"Understood, Overlord." Hannah acknowledged, she knew that Foundation HQ had much more information than they did.  She trusted them to have a potentially better idea of the more strategic elements in play, "Thank you." the warrant aviation officer noted after a moment's pause.  And she meant it, the last thing the Mi-17 or either Tornado needed was a heat-seeking missile up the ... er ... asset.

But, she and the rest of the Grey Cell were stuck in the tactical side of the situation.  And yet something still niggled at back of her mind, sparked by the disembodied female voice.  The worrisome dual 23mm were no longer pushing in closer to their position by her rough estimation.

And there were three other AA assets that they knew that were not yet firing.  Which meant to Hannah that those trucks were still on the move.  The team didn't need more surprises; so, much as she might like to see that ZU-23-2 dealt with as soon as possible.  'Now' (i.e. this pass) wasn't in the cards.  "Overlord, Double Down.  ZU-23-2 is secondary.  Nero needs to make sure that the main access road south of our position is clear.  That Quad ZPU is still in play, exact position unknown." Hannah intoned into her mike.  It was a gamble, but there were only so many ways into the target area and the Mercedes with the ZPU-4 must using one of them.  So, the army aviatrix ordered their air support to clear the biggest one first.  With any luck, they'd also hit the area where she (assumed) that the pickup with the dual 23mm had seemingly settled at bit further south.

But being able to kill those two rather large birds with one stone, was likely too much to ask...

Hannah Omdahl
Mi-17 Cockpit - Pilot's Seat
AK-104 (w/trimmings) [not drawn], Glock 17 [holstered]
Bringing the Mi-17 around for Bullfrog and Barfight ... and keeping an eye out for that pesky (and mobile) Mercedes with ZPU-4, just in case.

Caradoc and James open up on the distant Libya Dawn riflemen.  A volley of hot brass pelts Michael as he sprints past the medic's position.

Despite the female bodyguard's best efforts, the gap between the pursuing Grey Cell operators and the Tambolis is closing.  Despairingly, the woman turns and sprays a burst at Michael.  The airman staggers as a hammerblow slams into his trauma plate .  Before she can correct, a single shot from Sébastien snaps overhead, shattering her carbine's stock and nearly severing her right arm at the elbow.  She looks down quizzically, then folds neatly at knees and waist and slumps to the street beside the bomb crater.

"Double Down, Overlord, do not, say again, do not alter course.  All Empire, heads down."

Through the Mi-17's windscreen, the first fingernail of the rising sun glints off wings descending from the southeast.  The first Tornado comes in at rooftop level, pops up less than a kilometer out, and breaks sharply to the south.  The ZU-23-2 goes silent as a quarter-ton of precision ordnance pounds it flat.

The full import of do not alter course becomes dreadfully apparent as the second Tornado expands with breathtaking speed.  Its nose flickers, then it's rolling to the north, presenting its belly to Hannah as it screams past less than a hundred meters away.  A belated stutter of machine gun fire chases it out to sea.  Hannah lifts her nose, scrubbing off most of her forward momentum a breath before she flies through the ZPU-4's sights.

James looses the last round in his magazine.  An instant later, the building in his sights shudders like a dog shaking off water as a line of cannon fire walks up the street and across the its facade.  A fast-moving shadow tears a strip off the sky overhead, loud even to the FBI agent's gunfire-stunned ears.  No more fire from the building is forthcoming.

Michael gasps for breath and pushes forward, padlocked on the Tambolis.  He's the width of a rubble-strewn street away from them, no more than fifteen meters.  As he raises his AK-104 to order them to halt, two motorcycles howl around the corner to the east and straighten out, accelerating toward him.  In synchronization, a blocky SUV rounds the corner to the north and screeches to a halt on the sidewalk.

Aboard the Mi-17, Sébastien and Barbrak see the SUV's headlights swing into view.  The flight engineer yells something in Pashto and opens fire, raking the vehicle's surroundings until his borrowed HK runs dry.  Sébastien breathes, steadies the big Sako, and punches a neat hole through the driver's side of the windshield.

Flailing with her radio, Karolina drives a fingertip deep into the hole through her shoulder.  Agony crusher her consciousness and her vision goes black.  Distantly, she feels her back arch and her legs stretch as her body tries to crawl away from the searing pain.  There's a hot trickle down her back under her armor.  As her eyelids flutter open, the paling sky squirms in time with her heartbeat, shadowy shapes flickering in and out of existence.

Ammo expenditures:

Durand -2 rounds
Choi -15 rounds
Crewe -20 rounds

Minor map updates: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...SBoJ32E.kere8L_KAy70

So very close...

Durand's lips curl into a satisfied smile as he sees the SUV's windscreen shatter. "Good shooting!" he  calls out to Barfight after the Afghan has emptied the HK's magazine into and around the vehicle, his ears ringing, yelling to be heard over the noise of the rotor blades, gunshots, and, trumping both of those, the Italian Tornado jet as it completes its pass. Realising that the co pilot probably doesn't have any spare magazines for the rifle, Durand's left hand moves away from the rifle, the barrel immediately drooping as he holds the rifle in right hand only, left hand pulling open one of the ammo pouches attached to his tac vest. Reaching into the pouch, he grabs the two fresh mags it contains, hands them over as quickly as he can. It may have taken him precious seconds, but he reckons it's worth it to keep both rifles in the fight. "Keep shooting, keep their heads down."

