FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Wylde Fyre

By Stephen Doyle

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Chapter Three July 19th 2017 South-eastern Tajikistan 08:00 Hours

The Strike Eagle bucked and shuddered, the engines screaming in protest as he pushed her through the turn, the plane dropping as the wings lost lift. The long, pointed nose of the fighter swung around like the beak of a hunting bird, but the radar warning receiver still howled insistently in his ears, the warning computer incessantly chanting at him that a missile was on their tail. He could still hear Jon's voice, but instead of warning him about the missile, or telling him where it was and what moves to pull, instead the raccoon berated him for letting the jet get hit, for letting him die, for not shooting down the Raptor earlier, for failing at protecting him. It didn't make sense, as if Jon was here, then he couldn't be dead, of course; but dreams were like that. And he knew it was a dream, knew he was reliving the dogfight - but the harder he fought it, the more the dream held onto him. The nose of the F-15E completed its' arc, and suddenly, there was no Jon, and no radio, and it was just him and the black raptor. The pendant on his chest weighed down, like a thousand tonnes of lead, pulling both he and the aircraft down, into the strobing flash of the raptors gun, which now shot bolts of lightning across the sky, which struck the fighter, leaping through the canopy, and then the plane disappeared from around him, disintegrating into pieces that fell away in the slipstream. The lightning reached him, touched him, and he could feel his fur sizzle, his hair burn, flames leaping across his flight suit, burning along his body, smouldering his skin and arcing across his body-

Sean woke up with a yell, jerking and flailing wildly, fighting against the substance holding him down, struggling to get out of the dark space that pressed around him- -Until he remembered that he'd wrapped himself in his parachute to keep himself warm, after crawling into a cave to keep out of sight from any patrols that may have come looking for him after his plane had gone down. Panting, he felt his heart thudding in his chest, and struggled to get his breathing under control. He pulled one hand from under the nylon canopy, and wiped it across his face, staring at the rocky ceiling for a moment, before shuffling around in the small space, pulling the makeshift cover off of his body, and wincing as he felt aches and pains pop and pull in his body. Whatever injuries he'd gathered in his ejection had left a painful reminder that he'd been sleeping on a dirt and rock floor for the past hours of his fitful and nightmare-plagued sleep. Groaning, he struggled out of the small cave opening, wincing and blinking his remaining eye at the bright morning light. As he wriggled out into the fresh air, he took a deep breath - and promptly wrinkled his black nose at the smell of himself. He smelt of sweat, blood, the cordite and smoke of the ejector seat, and the faint, but persistent, odour of vomit. Wryly, he shook his head and gave a grim smile. If the Iranians or Chinese didn't see him from the air, they could probably smell him back in Tehran or Beijing right now. But it wasn't really like he could do anything about it right now. Showers weren't really common in the desert. Instead, he turned his attention to gathering up his parachute again, once more wrapping it around himself as a cover against the heat and dryness of the sun. He sipped from the small water bottle he carried, making sure to only take enough to wet his lips and his throat. He desperately wanted more, but with no water around to refill the bottle, he couldn't risk it. Likewise, he snapped off a single square of the bitter, almost-black dark chocolate and put it into his muzzle, letting it sit on his tongue to melt slowly, getting more taste out of it as he moved away from the hidey-hole he'd found.

