roof, judging by the angle. Where on the roof was a crap shoot, but the tank might offer him some kind of window of opportunity when the enemy sniper might duck down and completely look away so he blends in.
The soldier lifted his rifle to meet his shoulder. He got up to a ducking position and waited for the right time. The tank's main gun fired, breaking the tension. Then, the soldier lifted up and looked for the sniper in his sights. He saw a small object move a bit, netting all around it with leaves and twigs stuffed into the netting. The soldier fired, sending a bullet into the cerebellum of his opponent. A short scream escaped the sniper's lips, permeating the noise generated by the tank's own kill of an old Soviet tank that was worth less than the metal from which it was built. The soldier crawled onto the window sill and then rolled into the street. He got to his feet and ran to the other side, looking both ways as they taught him as a child. He dived into a broken ship window as an artillery shell landed in the street, causing the tank driver to rethink his tactics and fall back a bit.
"Hey Fred, over here!" A rough, male voice whispered loudly to the soldier from the corner. A figure was crouching with his back to the wall and a rifle at his right hip. The soldier could barely make out his comrade's camouflage in the darkness, the rifle had given him away.
"George, where have you been? I've been shot at all this time and you're sitting down here? Where's the rest of the squad?" Fred asked cautiously.
"They're all dead..."