Eighteen Delta Force operators fast-roped down from two hovering helicopters. One team dropped on each side of the plane. In less than 19 seconds, they sanitized the crew and any surviving guardsmen without taking a single casualty. Including the pilots, since one unwisely picked up a weapon. No big deal. A couple of the Fed troopers were rated to fly this simple freight job, if need be. The other two choppers dropped their loads on the large hangers and warehouses just to the west of the tarmac. Eighteen more high-speed, low-drag, “regular” Special Forces cleared those structures in less than sixty seconds.
Sophie’s LT figured it out quicker than most. Over the radio came his stern, but reassuring voice. “Ok everyone. Things just got real. We have zero chance to retake that plane. There’s no point in even trying to stop them. Stay well away from them and the choppers might not notice you. Looks like they won this round, ladies and gentlemen. Let these people do whatever they want. I repeat, do not engage. Do not do anything to hinder their recovery of the nukes. There’s nothing more we can accomplish here. All stations acknowledge, over.”
Even as he briefed the platoon, he forgot that not everyone was listening into that radio frequency. His own gunner, for example, didn’t hear a word. He was too focused on the enemy helicopters. Those were dangerous machines, all right, equipped with expensive anti-missile countermeasures and flown by some of the best pilots in the world.
On the other hand, when hovering in place less than a hundred feet over the ground, they were sitting ducks to his .50 caliber machine gun. He sighted in on one of the whirly birds and depressed both fire buttons, grinning as smoke poured out of the enemy machine a second later. He was positively laughing when that smoke gave way to fire and the chopper spun several times before finally crashing just to the side of the big transport.
He wasn’t laughing when another Battle Hawk instantly identified him, acquired his vehicle in the heads up display, and blasted off a laser-guided Hellfire at them. The missile, intended to kill 72-ton main battle tanks, didn’t leave much left of the 2-ton fiberglass and aluminum Humvee. Nor of the five flesh and bone men inside.
Sophie wasn’t the most senior or even the most experienced surviving militia NCO after the LT was cremated. However, she was the only person in the platoon with a plan. That gave her all the authority she needed. She clicked on her radio and took charge of the rest of the Freedom Brigade militia.
“All vehicles: dismount now! Everyone rally at the Reno Avenue business park gate. We’ll take these fuckers on foot! Leave your trucks and rally on me!”
The only thing more impressive than the whole platoon rallying on her position in less than 10 minutes, without attracting the helicopters’ deadly attention, was that they even followed her lead. At least until they were all in one location. When she explained her plan of breaching the warehouses, clearing out the enemy and then besieging the plane, fear quickly overtook discipline.
One of her fellow squad leaders balked first. “Are you fucking crazy? Those are Navy Seals or whatever over there. We don’t stand a chance. You heard the LT. I’m not going to throw my life away over this shit.”
Sophie stepped closer to him and tried to give a pep talk. He waved her off.
“No, not another word from you, Kampbell. You’re trying to get everyone killed and I’m sure as hell not going to be a part of that.”
Jamal came up on the guy from behind with murder in his eyes, but Sophie delivered the fatal blow. She wrenched his rifle straight out of his surprised hands and pointed away from the field.
“I will not have you shitting on the memory of our people. Get out of my face, you fucking coward. Move, now! You just resigned. The rest of us have work to do.” He stormed off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
She probably could have gotten away with shooting him, but the example she set held her fighters in place far better than violence. Punishing the cowardly just wasn’t an efficient motivator. A warrior who fears death as much from his own side as the enemy will do his best to avoid contact with either. Eventually, they become more of a liability to friendly’s than a threat to the enemy.
Shame, on the other hand, was incredibly effective. The fear of letting down your comrades, of losing their hard won respect, held the fighters firmly in place and guaranteed they wouldn’t be following that other guy. Common sense had now been equated to cowardice. It was an ancient trick, dating back to the Spartans, to spur soldiers into overcoming that paralyzing fear of death.
Sometimes, old tricks are the best tricks.
The Special Forces operators occupying the warehouse closest to the plane were mildly curious who these new actors were. They wore old style BDU’s and not modern digital ACU’s, but were decked out in the coolest looking tactical gear money could buy. They rocked the latest super-duper tactical vests and belts with more modular pouches than you could imagine.
Those fancy foreign rifles were brand spanking new as well. Oh boy, did they also have all sorts of expensive optics, laser designators, halogen lights and God knows what else filling up the rail systems! Each one was a running “tacticool” advertisement for Ranger Joe’s. They sure must have felt high speed.
Oh, they looked the part, no doubt, but they didn’t act it. Their movements as they worked their way towards the building were an imitation of tactical action. Someone had shown them how to bound and stack on entry, and obviously they must’ve even practiced somewhat, but they clearly weren’t professionals.
There was just too much communicating going on. Not just how they kept shouting at each other instead of giving hand signals, but why they felt they needed to. It was evident they didn’t have real trust in each other yet. A somewhat organized group, but not really a team yet.
Unfortunately, for these young braves and their insurance carriers, the men they attacked were an elite team. A team that had worked, trained and fought intimately together for over three years. Each member instinctively knew exactly what their partner would be doing, without looking. They shared targeting information effortlessly and without excitement.
Sophie and most of the platoon crouched among maintenance vehicles in the parking lot and provided over watch. Her best squad stacked on a side maintenance door in the middle of the nearby warehouse. How eerie the quietness. She expected, and hoped, the enemy inside would engage as they approached. With her greater numbers and firepower the enemy shouldn’t last long. Assuming she could find them first.
Instead, Sophie had to wait for her team to gain a foothold inside before sending in the rest of the unit. Her people were trying their best, but motivation is a poor substitute for experience. They spent too long organizing themselves before finally kicking in the door and surging inside…in a tight cluster. Had they lived, the militiamen might have learned. Unfortunately, combat doesn’t work that way. The first test is often the final exam. Where an F grade stands for being “fucked.”
A mini hurricane of gunfire broke loose as soon as the last fighter disappeared inside. Two distinct sets of fire could be heard. One stutter of disciplined, rapid short bursts and several long video-game style automatic rips. Sophie prayed that at least some of the disciplined fire came from her people. In less than 30 seconds, all was quiet again.
She waited two minutes for a situation report or any other sound from her team. No one ever came outside.