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Hendlow had merely sighed at the loss of Jack. The man was definitely not in his right man. After a few moments of silence, he regathered his thoughts and was about to begin ordering the next set of movements when Jack returned. He looked like s**t still, but he was up and about, and in the old swing of things. That would be better than nothing, and the Captain smirked.

"Alright, Left Team, Right Team, advance. Keep a kill count, and estimated total lizards." Four clicks; the teams were on the move. Gunfire nearby erupted, and every few seconds a voice would come up declaring another one or two lizards down.

"Alright, keep gunfire suppressive only. Center Team, we're advancing." Three clicks. Hendlow looked at Jack for the "ready" confirmation before swinging out from cover and sprinting to the next defensive position. He dove into the hard-packed soil just behind the low-set barrier and sat against it, regaining his composure. Then he leaned around the side to add his own bullets to the suppression.

"What's your count, Left Team?"

"We have an estimated eight still living, six dead."

"Right Team?"

"We count ten still dug in, and we took four dead."

"Alright, we play it safe. There are twelve Drathonians in that pit. If you find fewer, center team, start putting bullets in skulls. Left, Right, suppress! We're moving!"

Once the gunfire started, Garrett came around the barrier and sprinted toward the Drathonian foxhole, Hachim and Donnell not far behind. Garrett only hoped Jack was short on their tails. Halfway between safety and the enemy, the Captain pulled a grenade and lobbed it in the hole. Immediately, four Drathonians began scrambling from the hole, trying to make a mad dash for safety. Garrett didn't even raise his bro; the pincer teams dropped the runners like flies. Then the grenade went off, and quite a few body parts went flying with a chorus of agonized shouts to mark their departure.

Then Garrett was at the lip of the hole, sliding down before the few living could figure out what was going on. He was in a crouch, the bro raised, and he unleashed a barrage of bullets. In these close quarters, the inaccuracy of the short rifle was nothing. He tore up both the living and the dead in a matter of seconds. Hachim and Donnell slid into the foxhole mere seconds later. Hendlow looked up to the lip of the hole, awaiting Jack's face. At the same time, he reported to the pincer teams, "Foxhole cleared. Hold position, and keep cover fire. We're going to try and put these barriers up the right way." Five clicks of acknowledgment. So far, so good.

Hendlow nodded with a smirk. "Exactly. And while we wait for them to get here, we're going to give them a headstart. Guttemeier, Donnell, get a start on the barriers, we'll keep the return fire up. Get to work!" Then he crouched in the foxhole and pressed a hand to either ear: to cover the one from interference, and the other to keep out excess noise while he spoke. "Command, we've got an advanced placement out here that needs some slight alterations. Get a small engineer team to my location ASAP. Tell the west flank to start moving forward as well, we've got a strong heading over here." There was a brief and fuzzy response, but he heard the confirmation and agreeance to his request.

He stood up again, and moved to the western side of the foxhole, using the level ground as a balancing surface for his bro. "It seems the only issue we'll be having is entering the woods. They're setting up makeshift bunkers and such amidst the trees. We might get a chance to go a little old school; if only we had bayonets, eh?" The Captain smirked, and let off a series of rounds whenever he saw some Drathonian stick his neck out.

After explaining to the engineers what they needed to happen, Garrett turned his attention to the over-stimulated Jack Gallagher standing beside him. With an awkward smirk, he nodded. "Yes, we're going to go do some heavy damage now." He looked around at his team. "This is the plan. Donnell, you're going to hang back with Griever. When we clear the next vantage point, move up. The rest of you, follow my lead. Jack's taking point. Cover his a**, and keep constant updates running. I want to know when you see them, when you kill them, hell I want to know when they s**t themselves because you jumped out of the bush like Rambo. Everything. Got it?"

Garrett knew the reference to an age-old cinema probably wouldn't strike home with everyone, but he thought it gave them a clear message.

Jack's eyes shot wide at Hendlow's words. His eyes welling up with tears of joy, he snapped into position. "Ready go! blaugh " he shouted as he leapt out of the pit. He sprinted towards the nearest line of fortifications dotting a nearby hillside, his teammates firing a barrage of green all about him. Wild shouts filled his squad com. He could tell he had them more than a little panicked. The few Drathonians dumb enough to stick their necks out before Jack reached the barriers met a quick end at the hands of his teammates.

