Aboard Stallion HH-305 Heavy Transport Helicopter – 2030 Hours
Inside the rumbling belly of the Stallion HH-305, Andrew's squad sat tight, each man focused. The mission clock ticked down to 2130 hours—go time.
The engine's roar was deafening, but the issued headsets kept comms between the team and cockpit crystal clear. So far, no threats. No enemy MANPADs. No disruptions.
Then the pilot's voice crackled over the comms: "Approaching LZ. Prepare for drop."
A mechanical thunk echoed as the rappelling rope dropped from the chopper's open door. The green light blinked. Altitude: 50 feet. Optimum height.
Andrew adjusted his night vision goggles and gripped the rope. One by one, the squad descended into the jungle's dark canopy below.
Boots hit earth. Andrew unshouldered his rifle and swept the area.
"No hostiles sighted," he radioed.
His team followed shortly. Mikhail, their best sniper, regrouped with him. Silently, they advanced through dense undergrowth.
Roughly a kilometer from the LZ, Andrew signaled a halt. At a tight cluster of trees just before the open treeline, he turned to the comms tech.
"Deploy the drone."
The operator nodded, launching the recon drone into the air. It ascended quietly, hovering at 200 feet.
"Drone deployed," came the update.
"Roger."
Andrew leaned over the operator's tablet as thermal and night vision overlays lit up the map. "Sir, you need to see this."
Red heat signatures were clustered along the eastern approach. Too many.
"Damn... That's out. We'll take the western route."
The team acknowledged the change with synced replies. "Roger that."
Colonel Gray's voice buzzed in Andrew's headset. "Lieutenant Rowley, sitrep."
"We're rerouting west—heavy enemy presence on the original path."
A brief silence. "Understood. Just get there on time."
"Yes, sir."
"One more thing," Gray added. "Cornalian ground forces are mobilizing. Expect fireworks soon."
2055 Hours – Western Jungle Approach
The squad pushed through the foliage quickly and quietly. Suddenly, the rumble of jet engines ripped through the night.
Two F-29 Warrior Hawks screamed overhead, baiting enemy attention. Moments later, anti-aircraft tracers lit the sky. MANPADs launched, veered wildly under ECM interference. Explosions thundered in the distance.
"This is supposed to be covert?" Mikhail muttered through comms.
Andrew exhaled. "Not our call, Sergeant."
"Target might run. They jumped the gun."
"We won't make it if we sit here debating. Move!"
They pressed forward to the final ridge—800 meters from the enemy camp, elevated and surrounded by cover.
Perfect overwatch ground.
The team fanned out. Mikhail prone-set his Trevor SR-55 .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle. Andrew knelt beside him, spotting.
The humidity pressed down. Sweat dripped. Andrew wiped his brow and kept scanning with his binoculars.
"Target sighted?" Mikhail asked.
"Negative."
The camp below buzzed. Rebels stood on edge after the strike. Andrew swept corners, tents, vehicles—nothing.
"Hometown, this is Pathfinder. No visual," Andrew reported.
"Hometown to Pathfinder. Hold your position. Do not engage until the op begins."
"Copy."
Then movement.
Half the rebels moved away, clearing the area. A familiar man stepped out of a building—white polo, black pants, sandals. Enrique Gomez.
"Target acquired," Andrew called in.
"Positive ID on Gomez."
"Hometown to Pathfinder—do not engage. Wait ten minutes for allied forces."
Andrew clenched his jaw. The crosshairs were right on Gomez. One shot. That's all it would take.
But the order was clear.
"Come on, Gomez... don't move."
2130 Hours – Rebel Camp
Explosions rocked the base. Rebels panicked, scrambling like ants. Gomez barked orders, shouting at commanders.
"Pathfinder, this is Hometown. Our partners have initiated the op. Transferring command to General Heraldo Almirez of the Cornalian Defense Forces."
Andrew's brow furrowed. His voice was tight but composed: "What do you mean, sir? We've got a clean shot—we can finish this now!"
A different voice answered. Old. Sharp. Arrogant. "This is General Almirez. You do not make decisions, mercenary."
Andrew blinked. "Excuse me, who—?"
"You address me with respect. This is General Almirez of the 1st Battalion, Cornalian Defense Forces!"
Andrew wanted to curse, but he swallowed it down. Sir... we have visual on the target. Confirmed ID—Enrique Gomez."
"I see. My Splinters will arrive shortly. You are to assist. We will handle the rest."
"Understood, sir." Andrew bit back his frustration.
The line went silent.
Mikhail muttered, "What the hell was that? Why are we even here?"
Andrew gritted his teeth. "Just another day working with Cornalian brass. Stand by. We're backup now."
2135 Hours – Observation Ridge, 800m from Enemy Camp
The squad remained silent, concealed in the vegetation as distant gunfire echoed from the camp below. Bursts of light from muzzle flashes lit up the compound like stuttering fireworks. Andrew kept his binoculars locked on Gomez, who now appeared more agitated, issuing orders and pacing near a command tent.
"Targets are scrambling," Mikhail muttered, eye glued to the scope. "Looks like they weren't expecting this much noise."
"Neither were we," Andrew replied, tone clipped. "Keep eyes on Gomez."
From the west side of the compound, new figures emerged—elite troops, clad in darker combat fatigues than the regular rebels. They moved with efficiency, covering ground quickly.
"The Splinters?" Tanya asked over the radio.
"Likely," Andrew confirmed.
The Cornalian Rapid Deployment Forces, nicknamed Splinters, were stormtrooper units specializing in infiltration and high-value target extraction. But unlike Valhalla Limited's precision, they had a reputation for being reckless and showy.
Peter's voice buzzed through comms, "Gomez is moving!"
Andrew focused his binoculars. The rebel leader was rushing toward a convoy of armored vehicles on the northern side of the compound. One of the guards threw open the rear door of a matte black APC.
"He's making a break for it," Andrew growled. "We have to do something."
"No word from command yet," Mikhail reminded. "Still under Almirez's leash."
"Damn it..."
Andrew's thumb hovered near his comm trigger. Disobeying orders wasn't just risky—it was suicidal in the politics of mercenary work. But letting Gomez escape now could cost far more.
A beat later, the comms crackled—General Almirez's voice, stern and commanding.
"This is General Almirez. All units: do not fire on the convoy. We want Gomez alive. I repeat—alive."
Andrew's expression hardened.
"With all due respect, sir," he replied, forcing restraint into his voice, "our window is closing. He's about to flee the compound!"
"That's an order, Lieutenant," Almirez barked. "The Splinters will intercept."
The comms went dead.
Andrew exhaled harshly and turned to Mikhail. "Safety on. Don't give them a reason to pin this on us."
Mikhail grumbled under his breath and disengaged the trigger lock. "They better catch him."