The fox traipsed across the desert, following his wrist-compass south. He walked steadily, always sticking to low ground, and if he had to cross flat ground, doing so quickly and by planning his route as he walked, to take him from cover to cover. Equally, if he had to cross raised ground, he moved in a crouch as he crested any hills or rises, avoiding silhouetting himself to anyone watching. Often, he took cover as he saw movement in the distance, whether it was civilians or military personnel. He couldn't be sure whether the people moving were hostiles or friendlies, and they moved away too quickly for him to confirm either way. A few times he heard the rumble of jet engines high above, and the clatter of helicopter rotors, and took cover. He toyed with the idea of activating the survival radio, or his beacon - but there was no guarantee that the aircraft would be friendlies. And experience in earlier wars, as he'd been briefed, told that most pilots and aircrew who were shot down over hostile territory were captured by hostile forces in the first day after their ejection, because they activated their radios too soon. So, he erred on the side of caution, and left the radio and it's 'beeper' off for now, and continued moving to the South, his aim to get within the umbrella of friendly air cover, and maybe even make contact with friendly ground forces. As he moved onwards, the day grew hot, and the air grew thick and heavy. Finally, he resigned himself to having to find shelter again. An overhang in a dried out riverbed proved a good spot, and was clear of tracks, meaning it wasn't used by any people or dangerous wild animals on a regular basis. He settled into the hollow to rest and sleep, resigning himself to the fact he'd have to start doing things more by-the-book, as he should have from the start - moving at night, and resting by day. He moved onward through the next night, the landscape eerie and alien in the starlight. With no ambient light from nearby towns and villages, the stars overhead were breathtaking. He'd seen it before, on deployments in remote bases and even on camping holidays when he was young; but the sheer awe of the galaxy, spread out above him like this was hard to top. His hand found its way to the pendant on his chest, feeling it tremble and vibrate against his fur again, as it had before. He frowned at the sensation, and shook his head. He didn't know what the significance was - but somehow, it seemed like it was something connected to him. The pendant was more than a hunk of metal, somehow, but what? He had no answer. This and all sorts of other thoughts filled his mind as he moved. With only himself for company, he found his mind wondering. He thought of his wingmates, and how they had fared. Were they looking for him now? Had they been arrested, or imprisoned, for the combat with the raptor? Or had they even returned to the USA. And what of the Australian pilots. He hoped they had made it to safety, and that he'd get to meet them. The brief sound of the female RF-111's pilot still tugged, tantalising, at his mind and stirred feelings inside him. Mentally, he had built dozens of portraits of her - but discarded each, as he felt ashamed and embarrassed for doing so. All this and more raced through his head, dizzying him as he moved onward through the desert, days slipping away. Until on the fourth day, he crested a ridge at night, and halted, crouching down. Ahead was a small copse of thorny trees, and a cluster of tumbledown rock-walled buildings. He frowned, squinting at the distant buildings, and cursing the persistent, stabbing ache and pain in his left eye. With no further attention to the injury than what his own medical kit and half-assed skills could provide, he didn't want to think what state the eye and its' wound was in. The terrain drew his attention though. Something about it was familiar, as if he'd been here before. But that was unlikely, impossible, in fact. Certainly from the ground, as his feet had never touched Tajikistan soil before his ejection; it wasn't exactly a vacation hotspot, after all. Half-climbing and half-slithering down the side of the ridge after assuring himself beyond any lingering doubts that there were any hostile forces waiting at the small cluster of ruins ahead, he squatted in cover behind a thorny bush, and examined the map in his G-suits' leg pocket. Tracing over the symbols with one gloved fingertip, he gave a gasp of surprise as he examined the map, and then looked up at the buildings, the copse - and the trail beyond. His single eye looked past the buildings to the middle