Moments later, Jack was to the walls. Deftly leaping in a fantastic arc, Jack came down expertly on top of the barrier. Startled, three Drathonians looked up from the trench below. Grinning, Jack was already in the air when they saw him. The two to his left quickly went down as he swung his sugar past them, pounding the rounds straight through them at point blank range. As he reached his target, the third lizard in the line, he brought the side of his rifle pounding into the side of the helpless creature's head. "HOME RUN!!" The weak alien skull was nearly rent from its body as the head jerked in a loud 'crunch' with Jack's rifle. Landing in a rough pile on his latest victim, Jack was quickly up and moving through the trench in search of more playthings. "Hey captain, you were right," he chuckled into the com, "I really wish I had a bayonet right now." Gleefully, Jack grabbed the neck of the lone Drathonian he had snuck up behind and brought it's head slamming down into the muzzle of his Tiger. "Bye bye." he whispered in its ear as its face splattered on the earthen wall in front of them.

The Shamshir bombers had broken off into groups so that they could run several bombing runs to help the marines down on the ground. Steven's bomber and two other bombers were skimming along just above the tree line going towards the next bombing location. For the most part bombing runs were a boring way to fly and Steven was much more interested in flying scimitars. The groups had encountered little anti-air so far except for around the larger targets, and Steven had yawned several times so far at the sight of empty skies in front of them. The silence was finally broken by the voice of one of the other pilots just off Steven's left wing.
"Squad leader, we are approaching the next target zone. It will be in sight shortly off to our right," said a crisp sounding female voice.
"Understood. Adjusting course on my mark," Steven replied.
The bombers turned and were soon able to see the next target zone. From a cursory scan it looked to be a fortified Drathorian bunker. "Sir, there is no sign of any anti-air position," said the female pilot.
"Hm, it appears so, but don't let your guard down. Considering the level of fortifications in the area it seems odd that there would be no defence against an air strike. There might be hidden flak guns hidden within the trees and undergrowth," Steven advised the other pilots in the group. "And secondary gunners remain on the lookout for enemy fighters."
As the bombers approached the pilots discovered that there were in fact flak guns within the trees and were prepared for them. The bombers swerved and spun to avoid in coming fire. All went well and the pilots were quickly approaching the drop location, and Steven was about to give the signal to drop commence the barrage of ballistics when one of the secondary gunners abruptly reported that there were several scourge fighters coming in on the group's six o'clock. This last piece of information surprised Steven, for he had not expected to see such a large group of reserve enemy fighters. He at once opened the comm channel with the Hymn and requested immediate assistance from any scimitar squadrons in the area. Presented with the current situation Steven called off the bombing run and ordered the group to initiate evasive maneuvers. The three bombers began to split and execute one of the basic maneuvers, but what normally would be a very effective and quick tactic in a scimitar, was now sluggish and excruciatingly dull in the less maneuverable shamshir.
While focusing on avoiding enemy fire and keeping an eye on the rest of his group, Steven momentarily lost sight of how close the trees were getting. He looked back just in time to pull up sharply and sighed as he heard the tops of the trees scrape the underside of the bomber. Relief, however, turned quickly to frustration and a sense of failure. Somewhere along the line he had made a tactical error. Why he felt this way was unclear to him, but soon understood when his secondary gunner let out an excited yell. "Ballistic missiles gaining on our six!" And sure enough Steven's NAV computer emitted a shrill siren signifying that missiles were locked on to him.
"Sigma squadron, this is squad leader. I have missiles closing on me. I am going to try and shake them," Steven said over the squad's comm channel. With that having been said he began to drift the bomber wistfully to the left. With the touch of a button he released a shower of anti-ballistic flak from a rear compartment on the bomber. Several of the missiles either detonated or collided and exploded in a ball of fire, but through the smoke yet more missiles came. This time to close and to quick for the ship's defense mechanisms. Two of the missiles overshot him as he dropped his altitude but the other three followed and connected with Steven's left wing. After that everything happened in a confusing blurr.
Alarms were blaring. Smoke was filling the compartment. A fire on the control counsel. Steven chanced a look up and he saw trees above him. The shamshir was spinning, that meant his wing was blown off. He reached for the eject button on the counsel, but wondered if it would be safe when he was just a hundred feet or so off the ground, and when the bomber was rolling. no time. He pushed the button when he saw sky above him. He was now flying through the air along with the secondary gunner. And the last thing he remembered before hitting the trees was his parachute deploying trying desperately to slow the two men, and the sight of the shamshir crashing into the ground. Upon reaching the ground and the parachute getting tangled in a tree, Steven blacked out.