Once the Afghan has taken the magazines from him, the Frenchman thumbs the button to transmit over the helo's intercom, giving Omdahl a quick update, for he's unsure what she can see from the cockpit, what she's heard. "Double Down, Dancer and Lizard King have both taken hits and we have unknown number of Attars on scene. Barfight and I are engaging Attars but we may need to start thinking about options to get our people out." His voice is calm, even, almost matter of fact. He holds the Sako in both hands again, squints down the sight again, tries to reacquire visual on the Attars, his intention being to keep pumping rounds at the fuckers until they go down and stay down. The adrenaline is flowing, but the Frenchman is in control. He spits a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor without moving his gaze from the sights. Fuck, this sure beats sitting behind a desk in Kourou. Where are you you alien fuckers?

Bullfrog
Sako TRG 42 (7/10)
Yelling encouragement / instruction at Barfight / updating Double Down on situation
Then looking for Attars to kill

James watches appreciatively as the Tornado shreds the Libyan Dawn riflemen's hideout with 20mm canon fire. Threat neutralized, he looks over at Dancer.

Shit.

She's writhing on the ground, blood leaking from her perforated shoulder. Her situation is clearly worse than he'd hoped, but at least she's still moving. On a standard HRT op, the team was set up so that friendly casualties could be attended without rendering the entire unit mission ineffective. With a four-person ground team, there just weren't that many options.

I guess I'm it.

He moves over to the wounded Pole, quickly looking her over for additional wounds. All he sees is the bloody shoulder. Letting his rifle dangle across his chest by its tactical sling, James bends down, grabs a hold of Kowalska under her arms, and lifts her to her feet, ready to hoist her into a fireman's carry if her legs don't hold.

"Can you walk? I can carry you. Either way, we gotta keep moving."


James 'Lizard King' Choi
End of the line
HK-417 (20/20)
Helping KK get to her feet and carrying her if necessary

-

Hannah breathed a sigh of relief as the chopper wasn't hit by AA fire (as close at it was) and she was able to hold it steady even as one of the Tornadoes screamed by within a stone's throw of the Mi-17; she could feel the shudder of the HiP in her hands through the controls.

"Bullfrog.  Understood." Hannah noted in clipped tones into on-board channel the as she assessed their chances against the ZPU-4.  The blasted quad may take some time to realign, but would shred the Mi-17 in no uncertain terms.  But hopefully, they just needed to keep out of the way until the Tornadoes took another pass.  And the best cover seemed to be the buildings.

"Bullfrog, Barfight.  Hold on." the army aviatrix ordered those on-board the chopper, half calling out loudly over her shoulder.  She didn't have the time to say it twice.  Hannah jerked hard on the stick to bring the HiP around in a very tight left hand turn.  It put her directly in line down the street where the rest of the team was - as well as there SUV with the Attars.  "All Empire, Empire Four.  We are in bound to your location for evac.  Do we have the package?  I repeat we are in-bound.  Prepare for immediate evac."  She kept the Mi-17 low and tight, between the buildings for cover.

The Mi-17 started to make a beeline for the area near the flattened building and the ramp.  She knew that everyone that counted was there.  And while it was preferable in her books to anti-aircraft munitions, Hannah knew that would bring down a potential hail of small arms fire.  Potentially a lot of small arms fire.  The chess board was getting crowded quickly.  Her jaw set with grim determination as she knew that it was a dicey at best.  But, true to her callsign once more, Hannah went for broke.  With two injured members she knew she needed to put the Mi-17 down in the right place at the right time.

Both of which were approaching fast.  "Bullfrog, Barfight.  We are coming hot.  LZ is very hot." she called out to two gunners in the passenger compartment.  They knew their jobs, so she knew that she didn't need to tell them more it was possible that they could be potentially taking fire from all directions when everything was said and done.  And she knew her job.  So, Hannah intended to put the Mi-17 down at street between the two intersections, between the impact crater and the demolished building.  If she did it right, Hannah would be able to position the HiP door with the best angle possible to get the rest of the team back on board and still give Sébastien with his large bore Sako the clearest view of known Attar threat to the north.  Just because those bastard's driver was (probably) disabled, she wasn't lulled into thinking that whatever they were the (unknown number of other) things in that SUV weren't still highly dangerous.

Hannah Omdahl
Mi-17 Cockpit - Pilot's Seat
AK-104 (w/trimmings) [not drawn], Glock 17 [holstered], Mi-17 [wielded with (hopefully) scalpel-like precision]
Breaking left.  Hard.  And bringing the Mi-17 in towards the intersection and the rest of the team for touch down and evac.

"Tak.. yes.." Lina said as she shifted her weight so she could stand on her own.  Kowalska had blacked out from her efforts to dress the gunshot wound, but she regained consciousness as Choi lifted her up.  She hadn't been prepared for the excruciating pain that had come from trying to stop the bleeding.  Once bitten and twice shy, she reverted  to keeping pressure on the injury for now.

Nodding to Choi in an effort to convince him and perhaps herself, that she was fine, Lina started moving at a slow trot alongside FBI agent.  It was clear that she had lost her orientation and was taking all of her movement cues from him at this point.  She was hearing comms, but not really processing what was happening.


Karolina Kowalska
Standing and moving with Choi
Glock 17 [17/17]
Trying to remain upright and mobile

He doesn't know where the bullet that hit him originated, not that it really matters.  He's still moving.  The fact that it would have struck down a soldier thirty years ago who was not equipped with the best body armor clandestine funds can buy is not lost on him.

