The Op. (WIP)
I lie here, rolling and squirming in the tan, dust covered street, gunfire crackling all 'round me, clutching my neck as a steady stream of red flows from the large hole where my throat once was. I try to scream, but I no longer posess vocal chords. It seems that a single bullet has doomed me to end my existence in silence, no one near, no one caring. But, You can hear me. I can tell. You alone can tell my story to those I left behind. Tell it to those who will follow in my footsteps. Just tell it. Please.
We had all gone through the motions before; By now it was routine, nay, instinct. Get up in the middle of the night, Grab your kit, armor, and weapon, and pile into the Chinooks. We did it at random intervals, got up, flew for a half an hour, and quick-roped into some unlucky Afghani neighborhood. They were as used to us disturbing the peace as we were getting up at 3:00 AM. So when that night came, We weren't surprised when the call came to go to full alert and scramble. We beat it to the 'Choppers, and the pilots took their sweet time checking all the controls, and spinning up. Only they didn't. The Chinooks were already spun up, and the prop wash beat down on us as we piled on, and the Pilot had the Helo in the air before the last man had found his seat, almost rolled him out the back.
I looked at the El-Tee, and he looked back at me, this blank stare in his eyes, and shrugged. It was just a mutual 'What the fuck is going on?' kind of look, where you start to get worried, and all I knew was that something was up. I looked over at the gunner as he nodded to one of the pilots, walked aft, and grabbed the Ma-Deuce. He looked every which way with that Big motherfucking gun, and he took a few pot shots at something. I felt the inertia as the Helo slowed and looked down out the Winch hatch. We were hovering over what looked like some little Po-Dunk town, and muzzle flashes sparked everywhere. I looked up as the Gunner upened up with the M2 Fifty, and I unbuckled and got in line for the quickrope. Then his head popped.
Have you ever seen a guy get hit in the head with a 7.62x39? It's not pretty. Well, a round caught our Ma-Deuce gunner right about where the helmet chin strap was, went through his dome, and ricocheted off his helmet, and came out his face. So, in lieu of a better word, his head popped. A few of our guys ducked, at least one of us hurled. I can't blame 'em, it was pretty bad. We all started moving down the Quick-rope pretty quick then, we didn't want to end up like the Gunner. Finally, it was my turn, and I got down that god-damned rope as fast as I could.
My boots hit dirt, and I hoofed it to the nearest doorway, and slammed my back to the door. I looked at the others of my squad who had stacked up before me, and we looked across the alley, at the other squad. The Lieutenant nodded back to us, and then he took Second squad down the alley. The Buck Sergeant waited until the El-Tee sounded All-Clear, and then we leap-frogged Second squad down the alley, checking each door, as Second squad covered us. We found a good piece of cover, and we hunkered down as Second squad repeated our maneuvre on the opposite side of the alleyway. Crack, Crack, Crack as the doors got kicked open, and the rooms got cleared.
We started seeing signs of Insurgent stockpiling; the numbers of AK's and PKM's in each front room increasing. Maybe a loose RPG here and there. Hell, we even had a guy piling up a few AK's in his living room, we detained him and gave his position and street address to the OIC, and we left the poor bastard there, his hands ziptied, face down on the floor. I don't think anyone ever picked him up, not from our side at least. We kept on going, and we made it to the town square, where we got our orders over the Comm. El-Tee pretty much dumbed down the orders for us, and they went a little like: Keep going down the main street, clearing houses until you meet up with First platoon.
And that was it. It was bout that time when it started getting light, so most of the squad flipped up our NVG's, except for the Buck and Point. Maybe a couple others too, but they weren't as important. It was at that point when we got our first contact that actually fought back. We were pretty well invisible, our MCUU's blending in with the dust fairly good, so he didn't see us until we were right on top of him. We surprised the hell out of the guy, and he whirled around, and let loose with his AKM clone and actually hit someone, being me. For once, luck was with me, and I caught the 5.45 round in the armor, and did a little hop bfore I fell backards gasping for air, and trying not to puke and cough up a lung, all at the same time. That's the bitch of those ceramic armor plates in your vest. Sure they stop the bullet, but they also act like someone took a couple of sledgehammers and dropped the a few times on your gut and ribcage. Wouldn't believe the power behind a tiny round like the 5.45x39.
After about two minutes, I snap out of being blacked out with my entire squad surrounding me in a defensible position, while our corpsman looked over me. Apparently what had woken me up was him slapping me in the face like a red-headed stepchild in a whorehouse. He smiled and helped my up, but goddamn, my everything still hurt.
"Glad you're still here, you fukcin' Jarhead." the Corpsman said, grinning ear-to-ear.
"Thanks for keeping me here, you goddamned squid." I said, with as big a grin as I could manage with the pain in my chest and abdomen. I picked up my rifle, and dusted it off, then flashed the all-clear to the El-Tee.