EndWar

Sergeant Raymond McAllen wasn’t shaking in fear but in frustration. His men had the fuel truck pulled up beside the Longranger III, the hose attached to the bird. However, filling the tanks took time. Too much damned time.

Come on, come on.

The Russian helos were twenty meters above the tarmac, ten, five…

He tightened up against the wall, his helmet and combat subsystems fully activated, his Heckler & Koch XM9 assault rifle at the ready.

Each operator on the team handpicked his own weapons, sometimes purchasing a few fancy toys themselves, and McAllen had recently been experimenting with the XM9, a weapon whose earlier version, the XM8, had been abandoned by the military.

Like the XM8, the 9 was a modular weapon with four variants: a baseline carbine, a compact carbine, a sharp-shooter, and a heavy-barreled automatic. McAllen carried the baseline carbine with attached XM322 grenade launcher.

McAllen glanced off to his left, where Palladino lay prone beneath a tree, eye pressed to the scope of his M82A1 sniper rifle with its bipod dug deep in the snow. He’d taken the big girl along for this ride, and her.50 caliber rounds would easily penetrate the fuselages of those helos, the booming alone enough to strike fear in the hearts of the enemy.

Gutierrez had positioned himself a couple meters farther south, near another tree, his SAW balanced on its bipod. Radio operator Friskis and assistant team leader Rule were closer to the chopper, each armed with an MR-C — Modular Rifle Caseless — which fired 6.8 mm caseless ammo at a rate of nine hundred rounds per minute. Both weapons were also equipped with rail-mounted 40 mm grenade launchers.

All of which was to say the boys from Force Recon were good to go and waiting for showtime.

But the order to fire would never come, McAllen realized. The Russians were jamming all communications. He would let the SF boys take the first shots, as they had indicated. His years of experience would tell him when to engage his men.

The first two helos touched down, the third and fourth only seconds behind.

From somewhere on the other side of the terminal came a boom and hiss, followed by a white streak that spanned the tarmac in the blink of an eye, reached the lead helo—

And detonated directly over the canopy.

After the initial explosion, two more quickly followed, knocking the chopper onto its side, rotors digging into the ice and asphalt, while another burst sent flames shooting from shattered windows.

Those Special Forces guys must’ve brought an AT4 from their cache back home. They had some very nice toys.

Jagged pieces of fuselage and engine components from the first chopper flew into the second, striking its rotors just as a side door popped open and the first infantryman tried to get out. Meanwhile, the third and fourth choppers began to lift off.

McAllen craned his head toward the forest. “Outlaw Team, fire!” Even as he issued the order, he burst from his position and launched a grenade at the open door of the second chopper.

That first infantryman was already cut down by Gutierrez’s machine gun — and as he slumped, McAllen’s grenade flew into the helo’s crew compartment.

What a shot!

With a slightly dampened boom, the grenade exploded, shredding the men inside and blanketing the chopper in thick, gray smoke.

The thumping of more helos from behind sent McAllen’s gaze skyward. For a moment, his heart sank as he assumed more enemy troops were inbound.

But no. He had to blink to be sure he was seeing them: a pair of civilian choppers with riflemen strapped in and leaning out their open bay doors, already opening fire on the two Russian helos below.

McAllen had to hand it to the SF guys, who’d managed to recruit those pilots and get some shooters up there. Sure, it was amateur close air support, but he’d take it.

Palladino let his first round fly, the rifle emitting a crack of thunder that rattled the buildings. He was targeting the crew members of the third helo. His round punched a gaping hole in the canopy and blew the pilot to pieces.

That bird wasn’t going anywhere now. It dropped back toward the tarmac, hit hard, then began to bank erratically over the grass, as Gutierrez raked it with more fire.

The bay door popped, and a few Spetsnaz infantry leapt out, hit the ground, and came up firing—

But they were quickly cut down by the riflemen in the air, helos sweeping over them, rounds sparking as they ricocheted off the street.

McAllen was ready to call it day. Khaki was giving him the high sign: the tank’s full, let’s boogie.

“All right, Outlaw Team,” McAllen began.

The sudden hissing and sparking of new fire on the wall behind him, on the ground, the snow, and over his head sent him diving onto his gut.

And just beyond the chopper, in the forest, came at least a dozen Spetsnaz infantry, probably two full squads, with one guy dropping to his knees, balancing a tubelike weapon on his shoulder.