distance, and followed a jagged ridgeback, running parallel to the track. A line of single telephone poles stood out against the rest of the landscape, further marking the location. The convoy attack - it had been on this road, in this area. He paused as he slid the map back into his leg pocket, and strained to see the road ahead, searching for any sign of the earlier attack. Why, he had no idea. What would he find? Supplies, weapons, radios, water. Maybe a working vehicle - although that last idea was laughable. Although maybe he could find intel information, or something else valuable. As he squatted in the bush, eying the road, he argued with himself over the idea more and more. Finding the convoy wreckage and going through it would be a huge risk. The enemy could be all over the site, securing the info for themselves, or keeping a watch over it for whatever reason. Alternatively, he could manage to find any number of useful things there. Warmer clothing, more food and water, a better weapon, all sorts of things; not to mention the potential for recovering anything of more strategic value, like papers or a laptop - or anything. He shook his head - he wasn't some kind of bullet-eating, fire-breathing Navy SEAL who could shrug off bullets and ask for seconds, wading into battle with a laugh and a machine gun in each ham-sized fist. He was a fighter pilot, and was trained to give cover to the tough guys on the ground, when they forgot that the tops of their pin-sized heads were vulnerable to raining high explosives. This kind of action really wasn't his deal... but he couldn't pass up the opportunity. But first there was another opportunity to take. If he was this far south and this near his original destination for the mission, then maybe he was near the search area for anyone looking for him. So, after another careful search of the area, he pulled out the PRC survival radio, and switched it on, the thick rotary control on top of the boxy unit clicking into place, before he extended the thick rubbery aerial. He held down the transmit button after setting it to the channel for transmitting the beacon, the beeping tones flitting out across the skies. After a few seconds, he let go and listened for any message, holding the radio close to one of his black-furred ears. Nothing so far, except the pop and crackle of the atmosphere. He hesitated, and was about to put the radio away, when he heard the rumble of engines overhead, somewhere in the distance, rising and falling. He decided to throw his luck in with whatever was watching over him, clutching the pendant as he held down the button a second time, and then switched channels on the survival radio, listening in hope for the sound of friendly voices. Moments later he felt a rush of hope, as voices talking in honest-to-goodness English could be heard. And the Queen's English at that - RAF pilots! Quickly, he held down the transmit button on the radio. "Striker One reads you, say again, Striker One reads you. I'm alive down here; send help!" There was a pause on the radio, and Sean fought to keep himself from mashing the button and sending a message again. In all probability, the RAF pilots were confirming his identity and callsign with command authorities before replying. It was hard not to want to though, after hearing friendly voices after all this time. Moments later though, he almost laughed out loud in pleasure as the brassy English tones returned to the radio waves. "Striker One, this is Broadsword, we roger your last transmission. Sit tight; help is on the way. Home plate says good to hear from you, over". "Roger, Broadsword. Damn good to hear your voice. I'll remain in the area, Striker One, out". Sean let the button go, giving a wide, stupid, smile as he did so. Someone knew he was here! Someone would come and look for him! The uplifting feeling was almost enough to let him fly home on its' own. But he had to be careful not to get carried away - the enemy could have heard the transmission and homed in on it. Quite easily, in fact, as the survival radio wasn't scrambled or coded, as it made it easier to locate for friendly forces too. He folded the rubber antenna back down and away, and winced as he stood up straight again, the aches in his muscles complaining again. He limped onward, moving away from the bushes' cover, and headed for the ruined buildings. They'd provide some more shelter to scout around for the ruined convoy, and maybe find something else useful, if he was lucky. He hobbled onward over the rough ground, briefly hefting the weight of the Beretta M9 in the holster strapped to his vest