If the high velocity aircraft screaming across the deck stuns the Libya Dawn troops (they could kill you just as dead as soldiers, but to call them soldiers...), the jet roar sends the adrenaline moving through Dacovetti's veins.  Which, given that he is starting to feel an exquisite lactic acid burn from running with all the gear on, he suspects that he needs.  The target package is so close, so tantalizingly close and the scenario begins to break down into two discrete options in his mind.  On the decision tree, he has the A branch, the "safe" option of just spraying the scientists down with lead and calling it a day.  No one would second guess him, not with the Attars approaching.  The B branch is to still attempt capture.  They are fifteen meters away.

Double Down's transmission makes the decision for him.  The Hip is inbound and the game needs to come to a close. He didn't engage in this much effort to shoot someone he could have dropped a bomb on ten minutes ago.  One more high risk run.

"Painter I need support at this intersection, I'm about to be flanked.  Dealer attempting to secure package now."

Instead of doing the prudent thing, Dacovetti continues at a run sending several bursts down range at the incoming motorcycles, then turns the carbine on his prey.

"Halt or I shoot your fucking wife!" he yells.  Michael knows the threat would get his attention.  It remains unclear if it will work for a terrorist scumbag.


Michael Dacovetti
Two bursts at Attar-cycles while on the run
AK-104 Carbine (25/30) 5 mags remaining
Attempting to secure package.

The halted G-Wagen's doors spring open in unison and three slender black-clad figures bail out.  The driver's door remains closed.  Through his scope, Sébastien can see a faint green mist boiling out of the windshield.  He has time for one shot, but it goes short as Hannah banks left.  Then the helo's movement swings the Attars out of his field of fire.

Moving in a fluid lope, the three dash forward, laying down fire on the move.  It's impressive in volume but wildly inaccurate, threatening neither the helicopter nor the Grey Cell ground team.  There's a brief lull as they reach the cover of the abandoned vehicle that was the Tambolis' apparent objective.

The motorcycles' engines snarl hungrily as they align on toward Michael but the debris the air strike has strewn down the street forces them to check their acceleration.  One flourishes his arm and red-orange sunlight glints from the killing edge of a long blade.  The other leans out and opens fire with a handgun.  Again, a bullet flattens against Michael's beleaguered trauma plate as he's twisting to fire on the run, but compared to the rifle round of moments ago, it's less a sledgehammer than a water balloon.

Michael stutter-steps at the impact but follows through on his intent, raking the motorcyclists with automatic fire.  One round finds the shooter's rear tire and the bike goes sideways.  The Attar throws itself away from the wreck, tucks, rolls, and turns the crash's momentum into a five-meter leap to cover.

Heavy rifle fire erupts behind Michael as Caradoc bounds forward and opens up on the still-mounted cyclist.  As the Attar slews aside to avoid its dismounted partner, the machine's rear suspension comes apart explosively.  This rider isn't so agile - the wreck sends it ragdoll-tumbling along the street until it impacts the curb.  "Mike, get the fuck out of there!" Caradoc yells between shots.

Rotor wash plunges the dusty street into a brownout as Hannah levels out her bank into a descent toward the hot LZ.  As she rounds the corner, it becomes apparent that even with Michael's recent urban renewal efforts, the intersection is just too narrow to safely accommodate her 21-meter rotor sweep.  She grits her teeth, juggles her controls, and comes around into a simultaneous rotation and westward sideslip, angling into the center of the vacant lot whose trees the TACP and his Italian accomplices so thoughtfully knocked down for her.  It's a much farther run for her team but it increases the chances that she'll be able to lift again once they're aboard.  Her wheels thump to the ground as she points her nose northwest, giving the right-side windows the best possible field of fire.

Rifle fire cracks down the street past James and Karolina, inaccurate but still dangerous if the fickle gods of ballistics turn on the agents.  The lawman slips on his archaic Oakleys and exploits the concealment of the brownout to haul his commander across the street in a ludicrous meld of stagger and sprint.  The two tumble into the lee of the rubbled outbuilding, barely 20 meters from the helicopter's open ramp.

Kneeling at the foot of the ramp, Barbrak slides down his visor and opens up with his borrowed rifle, pelting the Attars' vicinity with slow aimed fire.  "Move!" he yells unnecessarily toward Karolina and James.

Satish Tamboli makes an abortive lunge for his last bodyguard's dropped weapon, then skitters back into cover when the Attars to the north make their bound forward.  Both physicists turn at Michael's command.  Satish yelps and attempts to shove Jayashri behind himself.  "Please... please, no..." he manages before trailing off into incoherent babbles.  His neatly-trimmed mustache is flecked with foam and blood and his eyes are wide and rolling.  Jayashri clenches a white-knuckled hand on his bicep and meets Michael's gaze with a seething glare.

Ammunition expenditures:

Durand -1 round
Dacovetti -10 rounds
Crewe -5 rounds

Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...SBoJ32E.kere8L_KAy70

Next?

"Go!" James shouts at Kowalska. He turns and squeezes off a burst at the approaching baddies, knowing that, in her current condition, Kowalska won't be able to keep up with him. He wants to make sure that she makes it on board before he does, it being easier to scoop her up on the way there, should she falter, than to go back for her. He gives her two five-round bursts worth of a head start before flipping a u-ey and booking it towards the hovering Hip.