When he woke, Steven saw the world around him as if he were looking at it from a great distance. Kind of like he were looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. He was unsure of just how long he just stared at the ground as it gently swayed back and forth beneath him. But when he finally woke up the will power to try and move his body it felt as if he had just been on the wrong end of an a** kicking. Ever muscle in his body screamed in protest as he lifted his head to look at his surroundings and gauge just what had happened. He was oddly surprised to first find out that it was not the ground that was moving, but that it was in fact he that was the one moving. Now looking up he saw his parachute deeply tangled in a gnarled old tree.
"Well that answers one question," he groaned as he rubbed his aching muscles. Another question was answered soon after. He spyed his compatriot lying about a hundred feet away on the ground in a heap on broken tree limbs and shredded parachute. From what Steven could see the man was either unconscious or dead, but he greatly hoped that it was the first one.
The next order of business was for Steven to get himself out of the tree he was in. He pulled a small knife out of his pocket and began to saw through the tangled chords. After almost ten minutes of cutting he was done with the last cable and he dropped from the tree. Although, as he fell, he realized he had not tried to find out just how high off the ground he was, and after plummeting roughly fifteen or twenty feet he landed with a audible thunk on the hard ground. "Well, that was graceful," he joked as he stood up and brushed himself off. When he had checked himself for any injuries or broken bones he walked over to the collapsed pilot. Everything was fine with the pilot except for the fact that he was unconscious, and Steven began dragging the man out of the clearing and over to the base of the tree he himself had fallen from.
Shortly thereafter, Steven finished doing everything the military survival book said to do in the event of a crash landing. He had treated the minor wounds on both himself and the other pilot, who was still unconscious, and had gathered together all the emergency survival packs that had come with them during the ejection from the bomber. Now all he had to do was sit tight and wait for either a nearby marine brigade to come and rescue him or a band of drathonians to come and kill him. And perhaps half an hour later Steven heard movement coming. Curious he stood up and cautiously made his way around the clearing, keeping to the trees, to where he could see who was approaching, praying to himself that it was the marines he had been waiting for. But to his dismay it was a group of three drathonians pilots. Immediately he pressed himself against a tree as a wave of intense fear washed through him. In the air he was eager to face any challenge, but on the ground he felt like he was a frightened child. And then he realized that the survival guide never told what to do in the event that you were being approached by three hostile drathonians.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Steven no longer knew if the pounding he was hearing was the sound of the drathonians as they walked past him or if the sound was his heart beating in his ears. He didn't really care either. All he could think about was trying to be as invisible as possible. Whether it was working or not had yet to be seen. For the most part two of the three drathonians past by him and entered the clearing, and he didn't know where the third one had gone. Sooner or later the beasts would notice him, or stumble on the still unconscious pilot. In a rush of desperation Steven reach to his belt and slowly lifted the small side arm pistol that all pilots carried just for the hell of it, and then he carefully lifted it so that it was pointing at the back of the head of one of the drathonians. Although he knew that the small side arm would most like do very little to the drathonian, he still aimed it so he would feel just a little less hopeless. His finger tightened on the trigger and he prepared to fire.

[[ Sorry for the horrendously long post xD FYI: click = km, battalion = 500-1500 soldiers ]]

The job down in the trench was done within a few minutes. It was nothing more than a long series of ditches that curved along several hillsides as it made its way to the edge of the forest. Jack was with Kwon and Rutthinger, clearing out the east end. Shortly after reaching the end of the trenches, a wretched screach pierced the sky. The men covered their ears as a burning Shamshir went hurtling over their heads. Moments later the horizon directly ahead was alight as the vessel was ripped asunder, flaming debris floating down into the trees in the aftermath. A pair of parachutes disappeared into the trees in the distance.