under his arm, finding it slightly reassuring. But he had no doubts that if he did run into trouble the gun wouldn't be nearly as much help as he'd want it to be in that situation. The weight of his Gerber survival knife on his calf was similarly reassuring, if hollow. Although at least the knife was more useful than the pistol when scraping a life out of the landscape; he'd already used it to kill and clean a few small lizards that he'd later roasted over a fire. He chased the random thoughts out of his mind again, as he edged up to the stone-block wall. A gap big enough to get through was a little further along, and he kept his back against the wall, calming his breath and listening intently, his triangular ears twitching back and forth as he strained to work out if anything dangerous waited inside the tumbledown shack. He held his own breath, frowning in frustration. The sound of his own breath was almost interfering. Nothing - only the soft whisper of the breeze across the desert floor, and the calls of hunting night-time birds far off in the distance; crickets chirped away along with them, not bothered about the stranger in their midst. Releasing the breath he'd held as a sigh, he humped along to the gap, and leaned around it, taking a glance inside; discovering only a rotting collection of furniture and a struggling date tree, which had begun growing out of the rotted floor, and half-through a window and into the remaining rafters. Seeing ripened dates on the tree, he stepped forward into the gap- -and paused as he felt something push against his leg. The pilot froze stock-still, and gulped in a breath, forcing his body to stop trembling and then slowly looking down. A thin branch had grown from a weed just inside the gap in the wall, stretching out into the sunlight and fresh air. When he'd stepped forward, he'd pushed his left leg against the thin plant. He chuckled softly, and stepped on through, wrinkling his nose at the dust inside the building. Unlike home in the USA, the air and environment here was too dry for damp to set in. Instead, the wooden furniture had been bleached, cracked, and weathered by the sand, dust, and sun. As he glanced around, he was pleased to find condensation had collected on the remains of a porcelain sink. Using a quick twist of ingenuity, he turned one of his flight gloves inside out, and used the fleecy lining to mop the condensation up, and then squeeze it into a plastic bag in his survival kit. That done, he plucked dates off of the tree and munched on them hungrily, spitting the stones into a pile outside the window ledge. Feeling better, and still buoyed by the communication from the RAF planes, the fox still had energy enough to keep moving. He clambered to his feet again, and shuffled to the front of the building, keeping low with the bottom frame, and scanning along the length of the packed-earth road he could see. He moved his single eye slowly, trying to ignore the stabbing pain and the blurriness in his vision. He knew he was having trouble seeing, and adapting to one-eyed vision. Especially with the injuries already sustained and not treated to his left eye. But patiently, he kept moving his gaze slowly along the length of the road, looking for irregular shapes. He'd been taught as a pilot to look for straight lines from the air to indicate where camouflaged buildings or vehicles might be concealed. Only Animalis Sapiens liked to build in straight lines; nature preferred curves for the most part. As his single-eyed gaze roamed down the trail, he settled upon a spread of jagged edges and warped lines, painted in ash whites and carbon blacks. He picked out more details as he focused, seeing wheel arches, door frames, weapon mounts and scattered components. It couldn't be anything other than the convoy. Taking a breath, he straightened up again, wincing once more as his protesting body cried for his attention. Ignoring it, he hobbled into the starlight and headed for the wreckage, which couldn't have been more than a half-mile away. Although there were no immediate signs of life, he slid the M9 out of its' holster and into his right hand, his hand tightly wrapped around the butt of the handgun as he moved closer. He felt the fur on the back of his neck rise as he moved closer, casting suspicious glances all around, his fingers nervously squeezing the metal and plastic grip of the gun, his tail hanging low and ears flattened back. Any moment, he was expecting the sky to explode with the sound of thundering rotor blades, or screaming jet engines, and be bathed with eye-scorching spotlights. Or for the sounds