James Choi, the 'Lizard King' of Tripoli
Ground team
HK-417 (20/20)
Covering Kowalska's extraction w/ two 5-round bursts, then joining her aboard the Hip

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:54, Sun 29 Mar 2015.

When he feels the Hip's wheels touch the ground Durand is on the move, following Barfight down the ramp, feeling the ground underneath his boots. He's pulled his tan and brown checkered shemgah up around the lower half of his face, trying to protect his nose and mouth from the helo's downdraft. He can see Choi and Kowalska, thinks that the American has that situation under control, so his head turns towards the Tambolis, and, beyond them, the Attars approaching from the north.

It's a split second decision as to where he thinks the greatest threat is coming from, the motorcyclists or the group that have debussed from the SUV. The latter group have greater numbers, and can potentially block Dancer and Lizard King's approach. That makes them more dangerous. Painter and Dealer will need to handle the motorcyclists.

His decision made, the Frenchman takes a few steps away from the helo, to a position where he has an angle on the Attars, the vehicle that they are sheltering behind. He hits the ground, going prone, resting the rifle on its bipod, pulling the butt in tight against his cheek, his breathing regular, even, as he calls out to the Afghani co pilot. "Barfight! Concentrate your fire on the left side of the car. Your left, yeah? Short bursts this time." And I'll cover the right. His hope is that if the Attars try to move to the left of the car (their right) that will expose them to the co pilot's suppressive fire. If they go to the right to try and avoid the Afghan's rounds, Durand will be waiting for them with the big Sako. Worst case scenario, they stay where they are, pinned down.

He gazes through the sight, focused on the right hand side of the vehicle, his finger resting on the trigger. Come on you little fuckers, show yourselves...

Bullfrog
Sako TRG 42 (6/10)
Lying prone on the ground
Calling out instructions to Barfight
Trying to pin down the three Attars between a rock (Barfight's suppresive fire) and a hard place (the Sako)
Ready to fire on any target that shows itself

This is a decidedly bad place to remain, Dacovetti thinks.  It is also possible that he only has one functional individual left and she is looking at him with death in her eyes.  "If you want to live, we have to be on the helicopter," Michael tells her.  "I'll help you get him there."

The TACP lets his sling take the weight of his carbine and pulls the revolver he traded for back at the airbase.  The range is not what he would call adequate, but he can fire one handed and shepherd Satish with the other.  A quick glance tells him that their tactical situation could accurately be described as 'crap.'  Their are Attars in cover to the north, one with a goddamn sword to the east, another with a pistol.  And it was probably only a matter of time until the Libya Dawn people got their shit together.

"Time to go!"  Dacovetti grabs Satish with his left hand and starts running the couple out of the meager cover they have towards the waiting helicopter.

"Empire Three, package secured, coming to the Hip."


Michael Dacovetti
Extracting package
MR37 (6/6) 18rnds remaining
Engaging threats as necessary

Karolina made a run for the helicopter, her attention oriented on the tail rotor, which could quickly make her GSW the least of her problems.  Loss of blood and muscle failure kept her on the edge of consciousness, but she somehow managed to stay on her feet.  If she could end up on the floor of the Mi-17 before she passed out again, that would at least remove her from the team's current liabilities column.

Karolina Kowalska
Get to the choppa!
Glock 17 [17/17]
Trying to board the Mi-17
This message was last edited by the player at 02:42, Sun 29 Mar 2015.

Hannah glanced furtively out the cockpit windows trying to keep an eye out to the south and west of the Mi-17.  With both Barfight and Bullfrog focused on the getting the team and the package into the HiP, they really didn't need either any surprises coming upon them from their potential blind side.  There was still that truck with the ZPU-4 as well as at least (part of) one Libyan Dawn team still out there.

It wouldn't take much to make their current mode of transportation nothing more than a huge lawn ornament.  One hand went to her Glock 17, though Hannah really intended to keep her eyes open and be ready to take of the moment the team was on-board.  The rotors continued to spin - and it wouldn't take much to nudge the HiP back up into the air.  She took a deep breath, once everyone was back on board the real fun would begin.  In her mind's eye, Hannah reviewed what was going to need to be done - lift-off, the race to the beach, relaying of the package, then they needed to disappear again.

She listened to the comm chatter with barely contained anticipation, as if force of will would help get everyone on-board.  The army aviatrix would have loved to have been able to set the chopper down closer to the rest of the team - and a better pilot might have been able to do so.  Though such recriminations would have to wait.  Hannah could only hope that such blame wouldn't include any more casualties or the loss of the package.

"C'mon..." she muttered under her breath, glancing quickly back out the starboard side to check the team's progress before returning her vigil to the the port side of the helicopter.

Hannah Omdahl
Mi-17 Cockpit - Pilot's Seat
AK-104 (w/trimmings) [not drawn], Glock 17 [drawn], Mi-17 [warmed-up on hold]
Keeping an eye out (port side), waiting for the rest of Grey Cell to be on board, trying to be ready to lift-off immediately...

Slow-motion shot of the dust-veiled rising sun down the street's long axis, broken by the rhythmic sweep of the helicopter's blades.  No sound but the whoosh of them cleaving the air.  Tilt the camera angle down and zoom in over Michael Dacovetti's left shoulder as he yells something at Jayashri Tamboli.  Lens flare of sun reflected off an H&K USP, slide locked back held high in a pale green hand with strips of artificial human skin still clinging to it.  A thumb with an extra joint hits the magazine release lever.  Track the magazine down to the pavement, bouncing as it hits among a scattering of empty cases.  Jump cut back to the same hand, the extra-articulated thumb swiping the slide release, the gun coming down...

