With a gasp, Mitchell was back, hot-wired to the moment, his senses flooded with input.
'Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead,' Beasley called again. 'Don't forget about us, Captain! I need that order!'
As chills raced up Mitchell's spine, he checked the downlink channel now showing Beasley's camera, zoomed in, and enhanced. Bravo Team's targets were seeking cover.
Instincts honed by years of combat experience took over. Mitchell began processing information and issuing orders with cool, calm efficiency:
'Bravo Team, attack.'
'Roger that,' Beasley answered in a stage whisper. 'Moving up to attack.'
'Diaz, snipers, then main gate, fire now.'
'Roger that, Captain. Sighting my first target.'
'Smith? Police up the drone, then fall in behind us. Ramirez? Nolan? Move out!'
Mitchell burst from cover, and Ramirez was already a few steps ahead of him and took point, his MK14 EBR rifle with attached silencer held at the ready as they raced along the road, then started down toward the castle, picking their way through streams of rainwater washing down the mountain.
Nolan was hard on Mitchell's heels, carrying his P90 SD Belgian-designed submachine gun with suppressor because, as many medics argued, the best form of preventative medicine was superior firepower.
'Got the drone,' Smith reported, then hustled up behind them with a Modular Rifle — Caseless (MR-C). The MR-C fired caseless ammo at 900 rounds per minute, and while the regular army did not field the rifle, the Ghosts endorsed it wholeheartedly.
They had guns, all right. Lots of them.
But only four shots really mattered: one in the head of each Spring Tiger.
Or was it five shots?
Mitchell considered shouting to the others,
However, he could not reveal his personal bias and immediately undermine his command. The mission and his people came first. He knew that. They knew that. If Fang were killed in the crossfire, then so be it.
But who was he kidding? He wanted to fire that shot more than anything else in the world. His anger had grown talons that ripped apart his gut, and over and over he watched himself squeezing the man's neck and firing that shot. Mitchell gasped, shuddered off the thought, and hustled on.
Beasley sprinted along the edge of the forest, then he broke into a Motor City madman dash across the field, coming toward the choppers and trucks from the left flank.
Two of the men, the drivers, had pushed themselves deeper into the back of one truck, leaving the tailgate open. The other two guys, the pilots, had sought refuge inside the other Brave Warrior's cab.
Those drivers they could reach. But the pilots in the cab were already giving Beasley a headache.
He signaled for Jenkins and Hume to get low on the driver's side of the pilots' truck, while he and Brown rushed up to the other truck with the open tailgate, their pistols clutched tightly in gloved hands.
One of the pilots was about to light a cigarette. The other was lifting his glass to take a sip.
Brown shot the drinker in the head.
But Beasley opted for two shots into the smoker's chest — because the man would become helpful, even in death. He rushed forward, caught the guy before he slumped forward, and whispered to Brown, 'Help me stand him up!'
'What the hell are we doing?'
'Marcus, trust me. And we have to move. I need to check in with the bot. That power crew will be there any minute.'
'Okay. I think I get it now.'
The captain's firing order had come so abruptly that it took Diaz's brain a moment to catch up to her ears.
Holding her breath, she made the slightest tweak to her aim before squeezing the trigger.
While she doubted the click from her rifle was loud enough to be detected by the guards posted around the castle, that second sniper might've heard it. She squinted and observed a blood cloud envelop the first sniper.
Clean kill.
Using the knife edge of her firing hand, she worked the bolt effortlessly and ejected the spent case. After chambering the next round, she clambered to her feet, grabbed the firing mat, and stole off along the ridge.
She needed to cross just ten, fifteen meters to the west to get a more direct bead on the second sniper on the north side. She already envisioned herself in place and taking him out.
The rain was torrential now, and the first jagged seam of lightning ripped through the sky, backlighting the gnarled and dripping limbs in her path.
She was at once scared out of her mind and riding an adrenaline high unlike any she'd ever experienced. She'd been in a lot of foreign countries before, but none held the mystery and foreboding of China.
Too bad she didn't have time to sightsee. She was here to meet exotic people, and, like the old bumper sticker said, kill them.
In fact, Captain Mitchell and the rest of Alpha Team were already heading to the gate, and they needed those entrance guards taken out, so every second counted. Every last one. But she hadn't found her next firing position yet.
She sighed loudly in frustration and gritted her teeth. The balaclava, with a small hole cut out for her Cross- Com earpiece, was soaking wet and beginning to itch. She cursed and reached up, removed the earpiece/monocle, then grabbed the balaclava, tore it off, and kept running.
'Come on, come on, come on,' she whispered.
Within a minute Diaz finally settled into her next spot, the balaclava now tucked behind her belt, the Cross- Com back on her ear.
The cold, wet rifle felt perfect against her cheek. She homed in on the second sniper.
Time for him to check out.
But damn it, he was already moving, the red diamond IDing him sliding across her HUD.
She breathed another curse, dragged herself back up, and got moving again.
Mitchell, Ramirez, Smith, and Nolan worked their way across the field, the mud rising to their ankles.
With the rain and their black uniforms, they should be near impossible to spot. Still, sharp veins of lightning printed the sky negative, and the ground rumbled with racing cracks of thunder. During any one of those flashes, a keen-eyed guard could turn his head in the right direction, make his radio call, and open fire. Surprise party over.
A long, earthen wall about four feet tall extended from both sides of the wrought-iron gates, and Ramirez was first to reach it, followed by Mitchell, Smith, and Nolan.
Crouching in the shallow mud puddles, Mitchell activated his MR-C's gun cam, then he rose and slid the rifle over the wall top while peering into the camera's display, which flipped open like a portable video camera's. The screen allowed him to shoot around corners and over the tops of walls, but for now he exploited its recon possibilities. He panned right, then left, and despite the grainy image, he saw enough to elicit a huff of frustration. The two guards posted outside the rectangular building were still at their posts, so Mitchell and the others would have to risk moving in closer to ensure single-shot, clean kills. And the question lingered: what had happened to Diaz?
He slid back down and shook his head at the others, then he checked his HUD, switching to an image coming in from Diaz's camera: she was on the run.
'Diaz, SITREP.'
'I lost the second sniper for a minute. Got him now in my HUD. I'm moving position. Can you wait for me?'
'Negative, I need my guards down now.'