of revving, snarling engines to break the peace and quiet of the night, as vehicles jumped and bounced over the ridgeline, circling around him to spirit him away to imprisonment. But nothing happened. No sudden stealth tanks appearing, no bombing raids, and no hidden ninjas jumping up from under the earth. Instead, he scared off a scavenging ground bird, which squawked in irritation and clacked its' beak, before scuttling away. And then he caught the smell of what it had been gorging on. He'd forgotten about the drivers, and the crews. When they'd bombed the vehicles, and hammered them into the wrecks they were now, they'd also taken care of the crews. Some had been thrown clear, landing bent and twisted on the ground. Others had gotten clear, and then died from their injuries. He had no idea if any had escaped or not. It didn't seem likely, as the dead had been left in the open to weather the elements. Sean wasn't a religious man, and didn't have any particular faith. But neither did he believe - or feel, really - that the body was devoid of a soul, or anything that made a person, 'a person', rather than a collection of squidgy meaty bits and various chemical reactions and impulses. As such, treating the remains of one with some dignity and respect was something important to him, so seeing these poor folk, even if they were his enemies, left like this wasn't something he revelled in. But were he to move them to bury or cremate them, he'd give himself away. But at the least, he could stop a moment and give some thought to their lives before he carried on with his business. He held still and silent for a few moments, head bowed, before he limped on to the nearest of the vehicles, holstering the pistol as he did. The hulk of a BTR wheeled armoured personnel carrier rested nearby, tilted to one side by its' melted rubber wheels. Panels in the hull had been blown clear away by the force of the bomb-blasts, and the inside of the vehicle was a shattered mess as he peered inside, and dared to flash his small torch inside. Nothing inside was worth even trying to sort through; and he didn't want to disturb the poor souls to whom it was now a tomb. He left the APC and moved on, shifting through the wreckage and finding little. He managed to find a single water canteen that was still full, and hadn't exploded in the heat and pressure, and quenched his thirst with glee, taking a bigger drink at last. He also managed to find a few undamaged packs of field rations which he stuffed into his survival vest with some cheer and relief. It was in the vehicle at the middle of the convoy that he had his most luck. Boxed back and front by pickup trucks with mounted machine-guns was a Toyota Landcruiser. The SUV was an older model, not one of the top-of-the-line models on the forecourts of dealerships nowadays, with a HUD and computerised driving assistance, but it was still more modern than the two incinerated pickups to its' fore and aft. It was also considerably more intact as well. It had been hit by only one of the 'skeets' from the cluster munitions, which had entered through the big rear window of the SUV, hit the gearbox housing and shattered into dozens of copper bullets which had then ricochet around the cabin, mangling the occupants and the vehicles instruments, as well as puncturing the fuel tank and shredding the axles. With a supreme act of self-control, he managed to wrench open the doors, and lean into the vehicles' cabin and get his hands around the silvered aluminium case on the back seat, hauling back with as much of his weight as he could bring to bear, and sliding the case out onto the desert sand. It wasn't as big as a suitcase, more around the size of a briefcase, or a laptop satchel. He eased himself onto the dusty desert floor, and examined the latches at the front, and cursed. The case was locked, with a normal mechanical lock. He unsheathed his knife again, considering trying to wedge the blade into the lock, or the gap between the top and bottom of the case; but such as secure case would be designed and built to be impervious to that kind of vandalism. The same went for trying to shoot the locks off. Not to mention, he'd been told by his firearms instructor a long time ago that shooting locks off of things only worked either in John Woo movies, or if you were using a shotgun with special rounds. Of course, if there was a lock, he reasoned, there had to be a key. He looked back at the Toyota, and gave a groaning sigh, as he levered himself to his feet, and back to the vehicle. With a grimace, he climbed into the back of the SUV, and started to - while ardently concentrating on keep the bile in his throat down - search the dead men, trying to ignore the puffy, bloated flesh, and the smells rising from it. He blinked rapidly, his eyes watering from the smell, as he patted down pockets. Finally, the figure sitting at the back left of the vehicle, a Fennec Fox in an indistinct woodland camouflage uniform had the item he was after. They key - a tiny, square-ended thing - was on a chain around his neck. Which meant it smelt even worse, and had... matter... on it when he pulled it off of the dead mans neck. He considered also taking one of the weapons inside the vehicle. A couple of the occupants carried Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, as well as some spare ammunition for the weapons too, in the long curving stick magazines common to the gun. But ultimately, after prising a dead mans' fingers from one of the weapons and examining the gun, he decided against it. He didn't know well enough how to fire the thing, his only experience being given a five-minute play with one on the firing range, after being offered to by a friendly USAF security police officer. Other than that, the closest he'd come had been Call of Duty, which was nowhere near a substitute. Reluctantly, but thinking it for the best, he placed the sleek-looking gun back on the seat. In all reality, he'd probably blow his own foot off, before shooting someone else with the thing. But the key was a good enough substitute. Clutching it between his fingers, he retreated out of the 'stink zone', and back to the case. Sinking back to his achy knees, he rested the case at an angle on his folded thighs, and clicked the key into place. After a bit of fiddling and jiggling with the key, the locks clicked, and he could flick the catches open. The fox slid the case flat to the ground again, and he opened it, eager to see what secrets were inside. Once the top hinged open, he was almost disappointed; although what he'd expected instead of what he'd got was hard to say. A slim drab green cardboard envelope rested inside, sealed with an already-broken wax seal. The writing on the front was neither in Persian, nor in any form of Chinese. Instead, it was in plain English. It was addressed to a name he didn't recognise, but that was prefixed with 'General', which was important enough. Interestingly, it didn't say who it was from. Without stopping to read it, he unzipped his survival vest and tucked it inside, in one of the inner pockets against his flight suit. He also pocketed the high-end satellite mobile phone and a tiny flip-top palm-top computer, as well as a small, yet large capacity flash drive. There was also a Glock handgun inside, which he decided to take as well. He was also interested by the presence of bundles of money; American dollars and Euros, as well as Iranian Rials, and a number of credit cards, all of these were present. He closed and locked the case again, thinking as he lugged it back to the Toyota and piled it into the back seat once more. From the cut of the clothing on the bodies inside, as well as the quality of the vehicle they were in, it seemed clear to him that whoever the people had been, they were important. He took a moment, re-examining them; and then slapped himself in the face as he looked at the body in the passenger seat. Unlike the others, the man in the front passenger seat was wearing more modern fatigues, in a digital print. He also had the much more modern modular strap-and-buckle based 'MOLLE' load-bearing equipment, instead of old-style gear. Likewise, his weapon was an ultra-modern-looking FN P-90, instead of an MP5 or even an Uzi or AK-style rifle, as some of the others carried. In short - he didn't match, at all. Whoever he was, he definitely wasn't part of the military. If anything, he looked almost like a Special Forces operator. Sean hesitated, but then gave in and searched the man, on the off-chance he'd find something of use or that identified the man. There was no wallet, no dog tags or ID tags, and nothing personal other than a pack of cigarettes, which was crumpled - but the brand was easily identified as Marlboros. Not that that proved anything, or lead to anything; cigarettes were worldwide, especially where they shouldn't be. Giving a frustrated huff of defeat, he moved away from the vehicle, and headed for the ridgeline, there was no need to hang around the convoy any longer. A check of his watch showed a few hours had passed from the contact with the RAF planes. The lightening sky meant morning wouldn't be much longer either. And that meant it was time to hide out again.

