Anamur: Behind Enemy Lines

[Keystone Gray]

It was dark and cold. I was crouched in the mud, deep behind enemy territory. My Thanatos had crash landed. I had survived, but my co-pilot was dead. She didn't have a chance; her pod was smashed, and she was grinded to a fine paste 40 meters back.

It was raining. Knowing that the guerillas would come investigate for survivors, I knew I had to hoof it to anywhere, but couldn't stay there. The rain was my best friend and my worst enemy; it would mask my scent... and make it easier to hide. But if they brought an experienced tracker, I would have been easy to follow. Footprints in the mud are good indicators. Looking through the jungle, I could spot beams of light. Good, I thought. They're inexperienced. I knew I had to act quickly, and I bolted into the brush.

A few shouts were sounded, but none in my direction. They came from the crashed craft, and were muffled from the pouring rain. I looked back. Binoculars out. I hooded the front lenses so the rain would not obstruct my view, and peered through the jungle foliage. The lights were gracing the once beautiful craft's wings, the owners of those beams a mere meter away from their demise. I spoke my late co-pilot's name under my breath alongside a brief apology, and reached for a detonator on my belt. There were four hostiles surrounding the Thanatos.

A good catch.

The craft exploded. I turned and ran quickly, dodging branches. I could suddenly hear the shouts behind me, getting closer and closer. One of them had spotted me. How, I didn't know, but it did not matter. I was on the run, deep behind enemy lines, with the enemy closing in. I reached for my belt again, and grasped my only grenade. The flipswitch on the top was set to incendiary. A bad choice in the rain. I flipped it to fragmentary, pulled the pin, held the spooned grenade tightly in one hand and kept the pin on the finger of my other. It was my own personal Alamo in a can.

The rain slowed, but didn't stop. This was bad. The mud would not be obstructed, and thus it was easier to track me. I kept my hold on the grenade, kept running, could still hear the voices behind me. I told myself to not look back, said it under my breath quite a few times. My radio was smashed in the crash; there would be no calling for backup this time, no calling for an evac, no ability to rally at a LZ because there was none. I was on my own, MIA, presumed KIA. The only person I could rely on was myself. Suddenly the voices got quieter. Endless jungle surrounded me in each direction, and even though the Guerilla Rebels owned this territory, I knew they couldn't possibly keep up with me. I had not been fighting in the field for the past few days. I had them beat on stamina, and I used this to my advantage.

I found a river. The current was strong, and it was apparently three times higher than its normal saturation. I wouldn't dare wade through it. It was relatively quiet now, I could rest myself a bit before continuing. I panted strongly, regained my breath. My tongue brushed the water from the fur around my lips. I hunched over. I looked down at the pinless grenade, sighed, fitted the pin back in, and then tossed it upstream. It didn't explode, and so I went to retrieve it. It was still in working condition. A good thing, because I needed every bit of munitions I could get my hands on.

The rain picked up again, which implored me to move faster. A brief check of my fluorescent wrist watch showed me that it was 2 AM. I sat in the mud, rain dripping over my uniform and soaking me. No doubt I'll contract some malicious bacteria from this, I thought. Or a virus of some sort. I needed to get myself out before the effects of such a thing could happen. I knew this was damned near impossible; the enemy owned this territory for a hundred miles in every direction. I was downed, alone, issued with a single submachine-gun, a sidearm, and no more than 90 rounds. A quick inventory of all equipment I had on me revealed that I actually had the submachine-gun, no sidearm, no sidearm mags, and only a single magazine for the MP9. I also had my combat knife. I had foolishly forgotten to scavenge Duplicarius Rawley's body for extra munitions, and what's more is that I lost a lot of gear as the jungle tore at my equipment during the run.

I looked down the muddy river, from upstream to down. Sat on my rear, wrapped my arms around my knees, and flicked my ears free of water to listen. Not a pindrop, spare the rain. I was almost quite literally up shit creek without a paddle.

I didn't sleep, as much as I needed it. Too often through that night, I was reliving the moments before the crash in my mind, wondering if there was anything I could do to avoid it. The missiles came too fast. I probably couldn't have dodged them if I tried. What was supposed to be a quick air raid and a snatch-and-grab of a VIP became a hell for me. The mission was a success. Julia Rawley and I had become casualties. Minor deaths for the greater good. We knew what we had signed up for. The only difference is that Rawley wasn't getting the chance I got. At the moment, I was glad she didn't; she was pretty lucky to not have to experience what I'm experiencing.

She was a good trooper. Passed her training with lukewarm results, but did alright, and eventually improved. She was always eager to get herself up in the air for real experience, and she was always in the combat simulator. She loved the guns. Jules could peg a tank to the ground using nothing but a scope, thermals, and a rotary cannon from half a mile away. All of her training, her experience, her talent and ambition were thrown away hastily to a single missile. She had extensive survival training. She didn't need it.

We were providing covering support for a special ops team. Intel from the brass had come in and gave us the location of a defector, a VIP who had a lot to answer for. Who it was and why was not important to us. We went in low and silent, using the valleys for cover, with two support craft (NE-087 and TH-102) in front of and behind the dropship. In the span of four seconds, we flew upwards over the plateau that hosted a small enemy compound, the dropship spurted out six drop pods, and we swung back down into the valley. For the next few minutes we artfully dodged and evaded enemy aircraft.

Pickup time. The Invictus team reported mission successful and requested an evac. We provided a quick sweep of remaining ground targets - Rawley performed as expected - and the dropship reported cargo collected. And then we were off, NE-087 providing proper air cover support. Our craft gained altitude and dropped speed, coming up above and behind the recently-scrambled enemy fighters. They were eager to take us down. Rawley opened up, her cannon spinning, and the enemy aircraft sputtered explosive shards before falling down to earth. We cheered, and the dropship quickly picked up speed, preparing to exit the atmosphere with NE-087. Suddenly and without warning, we were targetted and shot down. We did not see our attacker. I'm assuming it was a SAM. I still don't think it matters.

We completed our mission. My debrief ended up being a hot-foot through intense jungle with no hope for survival. Rawley's debrief, a dirtnap. I missed the kid... but there was nothing I could do for her. She gave her life for duty, and an improvised funeral pyre was the least I could do for her... and at least she took a few of the bastards with her. She died with the craft she loved best, doing what she enjoyed most.

Rest in peace, girl... and wish me luck.

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To be continued.

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Edited February 27, 2009 by Keystone Gray

[ribena Homewood]

Sweet. It sounds like something what Arnold Schwarzenegger would star in. :p