... and flicker into motion and gunfire again.

The Attar with the pistol stands up from its crouch and strolls forward unconcernedly, reloading as it comes.  Its dismount has abraded the human gloves from its hands but it seems unimpaired.  Its face has no expression.

Whether it's that patient, loose-jointed stalk forward or something in Michael's eyes, the functional Tamboli shifts to abrupt cooperation.  She grabs her husband by the collar, snarls "Run!" and shoves him in the general direction of the helicopter.

The Attar tucks sideways into a duelist's stance and opens fire, emptying another magazine in a continuous rolling volley that leads the trio just a meter too far.  Behind it, its partner drags itself up and skitters forward more cautiously, sprinting from cover to cover, scooping up its sword along the way.

Michael steers the Tambolis south, minimizing their exposure to the three Attars lurking at the cars, but the crumpled corner of the building can't shield him forever.  As he unmasks, they rise up in unison, one gunning for him and one firing toward the helo while a third bounds forward.  His luck holds - fire chases him toward Caradoc's position but fails to connect.

Sébastien tracks the runner and cuts its right leg out from under it with a round through the femur.  The creature falls, twisting to bring its F2000 to bear on Michael.  The French agent runs the bolt and folds his target in half with a second armor-piercing round through its pelvis.

Bullets whine overhead as Karolina makes a run - really more of a stagger - for the Mi-17.  Barbrak growls and returns fire.  "One!" he yells as the Pole's boots clatter on the helo's rear ramp.  The wounded intelligence officer collapses into a troop seat and rips a medical kit free of the bulkhead, spilling its contents across her lap.

Caradoc twists around to spray suppressive fire past Michael, ripping at the Attars to the north.  His FAL runs empty and he yanks a smoke grenade out of his aid bag and flings it past his teammate.  "Smoke out!" he calls unnecessarily as the green haze begins billowing into intersection.  "Mike, we gotta go, mate!"

Michael turns loose of Satish and turns to bring the borrowed revolver to bear.  The Attar with the sword is less than twenty meters out and closing quickly.  The Manurhin's heavy barrel drags the airman's point of aim a few degrees too low and his first shot spalls off the cement at the creature's feet.  He lets the recoil work for him and the next two rounds smash the creature down in a tangle of limbs.

James puts his reticle on the abandoned vehicle and waits.  There's a flicker of motion and his finger caresses the trigger, sending a burst downrange before he consciously registers the silhouette of a head.  Two rounds tear through the Attar's neck, catapulting its raggedly-severed head into the air.  He recovers and sends a second burst downrange, punching holes in the car's hood, then shoves himself to his feet to dash for the helo --

At the far end of the street, a ramshackle Mercedes five-ton truck lurches to a halt, pulling crossways across the lane.  Armed men spill from the bed as the gunner cranks the quad-mount heavy machine gun down and around for ground engagement.  James throws himself prone again as the quadruple 14.5s open up, shredding the air over his head.

From her exposed seat up front, Hannah anxiously scans her field of view.  There's no movement in the building that the Tornado's strafing run savaged and the only Attar with a direct line of sight to her is the overconfident pistolero.  The ZPU-4's tracer fire shows that it's halted before it could bear on her, but there's no way to lift off without exposing herself to it.

Ammo expenditures:

Durand -2 rounds
Dacovetti -3 rounds
Choi -10 rounds

Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...SBoJ32E.kere8L_KAy70

Actions?
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:03, Tue 31 Mar 2015.

Durand sees Dancer stumbling onto the Hip out of his peripheral vision as another Attar goes down to two rounds from the Sako, Barfight's shout out a moment later confirming the fact. One aboard. Three still out there, plus the package. The Frenchman tries to process the scene. It's a target rich environment,  the problem is that there appear to be more targets than there are people to take them down, a problem that only grows more acute as heavy calibre rounds punch through the air above his head as the Libyans' technical joins the fight. For fuck's sake...

He tries to take stock of the situation. He's unsure how many Attars are left, for normal rules don't apply, what would be a kill shot under normal circumstances may not be here, for these circumstances were far, far from normal. He thinks maybe four at most, worst case scenario two by the car, the two motorcyclists.  Best case scenario was half that number. It's a matter of threat assessment. And in Durand's opinion there is a new threat that outweighs the Attars. The technical. For as long as it is in situ, Double Down isn't going anywhere. And if the chopper isn't taking off then it's surely only a matter of time before they lose this fight, for they can't hold out indefinitely.

So the technical has to be taken out of the equation. He doesn't know if Dealer can call in an airstrike or not, doesn't know if the pilots will even be able to carry one out with that weapon sitting there. Durand shifts position, keeping down as low as he can, hits his throat mike. "All stations from Bullfrog. Attempting to engage technical. Out." Time to discourage the little fuckers. He gazes through the Sako's sights, trying to filter out the chaos and carnage all around him. His primary target is the vehicle's gunner. If he can get a bead on him he'll take the shot. If he can't catch the gunner in his crosshairs he'll switch to the truck's engine block, try to shred it with the armour piercing rounds. Worst case scenario it's immobilised, best case scenario he might start a fire.