Limping as best he could, the fox scrambled up the ridge, and slid down the other side, skidding in the loose dirt and sand. At the bottom was a thicket of small bushes, and another dry gully - somewhere to hide up, in other words. Stumbling along the dry ground, he scrambled over the edge of the gullies' bank, and found somewhere to hunker down. Twisting himself into the spot, he activated the locator on his PRC survival radio, letting it broadcast for a few seconds, before switching it back, and listening. A few moments later, the radio sounded a popping, squealing transmission, and he held the radio close to his ear. "Striker One, this is Watchman. Receiving your transmission, loud and clear; can you pinpoint your position?" Sean hesitated a moment, and considered the voice speaking. Unlike Highball, who he had spoken to before, the voice had no American accent, although that in itself wasn't unusual as there were other AWACS aircraft from other nations involved in the conflict - French, Saudi, and UK ones. But the accent on the radio sounded like it could have been Saudi, but the accent was clipped, gruff, and short. He paused, his thumb hovering over the button. The radio was easy to triangulate and track and it hadn't been much time so far; so it could have been a hostile force homing in on him. But on the other hand... "Striker one, we have rescue forces inbound to your location," sounded the radio again a few minutes later. "Please indicate your position with smoke, over". Again, that unusual voice; and he trusted it even less. Scanning the patch of sky he could see from his spot, he saw a black spot in the distance, accompanied by two more, which began to grow larger as the thudding of rotors could be heard. "Striker, please say your location, over," came the transmission, and this time he ignored it, staying put until he could make out the helicopters properly - no way that he was moving this time. Not until he could make out whom they were. Turning off the radio wasn't really worthwhile anymore. If it was the enemy, he was as good as captured anyway. And if friendly forces were listening - which, they damn well should be - then they'd get onto the case ASAP. Acting on a hunch, he swapped channel to the second band on the radio, and overhead the garbled end of a message - this time in a very definable US accent. "Striker One, this is Watchman. We overheard enemy transmissions; please say your status, over. We have friendlies inbound to your position, are you in danger?" This time, Sean had little doubt. Glancing up at the incoming choppers, he felt a surge of fear rise through him as he could make out their shapes, and none of them were ones he recognised as being part of the combat-search-and-rescue forces employed from Bagram or anywhere else nearby. Instead, the shape he recognised was a somewhat bulbous-bodied large helicopter, accompanied by two choppers that were unmistakably UH-1's; the 'huey' made famous by Vietnam. The helicopters moved out and away from each other, forming a wide formation with the big Russian-looking one chugging along on a direct course toward him. Could they have seen him yet? He didn't doubt that they carried infra-red sensing equipment, or some other means of locating him... That thought made up the fox's mind, and he struggled to his feet, forcing himself into a run along the side of the gulley, keeping to the wall as much as possible to stay out of sight. The noise of the helicopters grew deafening, and he could feel the air stirring around him as dust rose. But there was little point stopping, or trying to change direction, and so he kept moving, forcing his legs to keep moving, feeling his ankles screaming with ache and pain, a sharp pain throwing up a twinge in his chest as he struggled onward, wincing and gasping a deep shuddering breath as he staggered along, holding one hand to his ribs. "Striker One, Striker One - take cover, and transmit your beacon. Support is inbound, over! Stand ready to-" The line was consumed with squealing static and Sean swore, staggering and wobbling onward as the helicopter engines became a roaring in his ears, accompanied by a fringe of red around his vision, his pulse in his ears. Too many days of rough nights, little water, little food and constantly running ragged through the desert had leeched his strength. He slumped against the crumbly earth walls of the dry river, and fumbled the Beretta M9 into his right hand, flicking the safety catch off, the radio in his left and wearily lifting the radio to his lips. "Striker... Striker One," he panted into the radio. "Holding position, but I've got enemy forces close. I... I'm in trouble, need..." He heard shouting voices nearby, and saw shadows moving down the gulley. Raised voices shouted, and with alarm, he forced himself to stagger on a few more steps, drawing ragged breaths and dragging his aching feet further down the gulley. Yelling sounded close by, and then the inevitable sound of rifle shots, the rounds hissing past his ears. Wordlessly screaming, he span around, his ears flattened to his skull as he whirled around, raising the M9 in a trembling hand and squeezing the trigger as soon as the gun came up. The shot was louder, and more violent, than he expected. The guns' slide flew back as the shot fired, throwing his unsteady hand back - but the target stumbled, the man crumpling forward, bending at the waist. Yelling in wordless rage/fear, Sean fired again, and again, the pursuers scattering into cover, wary of their quarry. But they had helicopters, and Sean had only a puny nine-millimetre handgun. One of the Hueys swept into view overhead, and Sean bared his teeth in defiance, staggering back and throwing one arm across his eyes against the dust, staggering onward as shots puffed into the dust around him, one creasing his shoulder and spinning him into the dirt and dust. Blinking tears out of his eyes, he sucked in a ragged breath, and spoke through clenched teeth into the radio. "Watchtower, Striker One... where the fuck are you? I'm going to die; I'm getting shot to pieces by the fucking Iranian army... I need-" His own voice was drowned out as the sky erupted into a cacophony of screaming engine noise, and a sound like God's own chainsaw revving. The helicopters' thudding rotor blades mingled into the sound of a freight train thundering past inches from his head, as heat scorched his back, and lit up the last of the dawn sky with a camera-flash of bright light, that stayed on as flickering lights. Sean pushed against the ground and rolled over, before pushing himself into a sitting position. The helicopter had exploded, blasted into a furiously burning hulk, the men scattered and running. Arcing away, wings wobbling as it did, was a straight-winged, two-tailed aircraft, with a bubble cockpit on a long, straight nose. It couldn't be anything else, other than the A-10C Thunderbolt II, aka the 'Warthog'. And it had never looked more beautiful, for the ugly thing it was. A second flew overhead, and the remaining pair of helicopters turned tail, and began to run, as the A-10's chased them down. He saw a flash, and a plume of white smoke from under the wing of one of the Warthogs, as it chased the choppers down. Overhead, higher still, was the arrowhead shape of an F-15, and a bigger delta next to it. He felt a smile crease his cracked lips, and as the steady drone of rotors grew closer, he tried to force himself to his feet again, fumbling with his fingers to pull a pencil flare out of his pocket, and barely managing to fire the signalling device into the air, as his head swum with wracking pain, and he half stumbled up, dragging his booted toes in the direction of the V-22 Osprey he could see settling in to land nearby. Half a stumbling step later, he called out in a hoarse voice, and then couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, and pitched forward on his face into the dirt.

