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"PLEASED TO MEET YOU!" Lewis and Tank were in the back seat of the humvee, playing air guitars and singing along to the Stones. "WON'T YOU GUESS MY NAME?!" Fireteam three had been patrolling the area south of Camp, trying to spot any possible security threats. At least, that was what they were supposed to be doing. In reality they were beating on the seats to really loud music; which was nuch more preferrable in the majorities opinion.

Moreau was just as engaged in the impromptu karakoe session whilst driving. The only person with any situational awareness at all was "Bomber" Shroud in the gun turret, scanning the hillsides with binoculars. Of course, he came up empty; their platoon hadn't even fired a single round off the shooting range. That kind of complacency is dangerous though, as many soldiers before them had learned the hard way.

"I SHOUTED OUT, WHO KILLED THE KENNEDY'S!" The fireteam was probably louder than a jet at this point; but sharp ears are a must to get a frontline posting in a warzone, so they shut up when they heard the radio start squawking. " This is bravo squad, we are pinned down in grid reference three two niner niner. Requesting backup at our location, enountered local militia, taking small arms fi- SHIT RPG GET DOWN!"

The team was all business in less than a second. Moruea turned off the radio, "Where are we!?" he shouted over his shoulder to Lewis, who was navigations. Mostly because he was holding the map.

"Umm... Take a left in 200 metres. Then keep going straight, we should run into a village, from there they should be..." He fumbled around with the map, "Right in the fucking middle of the fucking village." The Cat spat. "I mean, where else would they be?"

Tim gave a hollow laugh and looked to Hank, "You got eyes yet?" he yelled over the roar of the engine. He was pushing 90 Kilometres an hour, much more and he'd lose control on the dust roads of the desert.

Hank slid down into the passenger seat and leaned over to yell in Moreau's ear. "I see some smoke about two Kilometres off, could be anything, but I have a bad feeling about this." Rising back up to the MMG on the turret he made sure it was fully loaded, and yanked back on the charging lever, making an audible 'CLACK' as it slid home.

Tim picked up the radio, "This is fireteam 3, Charlie Squad, requesting air and ground support! Bravo Squad has been pinned down in grid reference three two niner niner! Moving to assist!" He yelled, hoping that the platoon Comm officer wasn't asleep or piss drunk again.

"Roger that Fireteam three, we have CF-18 Hornets awaiting your signal. Command out." the radio crackled and died. "HORNETS?" Tank shouted, "DAMN I HAVEN'T SEEN ONE OF THOSE SINCE WE WAS DEPLOYED!" There was nothing better than explosions in the Husky's book. They even rivaled sex in his book, although it was a close race.

"PRAY TO GOD WE DON'T NEED THEM!" Spall shouted back, "TOO MUCH PAPERWORK" the cat complained. There were nods of agreement passed throughout the humvee. Nobody liked paperwork.

"THIS IS HOW IT'S GOING TO GO DOWN," Tim shouted over his shoulder. Only having a minimal time to prepare, he resorted back to what they had learned in training. "SHROUD PROVIDES COVER WITH THE .50 CAL, FARADAY AND SPALL, YOU TWO TAKE COVER BEHIND WHATEVER YOU CAN AS SOON AS YOU GET OUT OF THE HUMVEE. I'LL LINK UP WITH BRAVO AND TRY TO GET THEM BACK ON THEIR FEET." He recited proper force allocation from the NCO's bible.

"JUST REMEMBER YOU GUYS, THERE ARE OLD PILOTS, AND THERE ARE BOLD PILOTS, BUT?" He shouted something the platoon commander had said the very first day he took command.

"THERE ARE NO OLD, BOLD PILOTS!" The team shouted back, knowing it was better to be a living man, than a dead hero.