Bullfrog
Sako TRG 42 (4/10)
Lying prone on the ground
Shifting target to the technical
Primary target: gunner; secondary target (if no line to primary target): engine block

Dacovetti pushes the package forward, into the relative cover the position Caradoc has been holding fully aware that it is still a dreadfully exposed spot.  The amount of kinetic energy occupying the immediate area around him is staggering and the roughly six percent decrease in stress he feels upon reaching Crewe is immediately returned with the sound of heavy machine gun fire ripping at them from the south.

Maybe we're in defilade, he thinks silently.  He's not optimistic.

There goes our exit," Michael tells Crewe.  "Stay low," he says to the Tambolis, "we've got to deal with this."

Across the street that might as well be the width of a small country, he can see Durand beginning to position himself to take a shot at the gun truck.  It never hurts to be thorough.  In a perfect world, the TACP would lean out, pull a grid coordinate from his laser spot, and drop a JDAM into a very precise point.  Today continues to be a far from perfect world.  Instead, Dacovetti increases the pressure on the pistol in his hand,  exposes himself to take a hard look, and sinks back to defend their position while he wings it.

"Nero One, Empire Three.  Call contact on green smoke, friendly position."

"Contact, Empire."

"From smoke to last target building is one unit of measure."

"Nero copies."

"Approximately two units south in an intersection is a gun truck, ZPU-4.  Please kill the shit out of it, West to East or East to West, guns only."  The adrenaline in his veins is starting to break down the standard radio discipline that Michael prides himself on.  And as effective as a air delivered explosive would be right now, their ride home is sitting inside danger close.

"Stand by Empire."  It feel like eternity.  "Contact."

"Outstanding, he's occupied shooting at us right now, you are cleared hot."



Michael Dacovetti
CAS and defending position
Kneeling in cover
Manurhin (3/6) 18 rnds remaining

If first you don’t succeed, Lina thinks to herself.  She pulled out a pair of sheers and cut widely around the arm of her shirt so she could access the wound.  Her concealed vest and the sports bra underneath were blood-soaked.  Since they were still in combat, she decided to leave the vest on for now.  Lina found a suitable dressing and again tried to render self-aid.  While bandaging your own shoulder was an awkward process, especially when it came to wrapping the elastic around your torso, it beat the alternative.

Karolina Kowalska
Onboard the Mi-17
Glock 17 [17/17]
Self-aid take two

How low can those guns depress?, James wonders. The answer is going to make all the difference. There's no cover to speak of within crawling distance so it's boiled down to a simple animal truth made cliché- kill or be killed. From the prone, he fixes gunner in the 417's advanced combat sight, placing the red dot on the center of his antagonist's face. James squeezes the trigger...


JC
In the dirt behind the Hip
HK-417 (17/20)
Aimed-quick fire at technical gunner until someone dies

-

Hannah was stuck along with her vehicle.  This is not good. she mused to herself, watching the tracers pass overhead.  She lowered her head instinctively, even though intellectually she knew that it wouldn't help.  Really, there was little that she can currently do, but try to will the rest of the team on-board.  Unclipping and getting out to try and help would likely just make things worse ... and place her potentially out of position when she was really needed.

The Mercedes with the ZPU-4 was not in her line of fire.  And she was thankful for that.  Since, if she could shoot it, then they would have line of sight to her as well.  But they were pinned, much to her chagrin.  Luckily, Dealer was on the line.  And so, help was on its way.  Hopefully.

And the only thing that she could shoot at was a creature that she had nothing to attack with.  Double Down had already seen the video footage and the Glock 17's 9mm ammunition would be absolutely useless against an Attar - especially as inexpertly as she can wield the thing.  She holstered her sidearm with a slight grimace of disgust.

"Let's go, people." she muttered unnecessarily into the lonely cockpit, even though she knew that no one was really dawdling.  The thin US army aviatrix glanced furtively over her shoulder to see if anyone else besides Dancer had been able to make it into the chopper yet.  Then another glance to the south and west to make sure that no one else was arriving to try and spoil the party.  God, she felt less than useless; all she could do was offer a silent prayer.

The staccato rhythm of all the various firearms was a rather cacophonous symphony.  Still, the raucous chaos started to fade into the background as Hannah forced herself to focus on being ready to go at a moment's notice.  Hannah had to trust that the Tornadoes would do their job.  And then it would be up to her to do her job.  She started to go through her mental take-off checklist: Oil pressure is good.  Rotor RPM's good.  Fuel status satisfactory.  Both turbines ramping up to speed.  Everything was a go.

Now, all she needed was to have the rest of her team get their asses on board...

Hannah Omdahl
Mi-17 Cockpit - Pilot's Seat
AK-104 (w/trimmings) [not drawn], Glock 17 [holstered], Mi-17 [warmed-up, on hold]
Getting antsy.  Keeping an eye out (port side), waiting for the rest of Grey Cell to be on board, trying to be ready to lift-off immediately...

Prone next to the helo's ramp, Sébastien needs to displace a few meters east, into the ruins of the light industrial structure, before he gains line of sight on the ZPU-4 gunner.  The hammering fire from the south continues as he slides back into cover and aligns his long rifle.

James does his best impression of a snake's belly as the heavy tracers chew the air at waist level, weaving back and forth across the street.  The gunner is burning ammo at a profligate rate and seems to be suppressing rather than firing for effect.  The FBI agent puts his reticle on the man's bearded face and starts pumping rounds downrange.  He sees at least one spark off the gun shield but the fire continues.