TO BE CONTINUED

Glossary:

A-10: Also known as the 'Thunderbolt II' and the nickname 'Warthog'. The A-10 is an aircraft designed especially for the support of ground forces at low altitudes and short-range. It is a heavily armoured and highly survivable aircraft, as well as carrying a large amount of weaponry for ground attacks. It has a distinctive shape with twin rectangular tails, a narrow fuselage, and low, straight wings, all of which give it excellent flight characteristics for low, slow flight in attacking ground-based forces and targets.

APC: Armoured Personnel Carrier. A wheeled or tracked vehicle designed to transport a squad of infantrymen. Often armed with an automatic cannon or a machinegun to cover the troops it is carrying, as well as to fight alongside other vehicles while transporting the embarked personnel to the front lines.

BTR: A soviet made and designed tracked Armoured Personnel Carrier with an amphibious design. It has a turret on the top mounting an autocannon. Used by a large number of forces across the world in a wide range of variants.

FN P-90: A futuristic-looking sub-machinegun that was designed to be used with a minimum of training and familiarisation, due to its' intuitive layout and controls. Its' ammunition is able to pierce most types of body armour in widespread use, and it is also very accurate, as well as being quite small and light in weight, due to it's mostly plastic construction.

HUD: Heads-Up Display, a system that displays information to a driver, pilot, or other operator directly in their field of vision using reflective surfaces or other projection equipment. Originally developed for fighter aircraft, the systems have found their way into the civilian world in cars and other vehicles.

MOLLE: Modular Lightweight Load-bearing Equipment. A range of vests, armour, and other carrying equipment and pouches that uses straps and buckles to create a mix-and-match load-bearing system to let the individual soldier customise his or her gear to their own preference or role.

MP5: A 9mm calibre sub-machinegun designed and manufactured by the German firm Heckler & Koch. Widely used by a number of forces and organizations around the world, it has been in continuous production in one form or another since the mid 1960's.

SUV: Sports Utility Vehicle. Any 4-wheel drive vehicle designed for comfort, speed, and luxury, as well a driving off-road and carrying passengers and vehicles. Often used also as impromptu utility vehicles by paramilitary and military groups.

UH-1 Huey: The Helicopter made famous by a hundred news reports and movies of the Vietnam war, the 'huey' is a single-engined helicopter of a very conventional design and appearance, and can carry a squad of troops or a significant amount of cargo, as well as being equipped with a variety of mounted weapons.