Prolouge

Iran, Angel Road, June 27 2012

Captain Martin O'Neal of the third mechanized infantry was, right now, having the worst day of his life at the moment " second " he thought, remembering his old girlfriend. He ducked as a bullet passed right over his head, and moved further behind the blasted out hummer that he had once been coasting along in. "dude! Where's that fire support? We've been fighting for half an hour already!" he screamed at his RTO "I don't think we're getting any at the moment, burucrat #1 said that there's too much fire to send a plane" yelled back Ristov, Sergeant Ristov Parker had been O'Neal's friend since first grade and had done peaty well, but never could control a unit "send a plane? You're not supposed to send a plane into a firefight! What about artillery?" Martin yelled. Ristov let loose a spray of bullets from his M4 and hunched back "I don't know, that's where they hung up." "What the hell? Were stuck in a damned ambush and they hang up?!" Martin looked around at his surviving company, hunched behind hummers and behind the APC that (unfortunately) had its track blown out. They had been part of an emissary force carrying an important diplomat to a NATO firebase and from there into the capital to continue talks. Unfortunately that same firebase was going to be attacked by a large terrorist cell in the standard 150 men, and ran right smack into Martin's undersized company, actually he had run into their daisy-chain trap and got his lead humvee destroyed and the APC damaged, but there didn't seem to be any heavy weapons to counter the Bradley armored fighting vehicle but that could change at any time. There were some men trying to scramble around under the suppressing fire their friends were laying down and reorganizing around the Bradley, which kept its chain gun firing nonstop to keep heads down. O'Neal gripped his Beret sniper rifle and brought it to his shoulder as he leaned around his humvee to draw a bead on the terrorist that had leapt up with an RPG to fire at the Bradley. The Browning Machine Gun .50 cal round was known throughout world war two by its really overkill effect on soft targets like one raggedy ass SOB who was going to feel what a piece of tungsten coated lead armor piercing felt like. Martin squeezed the hair trigger on his rifle and grunted as the rifle spat one shot, then watched through the sight to watch the bullet tear the rag-head into idle bitty pieces, the body flying backwards and all four limbs severed from their respective areas, the armor piercing round smashed through the body and hit the RPG launcher, damaging it and causing it to explode violently.

"All units form up! We're going to kick those bastards asses till their jaws hurt, platoon one, move up to the ridgeline and dig in, continue suppressing fire until the signal, platoon two move up on the ridge and attack the left flank, third platoon with me!" yelled O'Neal to his remaining soldiers. The heavy weapons first platoon separated itself from the milling crowd and dashed for the ridge with the squad automatics to set up some nests along the jutting fault in the ground. Meanwhile, the shock second platoon had detached themselves from the group and drove the humvee closer to the ridge and provided fire as they slipped off, back and left in twos and threes and clustered behind a hill to the left of the ridge where it would provide a high ground where the ridge ended. The specialist third platoon had gathered around the captain and was awaiting orders and sniping when Ristov came back trailing a fish-line wire and placed a detonator in the captains hand and smiled. " the trap's set, let's go already". The third platoon made its way to the right, and a lot of the men noticed the fish-line branch off, but then the company halted somewhere around the back and flank of the terrorist line and told to shush. Martin and Ristov looked at each other and grinned like school children "three, two, one" *click*. Ristov had actually managed to sneak past the terrorist line and plant several command detonated claymores at the fault the rag-heads were using for cover behind the ridgeline. Directed anti-personnel claymores were tedious to set up, they had to be placed in the ground and wired for whatever it was supposed to detonate by, but if things went well the result was well worth the effort, such as now when he had daisy chained together three of the mines and pointed them all down the line. "all right, all units volley and cold steel, I repeat cold steel!" now it is very uncomfortable to have a dozen bullets flying by over your head, and it is even more uncomfortable to watch about a third of your friends disintegrate into fist sized chunks of bloody meat, and it doesn't help that after watching 20 more people get turned to paste under the .50 cal fire from an outflanking maneuver, to have everyone you are fighting charge at you in a frenzy of blood and rage with a thirst for vengeance. Then over the ridge, "the ride of the valkiries" blasted from the stereos of the humvee, which only made things just so flashy.

Iran, Fort Haven, June 28

"Sir, I'm sorry but I can't help you right now. There are other matters that have a higher priority than …" "don't give me any of that bullshit! I and my company was left to die in the desert against a company and a half of rag-heads, and your telling me that the generals coffee is more important?!" O'Neal screamed into the phone and berated the unfortunate S-2 officer that had just picked up this call. "Martin, calm down, he's just doing his job, besides he's logistics puke he don't know no better." Ristov was sitting in the couch in the communications room taking a sip from a bottle of water to wash down the supplement pill he had taken. Not eating or eating one of the cultural survival rations was a very horrible choice for any man to make, especially since the cultural rations were designed to avoid any kind of eating taboo (and last about a year), it tasted pretty bad. The company had actually survived with less than a third of the casualties it should have taken, especially when it came to the cold steel fighting, the company was still trying to get the blood and gore off of their combat fatigues and body armor. The company survivors had left a guard with the broken vehicles and ridden back to the firebase to get some heavy engineers for repair. Meanwhile the company that got to go back to the fort was getting some R&R that they truly needed after the ambush. The politician was still alive much to Martins distaste; the son of a bitch had been yelling about how much his shirt costed and the cost to get it repaired. They had survived an ambush by terrorists, shot up, and left for dead and the fucker was still ranting about how the soldiers had treated him, hauling him out of a humvee with a gas leak on fire, he was lucky to be alive! He was walking around the room complaining how the couch was uncomfortable and the room was too dark and about everything that did not comply too his standards. "I don't want to eat this stuff. It tastes like shit" he was holding one of the long lasting rations that the company had resorted to eating because they also found out they were cut off from lines of supply "than give it to someone else, cause I'm not wasting perfectly good food" "food? This is not food this is garbage." With that the ration can flew through the air and fell a meter short of the trash can. "Oh my god! Just kill me now so I don't have to put up with him" "well, better that than an MRE, than I would be pissed" commented Ristov as he continued to rub at his stomach and dream about real food.

2 months later, Fort Haven

The fleet of Blackhawk choppers approached the base at fort haven to pick up the soldiers based there. The base had undergone multiple attacks and was in shambles but the proud men manning the gutted walls of the fort could have come from a painting, battle worn, scowling and standing in perfect formation. "Were going home?" asked Ristov, still staring at the choppers rapidly approaching and kicking up a dust cloud "yep, I can't wait to see my kids again, little bastards grow up fast when your away for about a year or so not looking forward to seeing my ex-wife though" O'Neal joked "yep, and that's going to suck ass". The choppers landed in the court yard of the fort and the soldiers streamed off of the walls and out of the barracks to get themselves identified for boarding, the door of one of the choppers opened and out stepped a man of what seemed like Scottish or English decent but the tan was too dark to accurately tell "Ristov! It's good to see you, and Martin, bet your lamenting at the paperwork your going to have to do" "I was trying to forget about that" "sorry, any who lets get you guys on the chopper, we'll debrief you when we get back to the states".