A fist-sized chunk of concrete, blasted loose from the building's ruins, clips Sébastien on the helmet as his finger is tightening on the trigger.  The heavy .338 bullet spears off into nowhere --

-- Michael peeks around the corner at the pistol-wielding Attar as the creature, still advancing confidently down the street, unleashes another volley of poorly-aimed pistol fire at him and Caradoc.  As he brings the borrowed revolver up to respond in kind, a fast-moving shape silhouettes itself against the rising sun, coming around in a more-than-90º bank and falling sideways out of the sky.  There's no time to cringe --

-- the Tornado snaps level and extends flaps, coming in so low Michael can see the cloud of debris its wake is raising from the rooftops.  Its nose flickers as the 27mm Mauser cuts loose in a surgical one-second burst.  The gun truck and its surroundings erupt in pyrotechnics from the mixed API/HE load.  The ZPU-4 clatters to a halt, one severed barrel spinning out of the smoke.  A whump echoes through the street as the pilot retracts flaps, ignites afterburners, and roars out to sea.

Through their optics, James and Sébastien can see the tumbled shapes of the gun truck's dismount squad, caught by the strafing pass' overspray.  With a belated shudder, the dismounted ZPU-4 topples from the truck's bed, tangling its trailing ammunition belts.

"Empire Three, Nero One-One, confirm effect on target, over."  From the Italian's tone, he already knows the answer.

The Attar in the street freezes, caught in mid-reload, and tracks the departing Tornado with unblinking eyes.  Michael lines up and shoots it through the knee.  It collapses with a wracking cough-hiss.  Caradoc walks a burst up to it, ripping through its right lung as it fumbles with its pistol.

"Thanks for making it sit still," he quips, reloading his own weapon.  "Last mag, Mike, now can we go?"

The Pakistani physicists huddle in the rubble, heads swiveling back and forth for the next incomprehensible threat.

Hannah keeps up her anxious scan, listening to the radio traffic with one ear while the rest of her senses monitor her bird's health and her surroundings.  Nothing moves in her line of sight but the drifting smoke from Caradoc's grenade.  There's a meaty thump from the cargo compartment.  Peering around the bulkhead with her hand on her Glock, she can see Karolina facedown on the deck amidst a scattering of medical supplies.  Blood is spilling from a wound in the Pole's shoulder. 

Ammo expenditures:

Choi -3 rounds
Durand -1 round
Dacovetti -1 round

Map: https://www.google.com/maps/d/...SBoJ32E.kere8L_KAy70

Your move.

OK, that takes care of that problem Durand thinks to himself as he watches the demise of the ZPU. Let's get the fuck out of here. The Frenchman uses his left hand to push himself up from prone to one knee, the rifle held in right, the barrel drooping slightly as he looks around, sees Choi close by, calls out to the American. "Lizard King! Time to go! Get to the chopper and try and cover us from there if you can. I'll cover Dealer and Painter."

The Frenchman rises up, to his feet, left hand returning to its familiar grip of the Sako, his head moving as though on a swivel as he takes several steps closer to Dealer, Painter, and the Doctors Tamboli, each step taking him a little further from the Hip. The rifle moves with his head, almost as though its movements are linked to his, the barrel pointed in the same direction as his eyes, both seeking out any surviving Attars. If he sees any of them pop up as the rest of the team make their way to the chopper he'll try and blow their fucking alien heads off with the Sako's heavy calibre rounds. "Dealer, Painter, let's get the fuck out of here. Now!! I'll cover you!"

Bullfrog
Sako TRG 42 (3/10)
Standing up and approaching Dealer and Painter's position
Covering the rest of the team as they exfil
Once the others pass him on their way to the chopper he'll begin to withdraw himself

"Everybody appears to be in such a hurry," Dacovetti shoots back at Crewe.  Truth be told, the TACP is ready to vacate the premises, post haste.  With a quick sweep, he rules the street as safe as it is going be.  Burning AAA, eviscerated aliens, multiple bomb impact craters, low flying aircraft, and automatic weapons fire.  Tripoli has seen a hell of a morning.  He's not really ready to dwell on it all yet.  Better to keep the autopilot functioning until there is time.

"Nero One-One, target status: bruciare all'inferno," he reports in flawless Italian, then he's gesturing for the Pakistanis to make a run for the helicopter. "Dealer and Painter, moving package to helicopter."  Hypothetically, they might even arrive at their destination before the next wave of gunfire erupts, but Dacovetti isn't counting on anything.  He follows behind them at a trot, coming up on Bullfrog and exchanging weapons again as he moves.  The Frenchman is exposed, but the physical security the man and his rifle represent is reassuring, and despite the renewed effort at running, he can feel his pulse rate starting to come down.



Michael Dacovetti
Getting the hell out of Dodge
1 long run to helicopter with package
AK-104 (15/30) 5 mags remaining

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Burning in Hell

---

Sparing a relieved smirk at the Tornado-induced disintegration of the Libyan Dawn technical, James pops up and dashes towards the Hip, where he immediately sets up* to cover Dacovetti and the packages' egress. At this point, Grey Cell can't afford to be picky. Anyone pointing a weapon at the prize would be priority target number 1. If the shooter happened to be an Attar, so much the better. The second priority is making sure that the Old Russian whirlybird stayed airborne. If the packages aren't in imminent danger, the next target will be anyone pointing a weapon at the helo.