Gallagher turned to the other two, still feeling the unnatural buzz of the painkillers. Damn those things worked good. "Yo Kwon, did you freaking see that? Looks like there's some stranded pilots out there. Better check it out." Rutthinger cut in as Jack turned towards the forest. "Orko, don't you think we should radio Hendlow before heading in? We should keep the squad together." Jack laughed at the remark. "Yeah, yeah, yeah... whatever." Reluctantly, and against the buzz of the drugs, Jack mellowed a bit. Hopping back into the ditch, Jack linked up to his squad com. "Yo yo! Hendlow, you there? It's Jack. We've spotted a Shamshir crash about 2 clicks east of our position. What should we do? Over." Nothing but static greeted Jack Gallagher's message.

"Guys, I can't get through to Hendlow, can you?" The others met similar failure. Jack tried the Hymn, patching through to a maneuvers op. "Hymn, over. This is Private Gallagher. I've located a downed Shamshir, and the pilots seem to have ejected safely. I can't seem to reach my captain. Privates Kwon, Rutthinger and I are approximately 2 clicks from the position. Requesting orders, over." The lieutenant on the other end took a moment, apparently looking at the information on the crash. "Roger that, Private Gallagher. I'm reading Shamshir Alpha downed near your coordinates. Don't bother waiting for your captain, he's probably down. Dispatch gave orders to a squadron to extract them, but they seem to be about 8 clicks out. Proceed to grid 798-431, my sensors are indicating the pilots landed there. Be careful... I'm picking up a Drathonian battalion headed in that direction from the north. Extract them and fall back on the other squadron's position. I'll try relaying your coordinates to the rest of your squad. Over and out."

Jack turned to the other two as the orders ended. What the hell did he mean by the captain probably being down? The vice slowly pressing in on his brain didn't give him the time to think about it. He hoped to hell Hendlow was alright, though. He relayed the news to the others. "A battalion?!," Rutthinger asked, dumbfounded. "Isn't that like, a thousand units?" Jack shrugged. "I have no freaking idea. All I know is we need to get to those pilots before the lizards do." Nodding to the other two men, Jack hopped out of the ditch and sprinted through the short barren stretch between the trench and the forest. Kwon and Ruth (Rutthinger's name had to be abbreviated, you can get shot in combat while trying to yell the guys name.)were at his heels. Fortunately, they all made it across without anyone being shot in the head by a sniper.

Once in the slightly denser region of the woods, Jack slowed. He plugged the coordinates the maneuvers op had relayed to him into his HUD. A topographic map displayed their destination as well as their location. "Okay, guys, looks like we've got a 30 minute jog to get to the coordinates. You'd better hope I see some lizards on the way, because my trigger finger is getting itchy already." Jack's eye gave a noticable twitch. He was being serious. The three shouldered their rifles and began their trudge.

~~~~~~

Thirty minutes later, the group had reached its destination. The map showed a likely stretch of about 1/4 of a square kilometer ahead of them in which the pilots could have landed. Jack palmed his gun and whispered to the other two simply, "This is it." The painkillers were already starting to lose their edge, and Jack could feel himself on the verge of a crash. There was no telling what would happen when the numb feeling went away. Although he couldn't feel a damn thing, there was a distinguishable pressure crushing in on his brain, making it difficult to focus.

They were on their guard here, with a good chance of an entire battalion of Drathonians popping out at any given moment. Cautiously, they fanned out a little, and proceeded forward slowly. It didn't take long to find what they were looking for: the shredded remains of a parachute in pile of broken branches. Apprehensively, they looked around for its owner. He wasn't in sight, but Jack quickly spotted something equally rewarding: a pair of Drathonian pilots with their backs turned on the other edge of the clearing. Ever-so-silently, Jack alerted his two squadmates, who vanished into the undergrowth to cover him. Jack shouldered his sugar once more, instead taking up his Tiger rifle. Stepping behind a tree, he aimed and fired. The only sign of the shot was the low whimper of the first pilot as he fell forward. The second one was dead before he realized what was going on. Cautiously, Jack turned on his heat vision. There was no doubt more lizards to shoot... and he intended to find them. He just hoped their battalion wasn't getting close...