Lizard King
Chopper
HK-417 (13/20)
Overwatch for package/counter-sniping

-

"Thank you, Nero One-One!" Hannah crowed into her comm boom.  She knew she should keep the chatter to the minimum, but they wanted confirmation.  And someone just saved their butts and she likely owed them a round of drinks.  If they survived.

Then she turned to the more immediate business of surviving, as she kept watch and her hands on the controls.    Her grip tightened slightly as she surveyed the back of the chopper.  "Painter, Double Down." Hannah pinged Caradoc, "Dancer is bleeding out in the Hip."  She kept it simple and her tone as even as possible, knowing that Crewe was doing what he could to get on-board already.  She had to fight down the visceral urge to unclip and try to help Karolina by staunching the blood.  But even though the army warrant officer had some basic medical training, she knew that it wouldn't do Dancer or the rest of the group any good to try and play doctor instead of pilot.

That would be almost as crazy as telling Painter that he had to drive.  Hannah had to just pray that Lina wouldn't bleed out in the next few seconds - and that getting her away from this area quicker would increase her chances of survival much more than trying to administer immediate first aid.  "Focus on the team..."

"Nemesis, Empire Four." Hannah pinged Bannon as the beach was were they should be headed next, "Preparing for dust-off.  We have injured."

"Let's go, people!" she cried over her shoulder and out the window.  Hannah made a motion with her index finger to round up and get on board for any that could see her, even though it wasn't like the rest of the team were just milling about.  The lithe army aviatrix gave the turbines a little more gas in preparation for lift-off, while pushing the stick down to ensure that the Mi-17 didn't move from its spot.  Yet.

But once the last person was clambering aboard the HiP, Hannah didn't expect the helo's wheels to be touching the ground actually.

"Painter on the way," Caradoc responds, all business again.  He reshoulders the FAL and trots across the street, scanning for targets.  Michael reloads and holsters the MR73, swaps to his carbine, and pushes the Tambolis in the right direction, following along behind them.  The space between his shoulder blades crawls and he can't shake the premonition that one of the sprawled Attars is about to reanimate.

Barbrak lowers his rifle and rises to a crouch, running to course-correct the Tambolis away from the tail rotor.  He follows Michael into the cargo bay, turning at the top of the ramp and taking a knee.  He captures a dangling intercom cable and jacks it into his hand before raising his HK again.  "Three aboard with the packages," he reports to Hannah.

The aviatrix cuts out the automatic throttle governors and and increases her rotor speed manually, building RPMs while keeping the blades at a constant flat pitch.  The airframe reverberates as the twin Klimovs spool up.  Small electrical charges snap in the rising dust cloud outside the windows and dance along the tips of the blades.

"Empire Four, Overlord relaying from Nemesis, acknowledge your last.  Break.  HMS Bulwark is on station to receive your casualties.  You are cleared direct at heading three-four-zero, range three-eight miles.  Baron flight has your CAP at this time."

James and Sébastien exchange a glance and begin backing toward the bird, weapons trained out.  The Hip is generating a portable sandstorm, abrading every square inch of exposed skin.  Cued by Barbrak, Hannah is already increasing her rotor pitch, the Hip's tires bobbling on the ground as they board.

"Five aboard, all personnel counted for!  Go!" Barbrak calls.  As Hannah powers off the ground, he turns to make his way forward, then pauses.  His eyes widen as he gives Sébastien a closer look, then he shakes his head and taps the DGSE agent's helmet before resuming his forward progress.  He steps wide around Caradoc as the medic, kneeling over Karolina, begins cutting away the Pole's body armor.

The Tambolis huddle into seats along the aircraft's port side, trying to avoid attention.  Satish is weeping softly into his hands.  Jayashri presses a hand to the bulkhead and watches intently through the window as Tripoli slips away beneath.

Sébastien tugs off his helmet and turns it over in his hands.  Copper glints from the lip just above his left eye: the base of a deformed bullet embedded in the dented composite.

A wash of static rolls through Michael's radio equipment and the skin on the backs of his hands prickles.  From somewhere in the team's stowed gear, another piece of electronics briefly chatters, than falls silent.  Faintly, he hears the tail of a broken transmission: "-- source is moving southeast, flight level four-four-zero, speed twelve hundred and accelerating..."

From a great distance, Karolina feels a cold breeze against her skin, then the incremental pain of a needle sliding into her arm.  As conscious recedes, she falls away into a thick blackness perturbed by the wake trails of vast objects in motion just beyond sight.

The Tornados of Nero flight slash in from the east, making a show of force pass over the rooftops.  No further ground fire reaches up – it seems Tripoli's surviving defenders have learned some discretion this morning.  Through the haze, James catches a brief glimpse of a tall, slender figure standing by the abandoned cars at the north end of the bullet-riddled street.  It stares at the departing helicopter for a long moment, a predator's poised eagerness written in its posture, then it's gone in a swirl of smoke.

FADE TO BLACK

MUSIC: Quite Ugly One Morning, Warren Zevon

CLOSING CREDITS:

Capt. Karolina Kowalska	Spartan-117
Sébastien Durand	Dave Ross
CWO2 Hannah Omdahl	dcoda
TSgt. Michael Dacovetti	keys138
SA James Choi	Raellus
Cpl. Caradoc Crewe	Tegyrius

This message was last edited by the GM at 02:08, Mon 06 Apr 2015.